FIC: Dealing With It (2/?)
14 Dec 2008 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
promethia_tenkTitle: Dealing With It, Part Two
Fandom: HIMYM, Barney/Robin
Length: ~1,300 words for this section
Rating: PG-13/R-ish for pregnancy angst and sexuality
Spoilers: For all aired episodes. Set several years in the future. Slightly AU after "Not a Father's Day."
Summary: Robin gets pregnant and then unpregnant.
Disclaimer: This is not a parody. Unless you decide to sue me--then it's a parody.
AN: Part One here. This section ended up being a lot longer than I'd planned, so I'm going to give up on guessing how long this will be when finished. Thanks to everyone for the encouragement and to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roland44 for a beta.
Robin listened to Barney’s retreating footsteps. Warmth seeped from the hot water bottle he’d given her. Warmth wrapped itself, quiet and velvety, around the tangle of pain in her stomach and melted it away. Warmth soaked its way through cramping muscles and swollen tissue and into her core. Warmth snaked past the twisted, broken defenses of her body towards that deeper, tighter knot she’d been ignoring since the last time she’d seen him.
With the gentlest touch, the knot dissolved, and its poisons, long-contained, washed through her:
Guilt. Fiery and bitter.
----------
13 day earlier Robin had put on a dark-blue pinstripe suit over her most responsible set of underwear and gone to an appointment downtown.
“Ms. Scherbatsky?” The woman behind the reception desk craned her neck around the room.
Robin had been sitting uncomfortably in the half-full waiting room for 45 minutes, staring blindly at a page of The Economist, thinking and rethinking and unthinking what she was about to do. When she finally heard her name, she bolted to the desk and left the magazine, ruffled and abandoned on the empty seat.
“Hi . . . um.” She looked at the woman awkwardly. “I’m Scherbatsky. Uh, Robin Scherbatsky. Robin . . . yes.” The woman blinked, and Robin realized she had a stupid, fixed grin smeared across her face. She bit her lower lip to force herself to stop.
“Hi, Robin,” the woman smiled back at her in a way that might have been soothing if Robin was the type to be soothed. “You were here on Wednesday for a consultation, is that right?”
Robin nodded. Wednesday had been easy, like a job interview almost. She’d been prepared; she’s given all the right answers. Today was different although she wasn’t sure why.
“Excellent. We just have some final paperwork for you to fill out . . .” Robin grasped the proffered clipboard. “And we’ll need to schedule a follow-up appointment in a week to check that everything’s gone ok. Would you like to do that now, or should we give you a call in a day or two?”
Robin clicked the pen in her hand. Then she clicked it again. And again. “Uh . . . now is good.” Click. “Yeah, now.”
Click.
“Good, good,” the woman nodded and turned to her computer. Robin watched her bring up a calendar. Click. “By the way, you do have someone to take you home after the procedure?” Click, click. “Look after you?” She looked with a furrowed brow at Robin’s empty seat. At the magazine. Click. “We don’t want you going home alone on the subway—just in case. You’re going to be pretty groggy. And pretty sore.”
“Uh . . .” Robin looked down at the pen. Stupid—she’d forgotten that part (deliberately?). Lily, Marshall, and Ted still didn’t know. Not that she’d been keeping it from them exactly. It was just . . . . Click. Her mother and sister were in Canada. And they didn’t know either. She wasn’t good enough friends with anyone at work to ask them such a big favor. Click. And Barney . . . shit, she didn’t even know where Barney was.
Robin put the clipboard on the desk and left without saying anything.
Out on the sidewalk, Robin let the downtown crowds eddy around her, swaying numbly with their jolts and prods and drawing the morning’s damp chill into her lungs.
Click.
She’d stolen the woman’s pen. Robin blinked hard against the ache rising in her throat and threw the pen forcefully into the trashcan by the clinic’s entrance. She started walking.
She wasn’t sure where she was going. Tried not to think about it. About the pavement squares under her feet. About the pen. The clipboard. The magazine. About Barney.
She wasn’t really dressed for a long walk. Her toes pinched in her boots. The tips of her ears and nose stung a bit. Her coat was hanging open, allowing November to seep through the light wool of her suit, chilling her. Her hands hung--limp, cold, and sweaty—by her sides. The ache persisted in her throat.
Eggs, Robin decided. Soft-boiled eggs. With toast and some (herbal) tea. She would walk until she found a diner. The choice calmed her down, and her mind and body went pleasantly numb as she continued to walk.
45 minutes and countless blocks later, however, the diner remained a fantasy. Robin stopped on a corner, not so much frustrated as confused, and scanned the area. She was in a completely different neighborhood: quieter, more bohemian, the buildings lower to the ground.
Catty-corner from Robin was one of those little boutique shops where urban parents buy ironically ornate bassinettes and tiny, indy rock t-shirts for their newly hatched spawn. Robin rolled her eyes at the universe—Are you kidding me?—but found herself crossing the street anyway.
