![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snoggedTitle: Last Call
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snogged and secondmezzanine
Disclaimer: Carter Bays and Craig Thomas own How I Met Your Mother. We don't. Please don't sue us.
Pairing: Carl/Wendy; mentions Barney/Wendy
Word Count: 3939
Rating: FRT-13/PG-13; romance, jealousy, and a little violence
Spoilers: Set after Wendy and Barney do it at MacLaren’s
Summary: Carl sees some security footage featuring a certain waitress…
Beta:rockstarpeach and roland44
Dedicated to anyone who believes in supporting Minor character pairings. A toast to you all!
Some nights Carl longed for last call. Nights where he couldn’t wait to see patrons stumble out of his bar and onto the sidewalks of New York where taxi cabs could shuffle them away, freeing his ears from the drunk giggling, slobbering, and other various annoyances that came with being a purveyor of all things booze.
Tonight was one of those nights. Not because of the noise and the clatter, but because he’d made the God damn mistake of watching the security feed last night after Doug mentioned a suspicion that someone was scraping off the top of the till.
But the tape showed it wasn’t money being stolen from the bar…but waitresses.
One waitress, in particular: Wendy.
Wendy spreading herself open, spreading her innocence open for the lewd, ice blue eyes of Barney Stinson. It didn’t matter if she was a grown woman capable of her own decisions, the thought made him nauseous.
He always thought she had better taste than that.
And she should have better taste than that. She should be sharing that smile with someone who’d know just how to receive it, someone who’d know how to pull her into a tight embrace that could set her nerves on fire, someone who was more like… him.
---
Some nights Wendy couldn’t wait for last call. The constant waving of hands for a waitress’s attention, the measly tips (if patrons tipped at all), the groping from drunken businessmen (although thankfully Carl usually gave those men a swift kick out the door), the incessant pounding of the jukebox—it was all enough to make her invest in a cupboard full of Tylenol for the second she got home.
Tonight, though, she doesn’t mind that she has to work until two. She doesn’t mind that she’ll be running back and forth, cleaning up spilled drinks, dealing with the Saturday night rush when she could be out having fun herself, instead of serving it.
The first reason is that Carl is bartending and managing tonight. Things always run more smoothly when he’s around, and the hours go by faster, too.
The second is that Barney Stinson always inhabits MacLaren’s on Saturday nights.
Wendy can still taste him on her lips, the faint burn of alcohol and the intense pressure of his kisses. No doubt about it, Barney was infamous for a damn good reason. She’d always thought that when people talked about getting weak in the knees, it was just a figure of speech. Until she’d found herself literally buckling under him—behind the bar, in front of the bar, on the bar…
And normally she’d have to wait several days before she could even hope to hear from a guy again. But when she’s nearly done with her shift tonight, in walks Barney, sitting at his usual booth, ordering his usual drink. Her stomach flutters with nervousness for a moment as the memories of what had passed between them wash over her, but she can’t keep the grin off her face as she takes his order and stumbles back behind the bar.
It’s been forever since a guy has paid attention to her like Barney had. And even if she knows how he operates, she can’t help feeling flattered.
Yes, last call can wait. Wendy doesn’t mind. Maybe Barney would even hang around until she got off work. In the meantime, she gets to hang with Carl, catch Barney’s eye every now and then, and enjoy the hope of new possibilities.
---
The constant stream of orders over the next hour keep his thoughts in check and he loses count of the number of glasses and bottles that pass through his fingers as he works to keep up with them.
Gin and Tonic, Vodka Cranberry, Margarita, Rum and Coke, Dirty Martini, Beer on tap, Beer from the bottle.
They all slide across the bar, clicking over the wood paneling to land in the hands of waiting customers.
When Wendy bounces up to the waitress station, eyes bright and smile cheery, he feels his heart speed up inside his chest. He doesn't know what to say to her so he puts on a face to pretend that everything between them is the same as it always was.
"Night going well?"
It sounds casual enough. Sounds like something a bartender would ask his waitress. Or so he hopes.
