Fic: Unsuited
Mar. 5th, 2007 06:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
loopychewTitle: Unsuited
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loopychew
Fandom: How I Met Your Mother
Rating: PG
Spoilers: "First Time in New York"
***
It didn't fit him very well.
Barney Stinson looked at the flyer depicting a man in a designer suit in his hand, then at the very same suit in which he was enrobed. For something claiming to be a "designer" suit, he sure didn't feel like it was "designed" for any normal human being. The brush of the 60% polyester/cotton blend felt alien to the sections of his arms exposed by his tie-dye T-shirt. The very same feeling chafed against his legs, as he eyed himself in the mirror.
He didn't like what he was seeing.
It was only two days since Shannon, the love of his life, walked out of it, and the image of her accompanied by that walking suit sat in his mind, burning through everything he thought he knew about women. The one woman he dared love, the only woman in the world as far as he was concerned, stood idly by as her new "boyfriend" laughed at him. What had he done wrong?
He shook his head. He didn't do anything wrong. It's just that chicks dig suits. They loved the smell of success.
While he was sure the suit looked pretty good on him, he was positive that success didn't smell like patchouli and incense. Still, having forsaken money as the evil byproduct of a capitalistic society, he didn't have enough money for both the suit AND aftershave.
Barney looked at the mirror again. The sleeves were still a little too long, and the shoulders stuck out a little too much, but it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
***
"A-are those m-mirror p-p-pants? I-I think I can see myself in them."
The girl stopped sipping her vodka cranberry for just a second, stared HARD, and went back to drinking as Barney Stinson briefly melted into a puddle of humiliation. Straightening himself back up (and adjusting his tie), he found his "wingman" at the pay phone, speaking exasperatedly to whomever was on the other side of the line, and then slamming the receiver down onto its cradle.
"What were you doing?" Barney hissed. "You were supposed to cover my back!"
"Look, dude, I was just calling Megan and seeing if she was okay--"
"Megan?" In his mind, Barney just rolled his eyes. "Look, James, you can't let her keep you wrapped around her finger like that, okay? How many times have you called her today?"
"Barn--"
"How many times?"
"...six."
"And many times have you broken up with her today?"
"...eight."
Barney blinked, but continued. "Okay, it obviously isn't working out between the two of you. You've given it a shot, you had some fun, now you know it's just not your kind of thing."
"Relationships?"
"Women." Barney paused for a moment. "Well, relationships, too."
James sighed and looked into his beer.
"Look, there's another bar we can check out a couple blocks away. We'll find somebody to help wash out the taste in your mouth, and I'm not talking about the beer. 'Kay? High five." Barney arched his eyebrows and held his hand up, and James, after a brief pause, slapped it and made his way toward the door.
Barney looked at his little brother and hmm'ed a bit to himself before following behind.
***
It was like sitting in a tribunal, the way they sat him in a chair across from three impeccably-dressed men behind a conference table.
"So, Mister... Stinson," the first suit said, as he flipped through a pile of papers, probably including his résumé and cover letter, but he was never sure. "What can you bring to our company?"
Barney Stinson opened his mouth to speak, when it occurred to him that he felt like Indiana Jones in the Nazi uniform as the inspector looked at him. Of course, Indy was a lot more awesome than he'd ever been. He tugged a little bit at his cuff. "That you don't aw--lready have? I... well... I bring a sense of enthusiasm with me that people say is refreshing. Also, I, I've got a sense of creativity that most people don't."
The third suit looked up. "Creativity?"
"Creativity. I write songs and poems, and I did this 'zine for a couple years..."
The second suit looked up. "''Zine?'"
"A self-published...uh..." Barney's face reddened as he contemplated explaining the fact that he passed out a five-page monthly-colored leaflet about everything wrong with corporate America and the sheep-like society to a bunch of people in suits. "You know what? It's not important."
"No, by all means, please continue."
He shifted in his seat. This wasn't going to get any better. Straightening himself up in his seat, he cleared his throat.
"Well, you see..."
And then dashed out of the conference room.
***
Barney Stinson woke up with a throbbing hangover.
After trying to keep the light from stabbing his eyes, he also discovered that his necktie was attached to his left wrist. And his bedpost.
This? Was new.
