Work Text:
It happens from one day, to the next.
On Thursday, Robin is sauntering down to the bar where she'll find the rest of the gang and catch them for a few minutes-that-would-likely-turn-into-hours before trekking to work, and trying to stop that whining voice in her head, the one that keeps telling her that she can do better, has to do better, needs to do better.
It's that voice that pushes her to interview for newer, better jobs, even though her chances are about a bazillion to one.
She hasn't gotten a single call-back though, so Robin's stuck between wanting to take her aggression out on an unsuspecting paper target or yelling obscenities at the television screen, while hanging out with her Canadian buddies at the Hoser Hut.
By the time Friday comes around, everything's… well, changed.
—
Thursday, though.
Thursday night she sits in the booth next to Barney, Lily and Marshall opposite them, and Ted occupies the solo chair.
There is a certain gleam in his eyes, one that she doesn't quite exactly recognize, but knows that something big, and epic, and undoubtedly romantic (hello, it's Ted) is running through his head.
Lily's been feeling crummy all day, and Marshall's all How are you feeling, baby? every few minutes, and Barney is... Barney. He leers at girls at the bar, tells the rest of them a new theory he's been working on.
Robin just sits against the booth, a neat scotch in her hand.
—
(And it nags at her, a little: Ted's a college professor, and Lily's a kindergarten teacher; Marshall might think he sold out working for a company like GNB, but he's still a practicing lawyer at least, and Barney--
please, she's been sworn to secrecy, stacked under five heavy oaths with dire consequences should she let it slip.
So.
Barney's doing whatever he does.
Robin? Robin's announcing fluff pieces at four in the morning. With an ex. Who still doesn't wear pants and struts around in his tighty-whities every Wednesday and Friday. So swell, right?)
—
(And not in the punny way, either, ew. That's just gross.)
—
She's the first one to arrive at work, the frigid cold air of the recording studio blowing straight at her hair.
It only takes a few more minutes, surprisingly, for said ex-boyfriend to walk through that door. With pants, thankfully. Robin isn't sure how much more she can take of that.
"Whatcha doing?" Don asks, his eyes twinkling as if everything's still a huge joke around him.
And she gets it, she gets that he's jaded, that this is his way of coping, but self-destruction has never been something she's interested in.
Yes, it always comes to her naturally for some reason, but that's a whole other story altogether.
So she pulls her lips into a tight, awkward smile, gesturing at her little pink and purple netbook on the desk.
"Just checking my email, you know. Normal stuff."
"It's 3:45 in the morning, you're not going to get any emails from anyone important, Robin."
She doesn't answer him; her eyes are fixed on the email she's reading.
Robin's got the habit of a) not really checking her email on time, and b) scanning things for important keywords, and this email goes like this: Job offer, MSNBC, impressive interview, news anchor, call this number, wage negotiation, welcome aboard.
—
That night – morning technically, her own mental Ted corrected her – that night she quits Come On, Get Up New York, wishes all of them the best of luck, and even manages not to sound bitchy by gloating about it.
—
She nearly knocks into Ted, her on her way up and him down, rushing to his class, yelling something about being late, being totally late and I'll blame Sara but -- and Robin can't hear the rest.
Robin enters their apartment, flops down her bed and closes her eyes.
She thinks about breathing methods for steadying a gun, of balancing on the ice and hitting the puck at the right angle.
And in an instant it rushes over her. She quit her job. She's going to be an anchor for MSNBC. One of the biggest cable news channel ever, and she's going to be seen by millions of people.
Shit. This is huge.
—
The night comes.
Tonight isn't a usual beer or even a scotch kind of night at MacLaren's, so Robin orders shots of vodka for herself.
No better time to celebrate, she reasons, it's a brave new world kind of Friday night, new job, no more rut, no more feeling sorry about herself and then taking it out on the shooting range, even if shooting is still fucking awesome and really, that's just an excuse to go there anyway, and Scherbatskys don't need excuses to shoot.
Nope, no more any of that, and it's refreshing. Minty fresh, even.
Although thinking about mint made her hungry. She needs some hot wings or something, to keep her stomach from churning itself with the alcohol. Maybe some fries.
