12 August, 2009
Afterwards, after heartbeats have settled and breathing slowed, Robin gets out of bed. She says something he doesn't hear; scoops up her underwear, shirt; goes to his bathroom. Shuts the door. He listens to the taps run.
His heart is going fast, a twisty, nervous beat. It's no big deal. It's not like he never lets girls stay the night at his place; having sex first thing in the morning, without even having to go looking for it? Awesome. As long as they're out of his hair as soon as he's out of them, what up, Barney is more than happy to open up his home to the nameless masses.
But this is Robin.
And it's different.
And that's fucking terrifying, because she's not some random chick whose name he doesn't know, and it's one thing to be friends with Robin Scherbatsky, and it's another thing to have sex with her forty-seven times (and counting), and they're both, like, totally awesome things, but you smash 'em together and… and the door opens, and Robin comes out of the bathroom, wearing a tee-shirt and, disappointingly, shorts.
She must have brought them with her. Like she planned on staying the night. That's cool, though. That's fine. It's not scary at all, because they're totally still gonna do it later. His heart doesn't make a weird kinda kerthump, because that would be lame.
He checks her out anyway, lifting himself up on his elbows, because she totally isn't wearing a bra under her shirt, and she sits back onto the bed like it's nothing, like this is something she does all the time. Did, he knows: she's had, like, boyfriends and stuff. Relationships. Ted.
Not that this is a relationship. It's just having sex, taking a break to get dressed, and sleeping. "Oooh," he says, as Robin starts to slide under the sheets. "Robin," his voice dripping with pity, "I have a policy: No shoes, no shirt, all service."
"Ooh," she teases back. "Good thing I'm not looking for service." She fluffs the pillow he bought last week and he lies down. Tries not to feel nervous about something as lame as sleeping next to a clothed woman, because it's happened more than three times in his life and it's not domestic at all.
Like: he used to sleep in his mom's bed when he had nightmares!
He winces at his own mental example.
"…seriously hate your toilet, by the way," Robin is saying, and he laughs, because his toilet is awesome, and he wrenches up all his courage and sits back up enough to click off the bedside lamp. "It's like your entire apartment is designed to keep people out," she's saying.
"Uh, that's because it is," he says, lying back down in the dark. Lights from the city shine in the windows; his eyes quickly adjust.
"Whatever," she says.
He listens to her move around in bed, making herself comfortable, he guesses. He should make a move, he thinks. That would be better, easier: Barney knows how to do that, and for some reason, it'd be way less scary to fall asleep exhausted after sex than to… fall asleep.
Or is he supposed to hold her? Reach over and… not feel her up, but, like — his mind shudders at the word — cuddle? He's not sure he knows how to do that. He's not sure he wants to do that. Like, what, he puts his arm around her, and… step two, she laughs at him? For being super weird? It isn't that he doesn't like — hell, he'll own it, fucking love — touching her, her skin is nice and soft and she has boobs; he could put his arm around her and touch her boob, people sleep like that, that's what… people who sleep together do…
"Hate everyone…" Robin is saying.
"Huh?" He wasn't listening. He rolls onto his side, and sees she's done the same, is facing him. Her face is in shadow. He puts his elbow under his head.
"Um," she says. He can't make out her expression. "It's not like you actually don't want anyone in your apartment, right?"
"Please," he says. "The last thing I want is some clingy one-night stand loitering around here for years and years after I'm done with…" He kinda realizes what he's saying and what she's saying halfway through that sentence, when Robin abruptly turns away, rolls onto her other side, her hair shiny in the light from the window. Fuck. Dammit. His heart gets weird and heavy and taut.
"…Them," he says.
"Good night," she says. He looks at the line between her neck and her tee-shirt.
His stupid idiot heart is pounding.
He goes for it, his whole body kinda seizing up in fear and horror and nerves, scootches closer to her, dragging the blanket with, taking a breath and putting his arm awkwardly over her, his hand settling around her elbow. His fingers flutter against her arm, and he takes another breath and waits for her to question what he's doing or laugh in his face for trying, but she doesn't. Her shoulder feels stiff against him. Her hair is immediately in his face, and he kinda wedges his other arm between them to brush it out of the way.
She sighs.
"Um," he says. "You're not… you know."
His fingers brush against her neck, the back of her ear. She smells pretty good. She smells fucking amazing.
"Sorry," he says.
"You're … really stupid," Robin says, and he can hear her smiling, feel her body relax. She moves around a little, and it's still kind of awkward, but… maybe not as bad as he thought it would be.
"We're still gonna have sex in the morning, right?" he asks, just to be sure they're cool.
"Obviously," she says. He smiles and moves his hand a little to touch her boob. This isn't too bad. Maybe he can keep this up for another couple of minutes. And it's not like it makes him her boyfriend, cuddling her a little bit, so Lily can just go shove it. He's not Robin's stupid cuddly dumb boyfriend. He shifts, presses the crown of his head against the back of hers.
"Did you just … smell my hair?" Robin asks.
"What?" He pulls away. "No. Definitely not. Good night!"