Also new? His entire right side was numb, mostly because there was a naked woman lying on it. And snoring. Which wasn't helping the hangover.
What had he done last night? Who was this woman who--
--and then it all came back to him.
'Hi, I'm Barney,' he had said to the girl sitting at the bar, legs crossed casually, left over right. 'Pleased to meet you.'
She had looked him up and down, obviously evaluating him, but with a poker face that didn't let anything on. His own face had struggled valiantly to match, but a single twitch of an eyebrow betrayed his nervousness, and suddenly thoughts like "I knew I should've gone with the grey tie" and "My shoes aren't polished enough" had rushed to the front of his forehead. She'd smiled politely, declined his offer, and turned back to her vodka cranberry.
Dejected, he had turned toward the door, when--
'You're one of the Stinson boys, aren't you?'
'Mrs. Rosenberg? What're you doing here?'
'Met with the divorce attorney today. Barry's trying to keep every single red cent.' She'd paused, then spat out, 'STUPID PENNY-GRUBBING TWO-TIMING SUMBITCH!' before calming down again. 'Not enough he was shtupping that copy girl, but he--' She'd stopped, poured two fingers of some cheap whiskey, and downed it. Then she'd looked back at him and smiled. 'Care to join me for a drink, Barry?'
'It's Barney, ma'am.'
'Please, call me Rhonda,' she'd said as she poured three fingers into another glass.
Barney stared in horror at the Mrs. Rosenberg's naked body, wondering how she managed to both gain thirty pounds and age another decade between the moment he took her to his apartment and the time he woke up. Any semblance of morning wood he had had moments earlier had well disappeared when he reconciled this new, sober visual with the things they had done the night before. Hell if he'd ever have sex while falling-down drunk again. Hell if he'd EVER have sex again.
"Oh, Barry..." she mumbled, and giggled a little bit, before hacking out a lung.
That did it.
Tugging his arm out from underneath his wood-sawing tormentor, he untied himself and felt around the bed for his cell phone--aha! He dialed his home phone number, and let it drop to the floor again.
*RING* *RING*
Thankfully, the ring of the phone managed to wake Mrs. Rosenberg. Barney pretended to fumble sleepily for the cordless on the nightstand, and picked it up.
"Helllllo... Mom? G'morn..." He sat up in bed. "What? You're coming over RIGHT NOW? Why? But I--" He held the phone in front of his face a moment, before clicking the power button. He turned to see Mrs. Rosenberg scrambling with her clothes and dashing out the door in a panic.
Barney looked at the door a moment, smiled, and dropped back into bed.
***
The cotton felt better on his arms than any of his polyester blends ever had, and the undershirt made him feel a little more wrapped, a little more secure. Barney Stinson smiled, cocked his head to the side, and winked at his reflection in the mirror.
"I don't know how you dragged me into this," muttered a voice from the dressing room next door.
Barney quickly put his regular shirt back on, stepped out, peeked over the curtain, and made a two-pronged look-in-my-eyes gesture at his brother. "James? James! Right here. Look, bro, it took me a while to get used to them, too. But trust me, they're awesome. The more you wear them, the more they grow on you."
"But--"
Barney sighed and hopped off the small stool by the dressing room. "Okay, James, here's a +2 Shovel of Wisdom, now dig. Remember when we first started broing out together? I was miserable and unhappy. Know what kept me going? The suit. If all else failed, I knew at least one thing that came out of this: no matter how bad it went, at least I looked awesome. The flannel and jeans thing? Totally not you. That suit I'm hooking you up with? THAT'S the real you, and you can't deny it. You're not a coffeehouse chump, you're a class A cut, deserving of being coated in the finest dressing! Enough of these beatnik dives and poetry slams, we are gonna bro about town, upper-class-style, and it's gonna be--wait for it--"
"'Legendary?'"
"LEGE--dude, I'm speeching. Don't interrupt the Barn-raiser when he's making hay! Now get your ass out here."
The curtain swept open, and Barney's jaw dropped. When he was right, he was awesome. And right now, THIS was TOTALLY awesome.
"Congrats, James, you've just suited up."
***
"So, Mister Stinson--"
Barney Stinson leaned back in his chair. "Call me Barney."
"If you insist. What brings you to Altrucel?"