She grins at Carl, her good mood palpable as she gathers up a few drink napkins. "Perfectly," she answers, even though no night at MacLaren's is really perfect. She takes a moment to lean on the counter, taking the weight off her feet, and looks at Carl. His expression is shifting a little, unreadable. "Isn't it a nice night?" she says conversationally. "Not a bad crowd, either..." her eyes drift over to Barney's booth. He catches her eye and she feels herself flush instantly before giving him a megawatt smile. Barney quickly looks away. She almost wonders if he's shy.
Although he certainly didn't seem it when he was tugging her shirt up around her shoulders.
Wendy turns back to Carl and realizes he's saying something in his usual dry tone, his hands moving nimbly over bottles of alcohol and glasses, like an art form. "Sorry," she laughs lightly, "what?"
She leans in close to him, and he feels a mask slide into a place. A poker face to protect him from the feelings he's having. He doesn't want her to see him frustrated or insecure. And he especially doesn't want her to know that his eyes have found the perfect angle to view the tops of her breasts whenever her v-neck shirt falls open.
When her eyes drift to Barney, he can feel the muscles in his wrist tense and ache, closing around the girth of a small glass and setting it down on the bar.
He's her boss for Christ's sakes. And as her boss, he has the right to tell her she's not allowed to fuck customers on his bar.
"We need to talk, Wendy. About your..." He clears his throat, swallowing down the jealousy that's threatening to consume him. "After-hours activities."
Her gaze snaps back to Carl's. "My after-hours..." She trails off, the full meaning of his words washing over her.
Oh, god, she thinks.
He knows. Carl... knows.
Carl, the guy who watches out for her with the handsy customers and called to ask how she was feeling that weekend she had the flu and gives her brotherly advice about what she should do with her fledgling career. The guy she looks up to. The only guy she can really trust in an otherwise cold, indifferent city. Somehow...
He knows. And now he's looking at her and those deep, dark eyes are pinning her with something like disdain, or worse, disappointment, and all fluttery, girlish feelings melt away. She braces herself against the counter and lifts her chin to hide her embarrassment.
"Um... well if you're talking about my personal life, I..." she trails off again, wondering whether he knows exactly how, or more importantly, where, things went down with Barney. Her voice lowers, wavering only slightly. "I'd rather talk about it later. When there aren't... fifty other people in the room listening in."
He glances over the top of her head, viewing the crowd that's still lingering even though the hour is late and last call is forty-five minutes from now. He wishes he could zap them all out right now so they could have private time.
Because this boss thing? It really sucks when the friendship runs deeper than the employee line.
Especially when it’s about Wendy. Who is easily the best waitress on his staff and she's always been there to offer sage advice about the girls he's dated. She even helped him with Christmas shopping when it was the night before the holidays and he'd done none of it.
He shrugs, trying desperately to play it cool. "I just wish you would have told me so we wouldn't need to do this at all."
Wendy feels her cheeks burning, and she begins gathering up the napkins again. "Okay, so... Carl, I had a thing with Barney. There, I told you. And you don't have to worry because I know what kind of guy he is, but still, I mean, there could be something there. So." She cuts herself off before she gets into details, still unsure how much Carl knows.
She shouldn't be surprised. Carl's the eyes and ears of this place. And he always seems to see right through her, too. In fact, she can feel his eyes on her right now, and she moves around the bar to try to escape it, tripping over her own feet in the process.
He watches her go, concern flashing in his eyes when she trips on the slick tile before she manages to catch herself with the back of a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a blonde girl in a low-cut top stumbling up to the bar...
With Barney Stinson in tow.
Little shit, prancing up here with your slutty bimbo. Wendy is the right on the other side of the room.
He can feel the tension in his muscles, nerves twisting and bunching under the skin as he forces himself to stay calm. He'd love to teach Barney a lesson in respect. Would love to slap him across the face and drown out the din of the bar with the sound of his screams. Wendy deserves way better than him.
