The signal finally comes one dusky morning. Five knocks as promised.

Light and darkness have melded into each other, here in their tiny prison. They are the only indications of time now. Everything else is blurred together, a standstill, as they've been waiting out what hopefully are their last days in this hell. She knows he'll never say it, but he's still shaken from what they did to him. To her. And so is she.

They've given their mysterious helper a nickname too: Bilson (Barney's suggestion). He's never been too talkative about his job, but she assumes he doesn't respect his coworkers much.

He tries to prop himself up against the wall, wincing. 'I'll go and you stay here—'

'No,' she whispers. 'I'll go.'

'You're kidding me. What if something happens to you?'

She pulls him back down and gets on her feet. 'You can barely stand! We don't have time to argue about this now. I'll be back as fast as I can.'

'Robin—'

She doesn't waste another breath.

She runs out. An old hallway, piled with broken furniture stretching as far as she can see. And there's no one here. The silence breathes into her. But they can't escape now; she's sure there are guards outside, armed and dangerous, who won't even flinch before shooting them both.

She counts the doors to her side. One, two. Three.

The room is small and in bad condition, water leaking all over. It's smells of mold. There's a cracked mirror on the wall. She stands still, hardly being able to recognize herself. There are smears of sweat and grime and dried blood all over her face. She looks so much thinner, eyes hollow with dark halos lying underneath. Her hair is everywhere.

The telephone sits on an uneven table. She shakes the emptiness off, dials the number of the NYPD. This is a story she's reported on a hundred times. Victims sneak a call, a tweet, a text, and the police sweep right in. At least she hopes it's that easy.

Barney has been lying to her. How are you doing, she'd ask him. And every single time, he says 'I'm fine', probably feeling the need to protect her from worry. But she doesn't need to be.

'This is the NYPD,' a man's voice states calmly.

She almost cries out of relief.

'My na—I'm Robin Scherbatsky. My friend, Barney Stinson, and I are being held captive somewhere around New York, or maybe on the edge—I don't know—and you have to come find us now, please, I don't know how long we've been here. I've stopped counting a few days ago—'

'Slow down, ma'am. We're tracking your location right now, just stay on the line. Can you identify your captors?'

'I can't. They're after revenge—Barney and his company terminated a contract, the firm closed down when they lost all the money. Look, I really don't know the details.'

'Can you tell us about your surroundings?'

She looks around desperately. How much time does she have left? 'Bilson' never specified anything, no time frame, nothing. She's all by herself.

'It looks like an old warehouse. Definitely abandoned. I can't see anything else.'

'Okay. That's fine. Listen, we are going to find you as soon as we get a location. Is anyone hurt?'

'Yes. My friend.'

Suddenly, there's a commotion outside. She slams the phone back to the receiver and peeks out. Voices. Laughter. She closes the door behind her and runs back to the room clumsily. Her foot crashes into a pile of debris loudly.

'What was that?' a loud voice booms from beyond the hall.

Robin freezes, bites her lip and limps back into their room. Locks the door. Panting, she settles back down next to Barney, still holding her right ankle. The wave of adrenaline washes over her.

'What happened?'

She shakes her head. 'I did it. I just tripped over stuff—'

The door is kicked open. Wilson peaks in, suspiciously eyeing everything. There's a rifle in his hand. Robin grips Barney's hand—partly to ease the pressure, partly for the throbbing on her leg—their sweat mingling hotly.

XX

He's putting up a calm face. The business, womanizing face. He can hear her breath next to him, as they both watch Wilson carefully.

'You two lovebirds try anything stupid and I will slit your throats.'

He curses. Slams the door, and they hear the jingle of keys locking them back in. Suddenly he's curious as to what happened with that video they sent out. Wilson has always been so calm and cool. Today, there seems to be an edge to him. He reminds himself to keep that in check.

She untangles her hand from his (he's reluctant to let go for a second) and folds her jeans up, fingers trembling. There's an ugly gash. She cringes.

'What did you trip over?' he asks, examining it.

'Splintered wood. Old, dusty trash, some glass bits, I guess.'

He pulls out from their secret stash the disinfectant.

