set at various points in s3. sorry the ending is kinda weak.
"Have you thought about what I said?" Barney asks without so much as a hello, sliding into the booth opposite Robin with a glass of clear alcohol. They're all meeting up to get some dinner tonight, but Robin was early.
"I try not to think about anything you say," she says easily, raising her eyebrows at his cocky smirk. Truthfully, she has no idea what he's referring to.
"Ha, ha," he says. "You know."
"Mm, that's where you're wrong," she says cheerfully. "Unless you're talking about that weird 'cuddling exists only to allow the coping of feels' theory, because I still disagree with that one." Or he's talking about the Platinum Rule or the Grooming Triangle or the Tiers of Color or whatever his relationship law of the week happens to be. She's given up trying to keep track.
"No, not that," he says, waving his free hand. "Besides, I stand by it. Why else would any sane human choose to 'spoon?'" His expression curls in disgust.
"Love? Companionship? It feels nice?" Robin almost adds Ted's a good cuddler, but it's only been six months since they broke up and it gives her a weird feeling to even think it. Like, and it'll never happen again. She doesn't say it, obviously.
"You know what else feels nice?" Barney asks, leering again. He raises his glass to his mouth.
"Hah," she says, rolling her eyes and taking a sip from her own beer.
"There's no way you haven't thought about my proposition," he continues, his voice dropping an octave, rich and smooth and deep — it'd work for her, Robin thinks, if she wasn't so used to hearing it used on bimbo after bimbo.
So she chuckles. "What proposition?"
His eyes narrow after a beat. "We should have sex."
"What?" Robin sputters, her voice going high as she reflexively pushes herself away from him, flush against the back of the booth.
If Barney's flat affect is anything to go by, he's a little offended. "We get along really well, not looking for something serious, but what about Ted?" he adds, raising the pitch of his voice. Hearing her own words thrown back to her, Robin suddenly remembers the conversation over a year before. "Nada about Ted," he continues. "Not anymore. You've been there, done that; you're single, I'm bored. We should have sex."
"Wow," she says, her face feeling warm. Stupid face. "You sure know how to put the moves on a woman."
"You have no idea," he smirks. She accidentally meets his eye for a second and then concentrates on her beer.
"Bad idea," she says.
She looks up in time to see him frown. "We're both available, neither of us are secretly in love with anyone, and we're of equal levels of attractiveness."
"True," she says, and has to fight a smile at his logic. "But we're friends. Bad idea, Barney."
He looks across the table at her, frowning a little, and she feels a niggle of dread — the same feeling she'd get when Ted tried to argue his case, when Derek would plead an apology, when any number of her boyfriends had gently laid hand on hers and tried to get a yes. Ted did that for months; she's not sure she could deal with it from Barney. He's way more annoying.
"Your loss, Scherbatsky," he says lightly, raising his glass and smirking at her over the rim. She remembers the first time they had this conversation, how he'd shrugged and redressed and they'd played board games and watched TV.
"Yeah," she says, feeling a wash of relief. "Not sure I'd call it a loss, exactly."
Except it happens again.
They go out together one evening in February, because Temple Beth Israel is having an open dance night. Barney insists Tango Nite is perfect ground for picking up men and women ("You'll be the youngest and therefore hottest woman there. Those silver foxes will be all over you. Plus: divorcées."): Robin isn't sure she buys that, but it sounds fun; besides, Lily and Marshall are mid-move and Ted is too busy trying to seduce his dermatologist to be good company.
The pickings for men turn out to be pretty slim, but Robin has a good time despite that. The instructor's a total hottie, even if he's also totally gay: Robin makes herself his best pupil and is rocking the Argentinian Tango by an hour in. It reminds her of Gael and last summer, in a good way.
It's also fun to watch Barney hit on his divorcées. For a man who loudly proclaims his love of the buxom idiot, he sure has a thing for cougars.
By nine the event is winding down; left without a partner, Robin grabs some grape punch and sits on one of the folding chairs lining the wall, spreading her legs out before her, her heels sore. She's barely had any time to relax before Barney materializes before her.