Before he can even think of the consequences, his hand flies across the bar, making solid contact with flesh and bone. And when he steps back, all eyes are on him and Barney's shooting daggers.
If looks could kill...
She doesn't see the hit, but she hears it-- actually hears Carl's hand connect with Barney's face, it's that loud. More than that, she hears the collective gasp in the room as the two guys size each other up and prepare to--
Well, she's not sure she wants to find out what they're about to do. She can't see Barney's face, but Carl looks mad enough to tear someone limb from limb and before she realizes what she's doing, she's dropped the napkins and run over to stop it. There's a blonde already trying to get a look at the small cut above Barney's eye. "Barney, are you--" she stops herself from going to help when she sees the way the girl is hanging on him, clearly half-concerned and half-turned on by this.
Instead Wendy whirls around to Carl, searching his face. "Carl, what the... what do you think you're doing?!"
He blinks twice, taking a step backwards towards the wall, surprised by his own violence. By the angry red print marking Barney's cheeks. By the bewildered look in Wendy's eyes.
It's that look more than any other that makes him want to run, makes him want to swallow down his Latin machismo and get the hell out of dodge because he knows what that slap means.
That was a slap that went far beyond the protective nature he's always had around Wendy. Far beyond just kicking a pervert out for squeezing her ass.
That slap, that show of violence and testosterone...made his heart shake with the strongest emotion in the book.
It’s gotta be love. He's in love with Wendy the Waitress. Fuck.
"I... I need to go."
Wendy watches as Carl takes a slow step back, his eyes suddenly seeming almost frantic, and turns quickly to head back to the office. "What the hell..." she murmurs.
Barney's making a kind of annoyed whining sound as he rubs his cheek and the blonde coos over him. "Wendy," he says gruffly, "Get me a drink, will ya? Scotch." He doesn't even look at her.
In fact, he sounds a lot like he did last night, ordering a drink from her after they'd pretty far surpassed the waitress and patron relationship. A tiny flash of hurt goes through her (and it's stupid, she knows, but it's there anyway).
She just looks at Barney and then runs after Carl. He's in the office, leaning with his hands pressed down on the desk, his back to her. "Carl?" He jumps slightly at her voice. "Sorry, I... are you feeling all right?" She'd planned to yell, because hitting customers isn't exactly in the bartender handbook, but there's something wrong. He's practically sweating. She slides a hand up his back, comfortingly. "What's going on?"
His body trembles under her touch, skin itching under the comfort, the caring radiating from the tips of her fingers. He doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to have this from her after what he just did.
"Wendy." His breath hitches and he stares down at the wood grain, focusing on the way it swirls, the way it doesn't run in a straight line. That's how he feels right now. He feels swirling in the pit of his stomach, feels like everything is just slightly crooked, feels like he's gonna cross a line.
"I... you deserve so much better than that. Barney's such an ass. He doesn't know how to treat a woman."
She opens her mouth to say something in his defense, maybe tell him he needs to have more faith in people or that she can take care of herself, but something in his voice stops her for a moment. She curls her fingers on his back, smoothing up and down.
"Carl, you don't have to worry about me. I know that Barney's—" She's not sure what, exactly, considering what just happened out in the bar. "I know he's probably not thinking about marrying me right now, but it's not like I have a whole lot going for me these days and I just... thought maybe..."
She drops her hand and shrugs at him.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing." She leans against the desk, perching herself on the ledge and sighing. "The thing is... there aren't many guys in this town who do know how to treat a woman."
Carl turns to look at her, his dark eyes softening under the dim light like melting butter. She's clearly not hearing what's behind his words, not seeing the meaning there. He always thought women were supposed to read between the lines but Wendy seems to need it spelled out.
"I... I think I could... treat you right."
Her almost-laugh dies in her throat when his eyes lock on hers and she realizes... he's serious. His words are hanging in the air and seconds are ticking by and she's frozen, just staring at him. "Carl..."
This is the part where she should give him a playful shove on the shoulder and trot back to her customers, but her throat has closed up and her stomach's twisted itself up in response to how he's standing over her, how he's not letting her look away.