His eyes rolled up in thought for a moment. "Honestly? Money. You guys have lots of it, I want lots of it, and I'll work damn hard for it."
"And what qualities do you have that you can bring to the company?"
He chuckled. "Please. If things need to be done, I'll get'em done. You will never see this much awesome working for you, ever, if you don't hire me."
"Very well... Barney. Now, I take it you've read up on this position?"
"Absolutely."
"And you're aware that it requires a certain..."
Barney quirked his right eyebrow. "Please. Like I said, if things need to be done, I'll get'em done."
"Interesting." A brief pause, the scratch of pen to paper, and the tear of a sheet of legal pad. "Give this to the receptionist outside, and expect a call shortly."
He grinned, clucked his tongue, and winked devilishly. "Don't I know it."
***
The first thing Barney Stinson bought with his first paycheck was an Armani Collezioni white spread-collar. One of his co-workers had set him up with a guy, and he was GOOD. He didn't know how it happened, but somehow this guy managed to nail him on every measurement at a glance--it was as if the measuring tape were there just to confirm what he already knew, to make Barney feel more assured about his work.
Not that it was necessary. The way the fabric and air alternately brushed against his skin was magnificent.
Later on that evening it was torn in two in a fit of passion by some half-Chinese girl named Linda, but that was okay. He knew a guy.
***
James wasn't enough.
Barney stood, deep in thought, at the urinal in this joint he was checking out on 75th. Sometimes, it just felt like the best way to clear your mind was to clear your bladder. And so he continued. Doing both.
He needed to continue the legacy outside of his bloodline. With James out of town so often, he had a few problems nabbing the more desirable women from time to time. He needed a whole set of bros--a brollective, if you would--to do this stuff with.
It was about that time some kid walked in and took the urinal next to him. Although the voice he used was obviously of the talking-to-self variety, Barney couldn't help but overhear him muttering, "Ted, what the hell are you doing?"
And Barney Stinson smiled.
Author:
loopychewFandom: How I Met Your Mother
Rating: PG
Spoilers: "First Time in New York"
***
It didn't fit him very well.
Barney Stinson looked at the flyer depicting a man in a designer suit in his hand, then at the very same suit in which he was enrobed. For something claiming to be a "designer" suit, he sure didn't feel like it was "designed" for any normal human being. The brush of the 60% polyester/cotton blend felt alien to the sections of his arms exposed by his tie-dye T-shirt. The very same feeling chafed against his legs, as he eyed himself in the mirror.
He didn't like what he was seeing.
It was only two days since Shannon, the love of his life, walked out of it, and the image of her accompanied by that walking suit sat in his mind, burning through everything he thought he knew about women. The one woman he dared love, the only woman in the world as far as he was concerned, stood idly by as her new "boyfriend" laughed at him. What had he done wrong?
He shook his head. He didn't do anything wrong. It's just that chicks dig suits. They loved the smell of success.
While he was sure the suit looked pretty good on him, he was positive that success didn't smell like patchouli and incense. Still, having forsaken money as the evil byproduct of a capitalistic society, he didn't have enough money for both the suit AND aftershave.
Barney looked at the mirror again. The sleeves were still a little too long, and the shoulders stuck out a little too much, but it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
***
"A-are those m-mirror p-p-pants? I-I think I can see myself in them."
The girl stopped sipping her vodka cranberry for just a second, stared HARD, and went back to drinking as Barney Stinson briefly melted into a puddle of humiliation. Straightening himself back up (and adjusting his tie), he found his "wingman" at the pay phone, speaking exasperatedly to whomever was on the other side of the line, and then slamming the receiver down onto its cradle.
"What were you doing?" Barney hissed. "You were supposed to cover my back!"
"Look, dude, I was just calling Megan and seeing if she was okay--"
"Megan?" In his mind, Barney just rolled his eyes. "Look, James, you can't let her keep you wrapped around her finger like that, okay? How many times have you called her today?"
"Barn--"
"How many times?"
"...six."
"And many times have you broken up with her today?"
"...eight."
Barney blinked, but continued. "Okay, it obviously isn't working out between the two of you. You've given it a shot, you had some fun, now you know it's just not your kind of thing."
"Relationships?"