The place was cramped. The bored-looking hipster behind the register jerked his chin in her direction in non-committal greeting as she came in. Robin bobbed her head awkwardly and hustled to the back of the store to hide among the racks. She wondered what she was doing there. The hipster returned to his knitting.
Robin considered the things around her: cutely ugly stuffed toys, a violently yellow changing table, a mobile of blown glass figures, tiny jeans, tiny t-shirts, tiny leather jackets, a tiny sweater with a skull on the front, and a whole wall of those damned tiny socks. On her left was baby winter wear: pea coats, mittens, a star-shaped snowsuit fit for Maggie Simpson . . . . And hats.
Robin walked over to the hats. They were cute. Of course they were cute: tiny, knit confections to keep tiny heads warm. Robin looked through narrowed eyes at a rainbow-stripped toque; tentatively fingered a red devil cap, complete with horns; huffed indulgently at a pink, ruffled affair (*please*); and finally stopped to stare at a purple hat covered in woolen nubs, like little soft spikes that had grown from its crown.
Robin giggled.
Or maybe it was more of a quiet snort. She giggle-snorted again, and before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed the nubbly hat and strode towards the hipster at the counter, a half-smile on her face for the first time since she’d fled the clinic.
The hipster looked up from his knitting to Robin, to her navy suit, down to the hat on the counter, and back to Robin. Robin felt awkward again.
“That it?” the hipster asked, his face unmoving, and Robin nodded. “Cute hat,” he continued as he rang it up. “For your kid?”
“Yes . . . ,” Robin began, “. . . no . . . well, maybe.”
The hipster raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sure it will look great . . . whatever you do with it. Serious nubs. The kid’ll definitely look cool . . . or whatever.”
“Well, you know what they say,” she giggled yet again. “More nubs equals more awesome.”
The hipster blinked. “People say that?”
“Well . . . ,” Robin stuttered, “that is . . . you know . . . they’re . . . . No, I guess not.” And Robin busied herself rummaging through her purse for her wallet.
When Robin got home she threw the bag, unopened, into her closet and left it there for a week.
---------
She couldn’t hear Barney anymore; he had stopped moving around the apartment. Robin swallowed and forced down a swell of panic—he just got back!—and reminded herself that she had not heard the door so he couldn’t have left. Again.
“Barney?” she called out softly.
No answer. No movement.
“Barney?” she tried again, louder and with a whisp of that panic she had not quite suppressed.
“Yeah?” A low voice came back to her from the living room. Robin swallowed.
“Where did you go? You know, after . . . ?”
There was a long silence.
Fandom: HIMYM, Barney/Robin
Length: ~1,300 words for this section
Rating: PG-13/R-ish for pregnancy angst and sexuality
Spoilers: For all aired episodes. Set several years in the future. Slightly AU after "Not a Father's Day."
Summary: Robin gets pregnant and then unpregnant.
Disclaimer: This is not a parody. Unless you decide to sue me--then it's a parody.
AN: Part One here. This section ended up being a lot longer than I'd planned, so I'm going to give up on guessing how long this will be when finished. Thanks to everyone for the encouragement and to
roland44 for a beta.Robin listened to Barney’s retreating footsteps. Warmth seeped from the hot water bottle he’d given her. Warmth wrapped itself, quiet and velvety, around the tangle of pain in her stomach and melted it away. Warmth soaked its way through cramping muscles and swollen tissue and into her core. Warmth snaked past the twisted, broken defenses of her body towards that deeper, tighter knot she’d been ignoring since the last time she’d seen him.
With the gentlest touch, the knot dissolved, and its poisons, long-contained, washed through her:
Guilt. Fiery and bitter.
----------
13 day earlier Robin had put on a dark-blue pinstripe suit over her most responsible set of underwear and gone to an appointment downtown.
“Ms. Scherbatsky?” The woman behind the reception desk craned her neck around the room.
Robin had been sitting uncomfortably in the half-full waiting room for 45 minutes, staring blindly at a page of The Economist, thinking and rethinking and unthinking what she was about to do. When she finally heard her name, she bolted to the desk and left the magazine, ruffled and abandoned on the empty seat.
“Hi . . . um.” She looked at the woman awkwardly. “I’m Scherbatsky. Uh, Robin Scherbatsky. Robin . . . yes.” The woman blinked, and Robin realized she had a stupid, fixed grin smeared across her face. She bit her lower lip to force herself to stop.
“Hi, Robin,” the woman smiled back at her in a way that might have been soothing if Robin was the type to be soothed. “You were here on Wednesday for a consultation, is that right?”
Robin nodded. Wednesday had been easy, like a job interview almost. She’d been prepared; she’s given all the right answers. Today was different although she wasn’t sure why.
“Excellent. We just have some final paperwork for you to fill out . . .” Robin grasped the proffered clipboard. “And we’ll need to schedule a follow-up appointment in a week to check that everything’s gone ok. Would you like to do that now, or should we give you a call in a day or two?”