"Carl," she finally repeats, searching his expression. "Don't... tease me?"
His shoulders tense and he moves to touch her shoulder, eyes never leaving hers. "I'm not messing with you, Wendy. It nearly killed me to see you on that security feed. To see you panting and writhing on my bar with someone who wasn't me."
He pauses, shifting on the balls of his feet.
"Tell me I'm not coming out of left field here."
She tears her eyes away from his at his words, flushing with embarrassment. Carl was never supposed to find out about that. No one was, but especially not...Carl.
And now he's telling her that he...
Wendy looks up at him, conscious of his fingers curling warmly over her shoulder. "Carl, I never--" The tip of his tongue flicks over his lower lip, just a nervous tic, but at the tiny movement her heart leaps in her chest. "No," she finishes. "Not completely left field... but..." But he's her boss, she wants to say. And he's like a brother to her.
Isn't he?
He's protective and kind and isn't shy about telling her what he thinks. He's one of her best friends, even though he's her boss. So she really shouldn't be finding herself looking over his broad chest and wanting to slide a hand over it.
She forgets what she was about to say.
He can see it in the way the corner of her lip twitches, the way her eyelids flutter that she’s not sure of her next move.
He hazards a guess that it's the employer-employee line that's still sitting in the middle of the room. The line that he's already thrown a foot over with his confession, the line she needs to cross if they want to go farther than this.
"Wendy..."
His palm slides up to her cheek, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin. And the world around him slows when he leans in to catch the corner of her mouth with a tentative kiss.
"The ball is in your court."
Her breath catches in her throat. Carl's lips at the edge of hers are like a hot silk brand. His words seem faded, muted against the rush of blood in her ears, and she can hardly think to respond.
He shouldn't have kissed her.
Carl's face is a mere centimeter away from hers and he smells like spice and something familiar and he really shouldn't have kissed her because she's never been very good at the "ball in her court" thing. She should back away now.
Instead her hand slides up his chest and cups his jaw, testing the slight scrape of shadow there as those dark eyes pin hers. She kisses him again, a full kiss this time, but tentative. Something in her chest aches... or yearns... or...
Her mouth yields to his.
His hand shifts, brushing over her jaw, allowing his fingers to fold around the slender column of her throat. Now that her lips are on his and he can taste the sweet cherries on her lip gloss, he doesn't want to stop.
He wants this moment to last, wants it to linger until the heat builds up so fast she won’t have time to pull away from him.
"Wendy..." Her name is a breathy prayer on his lips, leg nudging between her thighs. He doesn't know if its too far, too fast...doesn't know if its too much...but his need for her is overwhelming, the need to feel every inch of her.
She pulls him down to capture the word in her mouth. Maybe to keep him from saying anything else. This feels too fragile to analyze now, too on-the-edge of something for any distraction.
Wendy slides back so she's sitting fully on the desk, pushing schedules and receipts aside with her hand. She doesn't mean to move so quickly but she has a leg wrapped around Carl's thigh before she even realizes what's happening.
Which is that... her boss is kissing her like he means it. Like they've been waiting for it to happen and last night was the catalyst. She sighs into his mouth, her tongue darting forward to taste him, suddenly extremely aware of the fact that his fingers are burning tiny circles on her skin.
Carl's fingers drag over her biceps, memorizing sinew, tendons, bones, flesh. At the same time, his lips explore the nooks and crannies of her hot, wet mouth and his tongue dances and swirls around hers.
His body presses tighter against hers as his other arm slides around to brace her back and he can feel the heave of her breasts against his chest. He can feel the pitter-patter-thump of her heartbeat and can't help but wonder how far down that thumping goes.
In this moment, she's not his waitress anymore. She's a gorgeous woman, offering her supple form for a taste, and he wants to give her everything he has.
His arm pulls her a little closer and Wendy doesn't protest. Quite the opposite, actually. Carl wasn't kidding when he said he knew how to treat a woman. He's got her pulse racing, and the sweep of his tongue over hers sends a shot of warmth straight through her, pooling deep in her belly. It scares her a little, how easily he affects her.