"Women." Barney paused for a moment. "Well, relationships, too."
James sighed and looked into his beer.
"Look, there's another bar we can check out a couple blocks away. We'll find somebody to help wash out the taste in your mouth, and I'm not talking about the beer. 'Kay? High five." Barney arched his eyebrows and held his hand up, and James, after a brief pause, slapped it and made his way toward the door.
Barney looked at his little brother and hmm'ed a bit to himself before following behind.
***
It was like sitting in a tribunal, the way they sat him in a chair across from three impeccably-dressed men behind a conference table.
"So, Mister... Stinson," the first suit said, as he flipped through a pile of papers, probably including his résumé and cover letter, but he was never sure. "What can you bring to our company?"
Barney Stinson opened his mouth to speak, when it occurred to him that he felt like Indiana Jones in the Nazi uniform as the inspector looked at him. Of course, Indy was a lot more awesome than he'd ever been. He tugged a little bit at his cuff. "That you don't aw--lready have? I... well... I bring a sense of enthusiasm with me that people say is refreshing. Also, I, I've got a sense of creativity that most people don't."
The third suit looked up. "Creativity?"
"Creativity. I write songs and poems, and I did this 'zine for a couple years..."
The second suit looked up. "''Zine?'"
"A self-published...uh..." Barney's face reddened as he contemplated explaining the fact that he passed out a five-page monthly-colored leaflet about everything wrong with corporate America and the sheep-like society to a bunch of people in suits. "You know what? It's not important."
"No, by all means, please continue."
He shifted in his seat. This wasn't going to get any better. Straightening himself up in his seat, he cleared his throat.
"Well, you see..."
And then dashed out of the conference room.
***
Barney Stinson woke up with a throbbing hangover.
After trying to keep the light from stabbing his eyes, he also discovered that his necktie was attached to his left wrist. And his bedpost.
This? Was new.
Also new? His entire right side was numb, mostly because there was a naked woman lying on it. And snoring. Which wasn't helping the hangover.
What had he done last night? Who was this woman who--
--and then it all came back to him.
'Hi, I'm Barney,' he had said to the girl sitting at the bar, legs crossed casually, left over right. 'Pleased to meet you.'
She had looked him up and down, obviously evaluating him, but with a poker face that didn't let anything on. His own face had struggled valiantly to match, but a single twitch of an eyebrow betrayed his nervousness, and suddenly thoughts like "I knew I should've gone with the grey tie" and "My shoes aren't polished enough" had rushed to the front of his forehead. She'd smiled politely, declined his offer, and turned back to her vodka cranberry.
Dejected, he had turned toward the door, when--
'You're one of the Stinson boys, aren't you?'
'Mrs. Rosenberg? What're you doing here?'
'Met with the divorce attorney today. Barry's trying to keep every single red cent.' She'd paused, then spat out, 'STUPID PENNY-GRUBBING TWO-TIMING SUMBITCH!' before calming down again. 'Not enough he was shtupping that copy girl, but he--' She'd stopped, poured two fingers of some cheap whiskey, and downed it. Then she'd looked back at him and smiled. 'Care to join me for a drink, Barry?'
'It's Barney, ma'am.'
'Please, call me Rhonda,' she'd said as she poured three fingers into another glass.
Barney stared in horror at the Mrs. Rosenberg's naked body, wondering how she managed to both gain thirty pounds and age another decade between the moment he took her to his apartment and the time he woke up. Any semblance of morning wood he had had moments earlier had well disappeared when he reconciled this new, sober visual with the things they had done the night before. Hell if he'd ever have sex while falling-down drunk again. Hell if he'd EVER have sex again.
"Oh, Barry..." she mumbled, and giggled a little bit, before hacking out a lung.
That did it.
Tugging his arm out from underneath his wood-sawing tormentor, he untied himself and felt around the bed for his cell phone--aha! He dialed his home phone number, and let it drop to the floor again.
*RING* *RING*
Thankfully, the ring of the phone managed to wake Mrs. Rosenberg. Barney pretended to fumble sleepily for the cordless on the nightstand, and picked it up.
"Helllllo... Mom? G'morn..." He sat up in bed. "What? You're coming over RIGHT NOW? Why? But I--" He held the phone in front of his face a moment, before clicking the power button. He turned to see Mrs. Rosenberg scrambling with her clothes and dashing out the door in a panic.