Robin clicked the pen in her hand. Then she clicked it again. And again. “Uh . . . now is good.” Click. “Yeah, now.”
Click.
“Good, good,” the woman nodded and turned to her computer. Robin watched her bring up a calendar. Click. “By the way, you do have someone to take you home after the procedure?” Click, click. “Look after you?” She looked with a furrowed brow at Robin’s empty seat. At the magazine. Click. “We don’t want you going home alone on the subway—just in case. You’re going to be pretty groggy. And pretty sore.”
“Uh . . .” Robin looked down at the pen. Stupid—she’d forgotten that part (deliberately?). Lily, Marshall, and Ted still didn’t know. Not that she’d been keeping it from them exactly. It was just . . . . Click. Her mother and sister were in Canada. And they didn’t know either. She wasn’t good enough friends with anyone at work to ask them such a big favor. Click. And Barney . . . shit, she didn’t even know where Barney was.
Robin put the clipboard on the desk and left without saying anything.
Out on the sidewalk, Robin let the downtown crowds eddy around her, swaying numbly with their jolts and prods and drawing the morning’s damp chill into her lungs.
Click.
She’d stolen the woman’s pen. Robin blinked hard against the ache rising in her throat and threw the pen forcefully into the trashcan by the clinic’s entrance. She started walking.
She wasn’t sure where she was going. Tried not to think about it. About the pavement squares under her feet. About the pen. The clipboard. The magazine. About Barney.
She wasn’t really dressed for a long walk. Her toes pinched in her boots. The tips of her ears and nose stung a bit. Her coat was hanging open, allowing November to seep through the light wool of her suit, chilling her. Her hands hung--limp, cold, and sweaty—by her sides. The ache persisted in her throat.
Eggs, Robin decided. Soft-boiled eggs. With toast and some (herbal) tea. She would walk until she found a diner. The choice calmed her down, and her mind and body went pleasantly numb as she continued to walk.
45 minutes and countless blocks later, however, the diner remained a fantasy. Robin stopped on a corner, not so much frustrated as confused, and scanned the area. She was in a completely different neighborhood: quieter, more bohemian, the buildings lower to the ground.
Catty-corner from Robin was one of those little boutique shops where urban parents buy ironically ornate bassinettes and tiny, indy rock t-shirts for their newly hatched spawn. Robin rolled her eyes at the universe—Are you kidding me?—but found herself crossing the street anyway.
The place was cramped. The bored-looking hipster behind the register jerked his chin in her direction in non-committal greeting as she came in. Robin bobbed her head awkwardly and hustled to the back of the store to hide among the racks. She wondered what she was doing there. The hipster returned to his knitting.
Robin considered the things around her: cutely ugly stuffed toys, a violently yellow changing table, a mobile of blown glass figures, tiny jeans, tiny t-shirts, tiny leather jackets, a tiny sweater with a skull on the front, and a whole wall of those damned tiny socks. On her left was baby winter wear: pea coats, mittens, a star-shaped snowsuit fit for Maggie Simpson . . . . And hats.
Robin walked over to the hats. They were cute. Of course they were cute: tiny, knit confections to keep tiny heads warm. Robin looked through narrowed eyes at a rainbow-stripped toque; tentatively fingered a red devil cap, complete with horns; huffed indulgently at a pink, ruffled affair (*please*); and finally stopped to stare at a purple hat covered in woolen nubs, like little soft spikes that had grown from its crown.
Robin giggled.
Or maybe it was more of a quiet snort. She giggle-snorted again, and before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed the nubbly hat and strode towards the hipster at the counter, a half-smile on her face for the first time since she’d fled the clinic.
The hipster looked up from his knitting to Robin, to her navy suit, down to the hat on the counter, and back to Robin. Robin felt awkward again.
“That it?” the hipster asked, his face unmoving, and Robin nodded. “Cute hat,” he continued as he rang it up. “For your kid?”
“Yes . . . ,” Robin began, “. . . no . . . well, maybe.”
The hipster raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m sure it will look great . . . whatever you do with it. Serious nubs. The kid’ll definitely look cool . . . or whatever.”
“Well, you know what they say,” she giggled yet again. “More nubs equals more awesome.”
The hipster blinked. “People say that?”
“Well . . . ,” Robin stuttered, “that is . . . you know . . . they’re . . . . No, I guess not.” And Robin busied herself rummaging through her purse for her wallet.
When Robin got home she threw the bag, unopened, into her closet and left it there for a week.
---------
She couldn’t hear Barney anymore; he had stopped moving around the apartment. Robin swallowed and forced down a swell of panic—he just got back!—and reminded herself that she had not heard the door so he couldn’t have left. Again.
“Barney?” she called out softly.
No answer. No movement.
“Barney?” she tried again, louder and with a whisp of that panic she had not quite suppressed.
“Yeah?” A low voice came back to her from the living room. Robin swallowed.
“Where did you go? You know, after . . . ?”
There was a long silence.