She turns her head, breaking the kiss. She needs just a moment, just a little air, but her fingers creep over his scalp and pull him down until his mouth meets her neck. "C--Carl..." she moans softly as he kisses her there, the ticklish shock of nerves shooting to her toes. "What are we..."
He smiles against her skin, lips spreading over the soft flesh of her throat and the sweet pulse of her rushing blood. She smells like the bar, smells like sugar cinnamon and Granny Smith apples, smells like...single malt scotch.
The rough, raw scent is enough to jerk his head back. Enough to remind him that just last night she was humping Barney Stinson. Enough to remind him that there's still blood caked under his fingernails.
"Wendy...we shouldn't do this."
Her eyes pop open and she leans back quickly to look at him. Her toes are still curling from his kiss. Her heart is still beating wildly, and he-- she shakes her head. "I-- what?" His hand has already pulled away from her. She lets her own hand drop, sliding down his shoulder and the hard muscle of his arm, sweeping over his hand. For a moment, her mind flickers to what it would be like to have that warm, capable hand touching her in places...
She stops. Looks up at him. "Um... I should... go. Back to... work." Her fingertips touch her lips as she slides off the desk, pushing him gently back. She can feel the blush starting in her cheeks begin to spread as she heads for the door.
Carl watches her go, his heart pounding against his chest as if it has its own mission to chase after her, its own mission to get her back in his arms, its own mission to call mutiny against his brain and his logic.
After a minute's hesitation, he gets to his feet, slowly walking into the almost empty bar. She's standing there with a wad of bar napkins in her hands, crumpling them into tiny balls, squeezing them inside her fists.
On instinct, his arms curl around her waist and he pulls her backwards, burying his nose in her hair.
"Wendy...I think I'm in love with you."
She feels the air whoosh from her lungs, her stomach flutter with a thousand butterflies, her temperature rise. Like a textbook case, she's a goner. The napkins drop from her hand.
His breath is warm on her neck, and he steadies her for the moment she stands, against his chest. She can still feel his kisses, burned across her lips and throat, and it only takes half a second to push away everything else, her doubt, her meager track record, her stupid mistake last night (because it was a mistake, for so many reasons she hasn't even considered yet, but mostly that there's only one guy she can really see herself with in this cold city).
Trembling slightly, she turns in his arms. "Carl," she murmurs, and it's all she can get out before her body takes over and she's kissing him.
His arms wrap around her waist, and he sighs against her lips. This is where he belongs, where he always belonged. And if it took a blue-eyed sleazeball to get him here...then Barney's drinks are on the house for the next month.
Author:
snogged and secondmezzanineDisclaimer: Carter Bays and Craig Thomas own How I Met Your Mother. We don't. Please don't sue us.
Pairing: Carl/Wendy; mentions Barney/Wendy
Word Count: 3939
Rating: FRT-13/PG-13; romance, jealousy, and a little violence
Spoilers: Set after Wendy and Barney do it at MacLaren’s
Summary: Carl sees some security footage featuring a certain waitress…
Beta:
rockstarpeach and roland44Dedicated to anyone who believes in supporting Minor character pairings. A toast to you all!
Some nights Carl longed for last call. Nights where he couldn’t wait to see patrons stumble out of his bar and onto the sidewalks of New York where taxi cabs could shuffle them away, freeing his ears from the drunk giggling, slobbering, and other various annoyances that came with being a purveyor of all things booze.
Tonight was one of those nights. Not because of the noise and the clatter, but because he’d made the God damn mistake of watching the security feed last night after Doug mentioned a suspicion that someone was scraping off the top of the till.
But the tape showed it wasn’t money being stolen from the bar…but waitresses.
One waitress, in particular: Wendy.
Wendy spreading herself open, spreading her innocence open for the lewd, ice blue eyes of Barney Stinson. It didn’t matter if she was a grown woman capable of her own decisions, the thought made him nauseous.
He always thought she had better taste than that.