Hell, she'll take all the unhealthy stuff for the night. Like the alcohol isn't empty calories enough. When was the last time she went to the gym?
Tonight is looking like a distracted night too, almost unfair to Barney. If he's saying something actually substantial, that is.
"And so we take the correlation between picking women up at the bar at midnight - that's 83% – and between one and three in the morning – that's -" Barney stops short, and stares at Ted. "Why are you smiling like that?" He shudders. "It's kind of creeptastic."
But it's Marshall who's fidgeting, it's Marshall who blurts out, "No, nothing out of the ordinary is happening with Lily and me, we don't have any big news or anything. No, of course not, what can we have anything to have big news about? That's preposterous, and you should feel silly for even thinking that!"
Ted throws him a weird look, but the smile never fades from his face. It looks like he's scratching his thigh or something, but the next moment he produces a velvet box from his pocket with a flourish, and places it on the table, staring at it.
"This ring has been burning in my pocket for the past eight hours!" He lifts his head. "Actual flames, guys, I'm serious."
So Robin casts a glance at Barney, on reflex. Right on, she thinks - stricken expression, eyes bugged out, mouth left in a gape. The strangled voice comes almost instantly.
"Nooo! Ted, no!"
"Sara and I have been dating for a year and two months! I'm madly in love with her! I can't think of a better time to ask."
"Uh, try never. Ted, marriage is the chain and ball – to your balls! Think about it! Your steel curfew! No more wild escapades with your best friend and wingman, no more crazy adventures to tell all the chicks you can still pick up -"
Ted shakes his head vehemently, but Barney's still faster than him.
"My point is, you cannot do that! The sanctity of the bro-hood! Do you dare taint that, Theodore Vivian Mosby?"
"That's still not my middle name."
Barney ignores him. "What are you going to tell the youngins in twenty years? That you're falling into a lame trap-conspiracy like Marshall?"
"Lily's pregnant!"
"Who, by the way - What?"
"What?" Robin and Ted's voices join in the chorus.
—
By 11 PM, Lily and Marshall are long gone and Ted skips out after, destination: Sara's apartment. Something about a burst water pipe, and Barney winks at him, and Ted protests, and Barney winks again, and Robin's left shaking her head in amusement and, not wanting to break their very stimulating discussion, jabs her thumb at the door, the universal sign for scooting.
In the midst of the excitement, she hasn't told them her own big news.
As the two men bounce up the stairs, Robin's fingers tingle against the box of cigarettes in her purse, even if she's picked up Marshall's horrid habit of Last Cigarette Ever. The last Last Cigarette Ever was two weeks ago, and even then she's found herself slipping back into the habit.
"No, Barney, I will not be describing in detail how pre-engaged sex is like," says Ted in about the most patient voice he can muster. Barney joins her on the sidewalk, grinning, the sides of his eyes crinkling with laugh lines as they watch Ted run off to flag a cab.
It's a pretty chilly night in New York, but even as the goosebumps prickle on her forearms, she pays them no attention. There's only one way to ride out the coldness, and that's to just bear it.
Barney, on the other hand, is working those long sleeves on his suit more so than ever, pulling out a woolen scarf to wrap around his neck or something.
—
The thing is, Robin alternates between Thank God That's Over, and I Kind Of Miss It, Maybe, when it comes to Barney.
It's weird, really, because when they were together, it's like there was some kind of magnet drawing away their awesomeness and leaving them with hollow vessels of themselves.
If Robin allows herself, she could blame Lily for that great downfall, because things went so swimmingly well when they didn't have any stupid labels on each other.
What's even weirder (that she doesn't want to acknowledge, doesn't even want to think about) is that with Ted, it feels like a closed chapter of a book she might pick up again for nostalgia's sake.
With Barney? It still feels like an unfinished Choose Your Own Adventure book; turn to page 54 for an afternoon of laser tag fun, turn to page 113 for the inevitable downfall.
Robin's the type to go through a Choose Your Own Adventure book quickly, getting a sucky ending, and then flipping through the pages to read through all the other possible endings out of spite.