"Awesome, right?" he says, his head turned in the direction of a silver-haired woman waving to him on her way out the door. "I told you this place would be singles heaven."
"Mm, they're a bit out of my age range," she says, laughing as he waves and makes a little bow towards his lady friend.
"Sure, but you brought whats his face to Thanksgiving," Barney says, eyes on his buddy's receding backside. She doesn't have much of a retort to that. "Before you cheated on him with Ted," Barney muses.
She purses her lips. "Bob and I weren't serious," she says, feeling oddly guilty.
"Uh-huh," he says. "Dance with me."
"What?" It's a non-sequitur if she's ever heard one, but he grins down at her.
"C'mon. We've been here all night and haven't danced once. Dance with me."
It's his smile that does it — if she thought he was trying to dance to get in a feel or rub up against her, Robin's pretty sure she'd say no, but he's grinning at her so cheerfully that she feels herself smile back. "Fine," she says. "One dance."
He offers her his hand. She puts her cup on the chair next to her, and takes it.
He's a good dancer — of course he is; it's exasperating but not at all unexpected — but they fall into something between a tango and a waltz, his fingers twisted with hers and her keeping her face a little bit away. It feels a little intimate in a way that makes her clumsy, but he's so dramatic about it, full of crisp movements and weird little leg extensions and an overly serious facial expression that it becomes funnier and easier. "You have to kick your leg out more," he tells her, and she practically kicks the air as he laughs; they become more and more dramatic as they dance, Robin channelling not her teenage self but every single season of Dancing With the Stars, his fingers warm on her shoulder blade.
"Is this how you seduce those sexy divorcées?" Robin breathes in his ear, goading him, and he yanks them into a turn with a laugh.
"Why, Robin," he says in his fake, smooth voice. "Are you turned on right now?" He lets go of her shoulder and kind of pulls as he steps away from her, still holding her hand — she's caught in a spin without even knowing how but goes with it, laughing and twirling.
"Not in a million years," she laughs, spinning back into his arms, her other hand clutching his shoulder. She takes a swaying step but he's not dancing; his hand is holding hers and his other drops from her shoulder, sliding lower down her back…
"I could turn you on," he says, leaning in close —
Something twists in her, goes hot and fast — she steps away from him lightly, shaking her head, smiling. "Come on, Barney. Don't ruin this."
He looks maybe a little surprised, then sulky. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm having a great time," she says, uncurling her fingers from his. He lets go of her hand when she does. "Don't make this weird. We're friends."
"Friends with benefits!" he says brightly. She can't tell how seriously he's taking this.
"Just friends." She smiles at him hopefully. She can't read his expression, but it isn't angry or hurt.
"Friends," he says. He extends his hand out to her again. "Besides, I have Mrs Rothenstein's number."
So a few weeks later, when she gives in to her curiosity and asks him to put the moves on her, just for fun, just as a joke, just to help him with his saboteur —
Whatever. It's his fault, anyway.
One Sunday they're a little bored, so they go to the IKEA in Brooklyn. Robin buys a new lamp and some coasters, and then they park themselves in the cafeteria to eavesdrop on angry couples having meltdowns over dressers or hangers or sofa covers.
"I see her point," Barney is saying as Robin chows down on some gravlax. "Wooden hangers are far superior to their inferior brethren." He takes a sip from his lingonberry juice box.
"Isn't that kind of redundant?" she asks. "Inferior, superior…"
"Sure, Ted," he says. "I didn't want to say plastic. Or heaven forbid, wire."
She rolls her eyes. "Hey, check it. Family of four at three o'clock," she says, pointing over Barney's shoulder with her fork. Mother, father, and two exhausted looking little girls, the younger of whom is already in tears. Barney swivels himself around to look, arm draped over the back of his chair.
"Shoot me if I ever have children," he says gleefully.
"I'd shoot myself for having kids first." After saying it, Robin thinks it came out weird. Like she just accidentally implied they'd be conceiving this orphan together.
The mother fusses over the toddler and keeps glaring up at her husband, who grows progressively angrier as he argues his case for bunk beds.
