The cab smells terrible but he hardly notices; doesn't bother to read the tariff card and learn the driver's name. He barely hears himself spit out the address as he folds himself in. The streets fly by, a blur of dirty browns and greys, the street lights hurting his eyes and his heart beating like it's trying to escape his ribcage. He tells himself it's because of the speed with which the cab whips through the city. His city.

As the driver weaves through familiar neighbourhoods he tries to calm himself. I've got nothing to lose. He repeats this in his head like it's a mantra but it doesn't calm him. His heart is beating so hard it almost hurts. He feels a pinprick of annoyance at this under the blanket of fear. Of course he can't just seem relaxed. Not when it's her. Not when he hasn't seen her for four days and that somehow translates into a real, physical ache. He can't play any of it off as a joke; not this time.

Because his first confession had been so raw, so honest and real, that she knows it wasn't a joke. She knows he meant every word that had stumbled from his lips that night. Just as he knows she meant her tearful apology and the rejection that accompanied it. He rubs his eyes as the cab pulls up in front of what used to be one of his favourite places. He knows that they're swollen and red and that he smells like a distillery and that his suit is in a sorry state, but he pays the cabbie, what's-his-name, and steps out into the night.

He knows he should take a moment to collect himself; that he should put on his tie and try to smooth some of the wrinkles from his shirt, but he can't. His feet are taking the steps they've taken so many times two at once. He could find his way to her with his eyes closed. He ignores the elevator, feeling the stairs pound under his scuffed Italian shoes. He's bursting through the door to her apartment before he can even register that he's on the right floor and it's then that it hits him. He's really about to do this. He stands, frozen for a moment, until the unmistakable voice of his best friend sounds and scares the living hell out of him.

"Barney?"

Barney spins to face him, his eyes wide and his face pale. Ted emerges from the kitchen looking tired and upset.

"Dude, where the hell have you been? It's been four days and nobody's heard anything! Are you okay?" Barney still hasn't moved and Ted walks over to him, his face betraying just how worried he was; how worried he still is. He places one hand on the other man's shoulder and the other firmly on the side of his neck and Barney finally focuses on him.

Ted takes in Barney's red, bloodshot eyes, his rumpled suit, his pale complexion and shaking hands. "Barney," he tries again, "are you alright?"

His friend swallows hard and shakes his head so slightly that Ted barely notices the movement. "Where is she?"

Ted lets his hands drop from Barney and puts them in his pockets, sighs, "She's in her room. She hasn't left the apartment since you were here last." He thinks he notices a slight shift in his friend; his face tightens and his hands fiddle with the hem of his jacket.

Barney manages a glance in the direction of Robin's door and his chest feels like it's melting into his stomach. He can feel any colour left in his face drain away. He looks back at Ted, his very best friend, and he's nodding before Barney can ask the question.

"You should go talk to her, man. She's a mess."

It's all Barney needs to hear before he musters up the little remaining courage left after the agonizing trip that brought him outside her door. He places his thumb and index fingers on his eyelids and rubs for a moment before mumbling an almost inaudible "fuck" and striding to her door.