And she should have better taste than that. She should be sharing that smile with someone who’d know just how to receive it, someone who’d know how to pull her into a tight embrace that could set her nerves on fire, someone who was more like… him.
---
Some nights Wendy couldn’t wait for last call. The constant waving of hands for a waitress’s attention, the measly tips (if patrons tipped at all), the groping from drunken businessmen (although thankfully Carl usually gave those men a swift kick out the door), the incessant pounding of the jukebox—it was all enough to make her invest in a cupboard full of Tylenol for the second she got home.
Tonight, though, she doesn’t mind that she has to work until two. She doesn’t mind that she’ll be running back and forth, cleaning up spilled drinks, dealing with the Saturday night rush when she could be out having fun herself, instead of serving it.
The first reason is that Carl is bartending and managing tonight. Things always run more smoothly when he’s around, and the hours go by faster, too.
The second is that Barney Stinson always inhabits MacLaren’s on Saturday nights.
Wendy can still taste him on her lips, the faint burn of alcohol and the intense pressure of his kisses. No doubt about it, Barney was infamous for a damn good reason. She’d always thought that when people talked about getting weak in the knees, it was just a figure of speech. Until she’d found herself literally buckling under him—behind the bar, in front of the bar, on the bar…
And normally she’d have to wait several days before she could even hope to hear from a guy again. But when she’s nearly done with her shift tonight, in walks Barney, sitting at his usual booth, ordering his usual drink. Her stomach flutters with nervousness for a moment as the memories of what had passed between them wash over her, but she can’t keep the grin off her face as she takes his order and stumbles back behind the bar.
It’s been forever since a guy has paid attention to her like Barney had. And even if she knows how he operates, she can’t help feeling flattered.
Yes, last call can wait. Wendy doesn’t mind. Maybe Barney would even hang around until she got off work. In the meantime, she gets to hang with Carl, catch Barney’s eye every now and then, and enjoy the hope of new possibilities.
---
The constant stream of orders over the next hour keep his thoughts in check and he loses count of the number of glasses and bottles that pass through his fingers as he works to keep up with them.
Gin and Tonic, Vodka Cranberry, Margarita, Rum and Coke, Dirty Martini, Beer on tap, Beer from the bottle.
They all slide across the bar, clicking over the wood paneling to land in the hands of waiting customers.
When Wendy bounces up to the waitress station, eyes bright and smile cheery, he feels his heart speed up inside his chest. He doesn't know what to say to her so he puts on a face to pretend that everything between them is the same as it always was.
"Night going well?"
It sounds casual enough. Sounds like something a bartender would ask his waitress. Or so he hopes.
She grins at Carl, her good mood palpable as she gathers up a few drink napkins. "Perfectly," she answers, even though no night at MacLaren's is really perfect. She takes a moment to lean on the counter, taking the weight off her feet, and looks at Carl. His expression is shifting a little, unreadable. "Isn't it a nice night?" she says conversationally. "Not a bad crowd, either..." her eyes drift over to Barney's booth. He catches her eye and she feels herself flush instantly before giving him a megawatt smile. Barney quickly looks away. She almost wonders if he's shy.
Although he certainly didn't seem it when he was tugging her shirt up around her shoulders.
Wendy turns back to Carl and realizes he's saying something in his usual dry tone, his hands moving nimbly over bottles of alcohol and glasses, like an art form. "Sorry," she laughs lightly, "what?"
She leans in close to him, and he feels a mask slide into a place. A poker face to protect him from the feelings he's having. He doesn't want her to see him frustrated or insecure. And he especially doesn't want her to know that his eyes have found the perfect angle to view the tops of her breasts whenever her v-neck shirt falls open.
When her eyes drift to Barney, he can feel the muscles in his wrist tense and ache, closing around the girth of a small glass and setting it down on the bar.
He's her boss for Christ's sakes. And as her boss, he has the right to tell her she's not allowed to fuck customers on his bar.
"We need to talk, Wendy. About your..." He clears his throat, swallowing down the jealousy that's threatening to consume him. "After-hours activities."