"Wait, are we murder-suiciding our kid?" Barney asks, lifting his eyebrows in amusement.
"No," she says, "I'm murdering you. The kid gets adopted by Ted."
"Awesome," he laughs. They tap fists.
Suddenly, the couple with the kids begin all-out screaming at one another — she's distracted and riveted. Barney jumps up from his chair and slips onto the bench next to her, to have a direct view of the match: wife is screaming at husband about how he never listens to her and is upsetting the girls; husband screams back about how he's never appreciated; both the children scream, the elder about wanting ice cream. Barney and Robin are not the only people looking, but they're certainly the most blatant.
"This is the best!" he hisses in her ear, and she laughs. They make commentary through the fight, Robin whispering the wife's lines and Barney doing voices for the husband and children.
After a minute or two, the husband stalks off and the wife, snapping at her daughters, pulls them after him. The cafeteria is oddly quiet for a moment before regular conversation returns.
"Dude, when you said let's go to IKEA I thought you were crazy," Robin says. "But this is surprisingly awesome."
"What up?" he crows. She high fives him, and only then realizes just how close they're sitting. Sure, Robin's side of the table was the one with the direct view of family feud, but their legs are pressed together, his shoulder against hers. Her hand is on his thigh, his hand inches away. She can smell his cologne, or is it aftershave? It smells amazing. Sure, sitting close made it
Robin clears her throat and scoots away. "Hey, I'm gonna get some cake. Want some?"
He blinks up at her, looks almost, briefly, uncertain. "Totally," he says. "Hey, I'll pay."
"Nah, I got this," she says, and hurries to the serving area, feeling her face flush. She grabs two slices of chocolate cake and loads them on a tray, feeling confused and unable to make sense of it in her head.
The cashier is a pretty girl in a yellow polo shirt. In the three or four times Robin has been up here getting snacks, this girl has always been at the register. This time, she leans in as she hands Robin her change. "Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, I'm the reporter for Metro News One," Robin says with a modest smile.
"No, um," the girl giggles, blushing. "That hot guy you're here with? Is he your boyfriend?"
In the three or four times Robin has been up here getting snacks, the cashier has eyed Barney (who shamelessly eyed her back). Robin had laughed at it each time. Now she feels weirdly annoyed. "No. No, no, um, he's just a friend," she says, fumbling with her pennies. "A guy friend."
The girl looks excited. There's no line behind Robin. "Oh, can I ask you a favor?" She reaches for a scrap of receipt paper and jots something down. "Can you give him this? Maybe?"
"Sure," Robin enthuses, taking the receipt. "Because he's my friend. My guy friend." It's a phone number; of course it is. That doesn't bother her, except somehow it really does. "I'm going to sleep with him."
The girl looks surprised. Ashley, she'd written on the receipt. "Sorry?"
"I mean, probably. I haven't slept with him, or anything." She can't turn it off, her mouth is on some suicidal autopilot. "Not yet. But eventually. It's gonna happen. Sorry. Bye." Bye? Her face red and hot, Robin pockets the phone number and her pennies and grabs her tray of cake with what little dignity she has left.
She sees Barney across the cafeteria, sitting on the bench and looking at his cell phone. He looks up and spots her and grins.
She smiles back.
It's inevitable, she realizes. She is someday going to sleep with Barney Stinson. Because he sits too close and smells too good and wormed his way into her brain. She's going to sleep with him someday. He'll seduce her or dance with her or put the moves on her and she will have sex with him. Just to get him out of her system, just to move on with her life, just once to get it done.
Maybe then things will get back to normal. Maybe then he'll turn back into her sleazy jackass friend.
"Here ya go," she says cheerfully, handing him one of the plates of cake. She sits down on the bench next to him with her own slice.
"Ten o'clock, the undergrads moving in together," Barney says. "Will their relationship survive IKEA? Let's find out," he intones dramatically.
Robin laughs and takes a bite of chocolate cake and watches the weepy girl pleading with her boyfriend about some picture on her phone.
She sits next to Barney. He doesn't move away and neither does she.
She's going to sleep with him.
She doesn't know when, but soon.