—
The enveloping silence tips her jar over, making her need to share her good news with someone. There's nothing such as 'too much excitement' for one Barney Stinson.
"So, I quit my job," she starts.
He has that exact same stricken expression he had when Ted fished the ring box out, and she rushes to complete her statement.
"But I have a new one, at MSNBC, as an actual anchor. Of actual news. This is good, right?"
Immediately his face relaxes, and he's pointing to nowhere in particular with his right hand, punctuating his words one hand movement at a time.
"Good? No, this is better than good, this is legen - wait for it; I haven't used this word in a long time because there hasn't been an event of awesome epic proportions like this until now - dary! Truly legendary." A proud smile hangs on his face. "Look at you, Scherbatsky. All grown up and ready to meet the big world."
"Are those tears in your eyes?"
"What?" he scoffs, yet daps at his eyes anyway. "No, of course not. It's the collision of awesome molecules that materialized as moisture. There's no crying or tears whatsoever."
Robin leans forward to give him a hug. There's a tight bit of hesitancy, but that gives way almost as quickly as it came.
"Thank you, Barney."
The confusion dances in his eyes as they pull away. There's that slanty look, too, the one that Robin learned to spot a long time ago. "I didn't do anything. The YouTube clips of your show that have over hundred of thousands of views aren't uploaded by me. Or viewed by me. I'm not responsible for anything."
"No, silly. For believing in me. For actually watching the show or TiVoing it, or - whatever recording device you got from the Japanese for it." He opens his mouth to protest, but Robin shakes her head. "For being an awesome friend."
"Yeah, well, duh. I am awesome."
She lets out a chuckle before punching him lightly in his arm.
"So, what do you say to just the two of us single people extending this night of celebration?"
"Robin, Robin, Robin. I've got plenty of girl-shaped "friends" (with actual finger quotes) stashed and sorted according to zip codes -"
"Seriously, Barney."
"Lusty Leopard!"
"I was thinking more of," she stops herself before she continues with the thought of going back inside the bar. Delightfully boring, and everything's changing around her anyway, why shouldn't she too? So: "Oh, fuck it. Lusty Leopard it is."
—
She doesn't remember how, or when (she vaguely remembers getting out of Lusty Leopard and into the cab), but somehow she's at Barney's place, on his couch, and she's straddling him, her hand tugging at the lapels of his jacket first, then his tie.
He's doing that thing with his tongue in her mouth, his hands working deftly on her coat and it's undoubtedly clear he's a seasoned pro.
"What are we doing?" she asks, biting down gently on his lower lip and she hears that guttural moan at the back of his throat.
"Uh, having sex, really really awesome celebration sex," he barely manages to choke out, tossing her clothes to the floor as he pushes their bodies closer together, and it's probably the alcohol, the fact that it's after two in the morning, but Robin thinks that this is the best damned idea tonight, and continues to kiss him hard, and then they're moving it to the bedroom, and then -
The next morning she wakes up with a killer headache.
Barney's nowhere to be found in the room, but she hears the faint sounds of the shower running.
So she does the only logical thing in this situation: she sends him a text message, and gets the hell out of there.
One time only, okay?
Ten minutes later, on her way back home, her phone buzzes, and it reads, Okay.
—
(They don't speak of it again after that.)
—
Three weeks into her new job, people start recognizing Robin more.
The job at MSNBC is busy and tiring, but it's the good kind of busy and tired, so Robin doesn't complain.
If she plays her cards right and work hard, she might one day actually inch closer to her goal of being a foreign correspondent, traveling around the world, reporting on key issues.
For now, however, the anchor job is a very lucrative one, and she isn't about to do anything to sabotage it.
McGee's is no MacLaren's, but it's not always a bad thing. A different bar means different crowds, and besides, Robin has no intentions of playing the third wheel with Ted and Sara. The two have been so nauseatingly couple-y since the engagement; not that Robin blames either of them.
She likes Sara – Sara is sweet, but feisty in small bites. She handles Ted and goes together with him like peanut butter and jelly, she fits in well enough with the gang, and most of all, she's no Robin.
Sara wants to get married, wants the 2.5 kids and the dog and the house with the picket fences, all of which are exactly the same in Ted's visions of the future. In short, she is Ted's perfect woman.