Her gaze snaps back to Carl's. "My after-hours..." She trails off, the full meaning of his words washing over her.
Oh, god, she thinks.
He knows. Carl... knows.
Carl, the guy who watches out for her with the handsy customers and called to ask how she was feeling that weekend she had the flu and gives her brotherly advice about what she should do with her fledgling career. The guy she looks up to. The only guy she can really trust in an otherwise cold, indifferent city. Somehow...
He knows. And now he's looking at her and those deep, dark eyes are pinning her with something like disdain, or worse, disappointment, and all fluttery, girlish feelings melt away. She braces herself against the counter and lifts her chin to hide her embarrassment.
"Um... well if you're talking about my personal life, I..." she trails off again, wondering whether he knows exactly how, or more importantly, where, things went down with Barney. Her voice lowers, wavering only slightly. "I'd rather talk about it later. When there aren't... fifty other people in the room listening in."
He glances over the top of her head, viewing the crowd that's still lingering even though the hour is late and last call is forty-five minutes from now. He wishes he could zap them all out right now so they could have private time.
Because this boss thing? It really sucks when the friendship runs deeper than the employee line.
Especially when it’s about Wendy. Who is easily the best waitress on his staff and she's always been there to offer sage advice about the girls he's dated. She even helped him with Christmas shopping when it was the night before the holidays and he'd done none of it.
He shrugs, trying desperately to play it cool. "I just wish you would have told me so we wouldn't need to do this at all."
Wendy feels her cheeks burning, and she begins gathering up the napkins again. "Okay, so... Carl, I had a thing with Barney. There, I told you. And you don't have to worry because I know what kind of guy he is, but still, I mean, there could be something there. So." She cuts herself off before she gets into details, still unsure how much Carl knows.
She shouldn't be surprised. Carl's the eyes and ears of this place. And he always seems to see right through her, too. In fact, she can feel his eyes on her right now, and she moves around the bar to try to escape it, tripping over her own feet in the process.
He watches her go, concern flashing in his eyes when she trips on the slick tile before she manages to catch herself with the back of a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a blonde girl in a low-cut top stumbling up to the bar...
With Barney Stinson in tow.
Little shit, prancing up here with your slutty bimbo. Wendy is the right on the other side of the room.
He can feel the tension in his muscles, nerves twisting and bunching under the skin as he forces himself to stay calm. He'd love to teach Barney a lesson in respect. Would love to slap him across the face and drown out the din of the bar with the sound of his screams. Wendy deserves way better than him.
Before he can even think of the consequences, his hand flies across the bar, making solid contact with flesh and bone. And when he steps back, all eyes are on him and Barney's shooting daggers.
If looks could kill...
She doesn't see the hit, but she hears it-- actually hears Carl's hand connect with Barney's face, it's that loud. More than that, she hears the collective gasp in the room as the two guys size each other up and prepare to--
Well, she's not sure she wants to find out what they're about to do. She can't see Barney's face, but Carl looks mad enough to tear someone limb from limb and before she realizes what she's doing, she's dropped the napkins and run over to stop it. There's a blonde already trying to get a look at the small cut above Barney's eye. "Barney, are you--" she stops herself from going to help when she sees the way the girl is hanging on him, clearly half-concerned and half-turned on by this.
Instead Wendy whirls around to Carl, searching his face. "Carl, what the... what do you think you're doing?!"
He blinks twice, taking a step backwards towards the wall, surprised by his own violence. By the angry red print marking Barney's cheeks. By the bewildered look in Wendy's eyes.
It's that look more than any other that makes him want to run, makes him want to swallow down his Latin machismo and get the hell out of dodge because he knows what that slap means.
That was a slap that went far beyond the protective nature he's always had around Wendy. Far beyond just kicking a pervert out for squeezing her ass.
That slap, that show of violence and testosterone...made his heart shake with the strongest emotion in the book.
It’s gotta be love. He's in love with Wendy the Waitress. Fuck.