'I told you I should have been the one,' he says, pouring disinfectant over her wound gently. Her fingers dig deeper into his arm, with each sting. But he doesn't mind. He'll probably never be able to fully repay her for everything she's been through for him, and because of him.

It's for putting up with his absurd behavior. Knowing who he really is and still sticking around. Giving him a chance, even if that didn't work out. Believing in him. He's amazed that she loved him despite his obvious shortcomings. Every chance he gets he tries to show his appreciation.

He bends down to blow her wound, to help ease the sting. 'There. Better?'

'Yeah. Thanks.'

She's wearing that smile, tugging at him. A combination of surprise and gratitude and sincerity. Despite his dulling headache and the somberness of the situation, he smiles back.

'What do you think Ted, Marshall and Lily are doing right now?' he asks hastily, eager to switch topics. He has to stop staring at her like that. 'Do you think they're looking for us?'

'I bet Marshall suspects aliens of abducting us.'

And they share their first laugh since getting here. Uneasy, but it's a start, he thinks.

XXX

She keeps half-dozing off to sleep, her head periodically banging against the thin walls. Once or twice, she even bumps into Barney's hurt shoulder. Embarrassing. He does his best to ignore it, she sees the effort, and tries even harder to keep her eyes open. She hasn't slept in days.

Any moment now. She has to be awake for it.

'Sorry,' she says quickly, after her head falls on him for the third time.

'Why don't you just lean on me? It would save us both the trouble, seriously.' He stretches his arm out around her, tightly, just like the good days, and she doesn't resist. It reminds her of the first time they slept together. She wonders if he's thinking of the same thing too. Them watching Sandcastles in the Sand on her couch, laughing again and again, kissing, her hand on his tie, his around her neck, shoes kicked off.

She had never felt as safe as she did that night, ironically. And the next morning when she said that they should pretend that nothing happened? It was only because she was scared he would shrug it off anyway, while she wouldn't be able to. Saying it out loud almost made it real.

'I'll wake you up. Just get some sleep.'

She fits her head against the crook of his neck. Where it belongs. She drifts off in no time.

XXX

'Get up! Stinson, Scherbatsky, are you deaf? I said get your asses up!'

She wakes up amidst chaos. They're banging their guns against the walls, the floors, gathered together in a group, all masked and ready. But for what? She follows orders quickly, then looks at Barney. Wilson looks furious. And, for some reason, a bit anxious. She has never seen him lose his cold demeanor, and for a second, she almost smiles.

'We need to move. Now. Tie them up.'

'What?' she stutters. This will ruin everything.

'The police are on our trail. Someone tipped them off. I'll deal with that later, but right now—Rosund, are you deaf? I said tie them up. Can't get anything done around here anymore. Give me that.' Wilson, flustered, grabs the rope from one of his boys and pulls her roughly. Barney looks torn. She's tied and blindfolded forcefully. A cold gun pressed to her breasts. Click. She hears him struggle, groaning, and she wants to kick them for knowing where he's still hurting and hitting those spots. They're shoved into the narrow hallway, nearly tripping over themselves.

'Where's Tony?' someone calls out.

'He left to buy more fuel earlier,' Wilson grumbles. 'We've got loose ends to tie up. Make sure to burn all evidence or take them with you. Clean everything that can be traced to us. Fifteen minutes.'

There are men yelling everywhere, and it smells like leftover food. Her stomach grumbles. Her heart sinks. There's an itch on her forehead that she can't scratch. What's going on? Her hopes for a quick rescue have been exposed, and sunk. Where's Bilson, what's he doing? How far are the police? How can she buy them time? As much as she wants to think through this logically, she just can't string her thoughts together.

Grudgingly, she follows her captors. They're pushed into a corner and told to stay put for awhile, the confusion around them evident. Panic. Fear. She can smell it.

Nearing the end now. . .Please review! Tell me what you think will happen, suggestions, ideas? I'd really appreciate it. Think of it as "payment" for writing this for you guys! :)))

Oh, check out my other B/R stories. I'm especially proud of Everything In Between. It's deeper, more reflective. It's the kind of story where 'what is' can be defined by 'what is not'. Hope that made sense.