Robin, on the other hand, holds the dubious record of a one-day engagement to Barney Stinson.
Where the hell did that come from?
And who even does that?
She's played relationship chicken all her life, if she's being honest with herself, and in no other relationship did that disaster emerge.
Robin doesn't tread well on what is considered traditional couple things. Sure, brunch is awesome, but the pet names and endearments and rituals, that isn't her; that has never, ever been her.
She doesn't like sharing her food and doesn't like the constant nagging, or the phone calls checking to see if she's still alive, or at least that's what it seems like to Robin with the amount of urgency the calls are made.
You'd think that out of so many people in New York, half of them men, Robin would date the ones who flinch at commitment as much as she does.
Yet, somehow she manages to snag the ones whose endpoints in 'dating' end up some place between 'marriage in a big white church and/or the beach' and 'watching grandchildren run off to play'.
What is that all about, anyway? It's like Marshall infected everybody with that one kind of love and destroyed all the rest.
Robin knows thinks she isn't incapable of love, and that thought pisses her off.
Half an hour later and with two glasses of scotch in her warm belly, Robin announces that she is going to swear off men forever in her head, until someone's yelling 'You go, girl!' in her ears and she realizes she said that part out loud.
Whoops.
After that, though, she gets her drinks sent to her from this guy at the bar. Raising her scotch at him, she nods her head to show her appreciation.
There's some 'You're that girl from the news, right?' discussion when he slides himself into the booth opposite her, but an hour later, she's stumbling into his apartment, his sloppy kisses all over her cheeks, her neck, her jawline –
She draws in a deep breath and stops him, tells him that she's sorry, and then she's running off.
And she's asking herself what the hell just happened, but she can't switch that whining voice off again, that same one that tells her that she can do better, has to do better, needs to do better.
When she reaches home, Ted and Sara are cuddling on the couch, and that's when she decides that she needs to move out into her own apartment again.
—
"Luke Skywalker Eriksen."
"No."
"Indiana Jones Eriksen."
"No."
"Cordell Walker Eriksen."
"No."
Marshall's face lights up.
"Chuck –"
"Finish that thought, Marshall. I dare ya."
Marshall throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. "But baby, you shot down every single one of my suggestions! I have nothing left." There's a beat. "And I was going to say 'Bartowski'."
"Yeah, because you want your son to have a super computer in his brain," Robin says.
Barney chooses that moment to walk to their table at the restaurant, his face brightens when he hears Robin, and Lily groans.
"Oh, no, Robin, take that back, take that back! He's going to go on his droid theory again."
"It's not a theory if it's already put in motion! Do you never read my blog?" He sits on the chair next to Robin, leaving the two chairs opposite at the end of the table for Ted and Sara. "Hot topic: the ability to build your own super computer droid to function as the perfect woman."
"And what, exactly, is your definition of the perfect woman?" Robin challenges, as she props her head on the heel of her hand.
"Um, hot, with the ability to change her nationality at will because take note, guys, half-Asians are making a comeback. Also, inflatable breasts."
"What are you going to do with inflatable breasts?" She pauses. Then she shakes her head. "Actually, no, I don't want to know."
"You should name it," Barney points at Lily's protruding belly, "Barnabus Robin Osby Eriksen. Bro Eriksen."
"Osby. Really." Robin tilts her head at him.
"I needed an O in there and that's the closest I could get."
Lily clears her throat.
"Look, nobody's going to name my son anything less than sensible. Marshall, stop pouting. Robin, you're my best friend, but it's so hard to pair a nice-sounding boy name with your name as the middle name."
Barney sits up straighter, like he just had a revelation. "Christopher Robin!"
Robin has to actually, really, turn her body to stare at him for that.
"You know, Pooh," he tells them, like he thinks he doesn't know they know that. "Come on, the name even comes built in with its own awesome pick-up line! Wanna hear it?"
"No!" Lily exclaims. "You are not tainting my baby's mind with your filthy talk!"
Barney, as usual, ignores her anyway. "'Hey, wanna see my Winnie... the Pooh?' How awesome is that?!"