Barney looked at the door a moment, smiled, and dropped back into bed.
***
The cotton felt better on his arms than any of his polyester blends ever had, and the undershirt made him feel a little more wrapped, a little more secure. Barney Stinson smiled, cocked his head to the side, and winked at his reflection in the mirror.
"I don't know how you dragged me into this," muttered a voice from the dressing room next door.
Barney quickly put his regular shirt back on, stepped out, peeked over the curtain, and made a two-pronged look-in-my-eyes gesture at his brother. "James? James! Right here. Look, bro, it took me a while to get used to them, too. But trust me, they're awesome. The more you wear them, the more they grow on you."
"But--"
Barney sighed and hopped off the small stool by the dressing room. "Okay, James, here's a +2 Shovel of Wisdom, now dig. Remember when we first started broing out together? I was miserable and unhappy. Know what kept me going? The suit. If all else failed, I knew at least one thing that came out of this: no matter how bad it went, at least I looked awesome. The flannel and jeans thing? Totally not you. That suit I'm hooking you up with? THAT'S the real you, and you can't deny it. You're not a coffeehouse chump, you're a class A cut, deserving of being coated in the finest dressing! Enough of these beatnik dives and poetry slams, we are gonna bro about town, upper-class-style, and it's gonna be--wait for it--"
"'Legendary?'"
"LEGE--dude, I'm speeching. Don't interrupt the Barn-raiser when he's making hay! Now get your ass out here."
The curtain swept open, and Barney's jaw dropped. When he was right, he was awesome. And right now, THIS was TOTALLY awesome.
"Congrats, James, you've just suited up."
***
"So, Mister Stinson--"
Barney Stinson leaned back in his chair. "Call me Barney."
"If you insist. What brings you to Altrucel?"
His eyes rolled up in thought for a moment. "Honestly? Money. You guys have lots of it, I want lots of it, and I'll work damn hard for it."
"And what qualities do you have that you can bring to the company?"
He chuckled. "Please. If things need to be done, I'll get'em done. You will never see this much awesome working for you, ever, if you don't hire me."
"Very well... Barney. Now, I take it you've read up on this position?"
"Absolutely."
"And you're aware that it requires a certain..."
Barney quirked his right eyebrow. "Please. Like I said, if things need to be done, I'll get'em done."
"Interesting." A brief pause, the scratch of pen to paper, and the tear of a sheet of legal pad. "Give this to the receptionist outside, and expect a call shortly."
He grinned, clucked his tongue, and winked devilishly. "Don't I know it."
***
The first thing Barney Stinson bought with his first paycheck was an Armani Collezioni white spread-collar. One of his co-workers had set him up with a guy, and he was GOOD. He didn't know how it happened, but somehow this guy managed to nail him on every measurement at a glance--it was as if the measuring tape were there just to confirm what he already knew, to make Barney feel more assured about his work.
Not that it was necessary. The way the fabric and air alternately brushed against his skin was magnificent.
Later on that evening it was torn in two in a fit of passion by some half-Chinese girl named Linda, but that was okay. He knew a guy.
***
James wasn't enough.
Barney stood, deep in thought, at the urinal in this joint he was checking out on 75th. Sometimes, it just felt like the best way to clear your mind was to clear your bladder. And so he continued. Doing both.
He needed to continue the legacy outside of his bloodline. With James out of town so often, he had a few problems nabbing the more desirable women from time to time. He needed a whole set of bros--a brollective, if you would--to do this stuff with.
It was about that time some kid walked in and took the urinal next to him. Although the voice he used was obviously of the talking-to-self variety, Barney couldn't help but overhear him muttering, "Ted, what the hell are you doing?"
And Barney Stinson smiled.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2007-03-05 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-05 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-07 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-07 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-14 06:29 pm (UTC)That just classy Barney right there. Nice work on this.
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Date: 2008-03-15 12:46 am (UTC)Out of curiosity, since I'm not very highly published as a fanfic writer (to my knowledge) and I don't see any common friends, how did you happen upon my humble LJ?
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Date: 2008-03-15 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-16 12:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-16 12:55 pm (UTC)