"Negative one for effort," Robin smirks, and Barney lapses into a discussion about names for certain appendages, and it ends mercifully when Ted comes in with Sara, their hands linked.
Sometimes, Robin feels really odd to still be sitting in the group. There's Marshall and Lily, with the baby. And then there's Ted and Sara, busy with getting married and probably already planning on the many babies they're going to have.
It makes her feel like a square peg in a circular hole, kind of fitting but... not really.
That night, she dreams of wearing a wedding gown and being walked down the aisle by Alan Thicke, and there are babies everywhere.
She wakes up with her heart pounding against her ribs, her breath shallow, and she thinks, what a freaking nightmare.
—
The next time it happens, it's the night of Ted's wedding.
She's had about five glasses of wine too many, and Barney isn't picking up a bridesmaid (Sara made him swear not to); instead he's escorting Robin back home.
She's giggling, like it's a big joke, but when it comes down to it she thinks knows that she a) is lonely and b) hasn't had sex in a while. Barney being there is more of a convenience and a means to the end than anything else.
—
(They don't speak of this, either.)
—
"Please, please, please, Robin, you have to do this!" Barney pleads with her.
"I can't! I haven't in such a long time..."
"You can do it! I know you can! We've done it so many times before!"
Robin sighs. She fingers the laser gun laid so neatly in Barney's hands. And then their eyes connect, and she nods.
"Fine, but only this once, okay?"
This year, the Laser Storm National Championship is held in New York.
Naturally, Barney signs up. He also signs James up for the doubles competition.
Unfortunately, Danny the toddler has come down with something, and now Barney is minus one laser tag partner.
The Stinson-Scherbatsky duo is on fire through the competition, eliminating the enemies and finally getting to the last match of the day. If they win this, they get to be state champions, and even Robin's completely psyched for it.
"Strategy meeting! Scherbatsky, you go in first. Shoot to kill, I'll cover you."
"Wait, wait, how about..."
She lays out her plan; there are decoys and false alarms involved. It's her 'all-in' plan and it will either work brilliantly, or blow up in their faces.
By the end of her explanation, Barney is completely on board.
They win, of course.
As they walk up to the stage, she takes the trophy, Barney is gloating, and the next thing she knows, the trophy's back on the table and they're kissing and wow, is that a weird moment or what?
Slowly noticing the crowd and their hooting and cheering, she pulls away, and there's an unreadable expression on his face, but that quickly gives way to a self-assured grin and holds his palm up to her.
"Winners' five!"
She smacks that. Hard.
That sting in her palm is probably the most normal thing in this situation now.
—
Noah Marvin Eriksen is the only red-faced screaming baby in the nursery when Robin sees him for the first time.
She's still scared of babies, but hey, she's a safe distance away and no one's asking her to touch one or anything (yet), and so she stares at Noah's little face, watches as he stops crying and fussing.
"I have so much work ahead of me," the voice behind her says, and she almost jumps. It turns out to only be Barney, obviously, as he sidles up beside her.
"You know Lily will come at you with a cleaver if you put your plans into fruition, right?"
"Yeah, maybe. But it's all going to be worth it. True story. Picture this: twenty years later, at the bar, I'm flanked by Danny and Noah, my wingmen for the night."
"Huh. That's the dream."
He sticks his hands into his pockets, then takes them out uncomfortably.
"Listen, Robin..."
This time, finally, this time Robin is sober, Robin is thinking straight, and Robin doesn't let him finish his sentence when she cashes that all-in chip, crashing her lips into his.
"I know."
—
Robin knows a lot more this time.
She knows that they don't need to be the best couple in the world; they don't even need to resemble any of the couples they know, and most, most importantly of all, they don't need to fall into the mold of labels.
They don't need a conversation to tell them where they stand with each other or stupid pet names and they don't need to avoid fights; hell, make-up sex is still amazing.
She knows that love comes in different packages and forms, and knows that what she and Barney have – have had, all these time – can't be put away neatly, because of who they each are. And she knows that that's okay.
She knows these things, and that's always going to be enough for them.
—
(They do have that conversation, ways away, in the future, and it goes like this: They're going to stay awesome this time, the end.)