"I... I need to go."
Wendy watches as Carl takes a slow step back, his eyes suddenly seeming almost frantic, and turns quickly to head back to the office. "What the hell..." she murmurs.
Barney's making a kind of annoyed whining sound as he rubs his cheek and the blonde coos over him. "Wendy," he says gruffly, "Get me a drink, will ya? Scotch." He doesn't even look at her.
In fact, he sounds a lot like he did last night, ordering a drink from her after they'd pretty far surpassed the waitress and patron relationship. A tiny flash of hurt goes through her (and it's stupid, she knows, but it's there anyway).
She just looks at Barney and then runs after Carl. He's in the office, leaning with his hands pressed down on the desk, his back to her. "Carl?" He jumps slightly at her voice. "Sorry, I... are you feeling all right?" She'd planned to yell, because hitting customers isn't exactly in the bartender handbook, but there's something wrong. He's practically sweating. She slides a hand up his back, comfortingly. "What's going on?"
His body trembles under her touch, skin itching under the comfort, the caring radiating from the tips of her fingers. He doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to have this from her after what he just did.
"Wendy." His breath hitches and he stares down at the wood grain, focusing on the way it swirls, the way it doesn't run in a straight line. That's how he feels right now. He feels swirling in the pit of his stomach, feels like everything is just slightly crooked, feels like he's gonna cross a line.
"I... you deserve so much better than that. Barney's such an ass. He doesn't know how to treat a woman."
She opens her mouth to say something in his defense, maybe tell him he needs to have more faith in people or that she can take care of herself, but something in his voice stops her for a moment. She curls her fingers on his back, smoothing up and down.
"Carl, you don't have to worry about me. I know that Barney's—" She's not sure what, exactly, considering what just happened out in the bar. "I know he's probably not thinking about marrying me right now, but it's not like I have a whole lot going for me these days and I just... thought maybe..."
She drops her hand and shrugs at him.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing." She leans against the desk, perching herself on the ledge and sighing. "The thing is... there aren't many guys in this town who do know how to treat a woman."
Carl turns to look at her, his dark eyes softening under the dim light like melting butter. She's clearly not hearing what's behind his words, not seeing the meaning there. He always thought women were supposed to read between the lines but Wendy seems to need it spelled out.
"I... I think I could... treat you right."
Her almost-laugh dies in her throat when his eyes lock on hers and she realizes... he's serious. His words are hanging in the air and seconds are ticking by and she's frozen, just staring at him. "Carl..."
This is the part where she should give him a playful shove on the shoulder and trot back to her customers, but her throat has closed up and her stomach's twisted itself up in response to how he's standing over her, how he's not letting her look away.
"Carl," she finally repeats, searching his expression. "Don't... tease me?"
His shoulders tense and he moves to touch her shoulder, eyes never leaving hers. "I'm not messing with you, Wendy. It nearly killed me to see you on that security feed. To see you panting and writhing on my bar with someone who wasn't me."
He pauses, shifting on the balls of his feet.
"Tell me I'm not coming out of left field here."
She tears her eyes away from his at his words, flushing with embarrassment. Carl was never supposed to find out about that. No one was, but especially not...Carl.
And now he's telling her that he...
Wendy looks up at him, conscious of his fingers curling warmly over her shoulder. "Carl, I never--" The tip of his tongue flicks over his lower lip, just a nervous tic, but at the tiny movement her heart leaps in her chest. "No," she finishes. "Not completely left field... but..." But he's her boss, she wants to say. And he's like a brother to her.
Isn't he?
He's protective and kind and isn't shy about telling her what he thinks. He's one of her best friends, even though he's her boss. So she really shouldn't be finding herself looking over his broad chest and wanting to slide a hand over it.
She forgets what she was about to say.
He can see it in the way the corner of her lip twitches, the way her eyelids flutter that she’s not sure of her next move.
He hazards a guess that it's the employer-employee line that's still sitting in the middle of the room. The line that he's already thrown a foot over with his confession, the line she needs to cross if they want to go farther than this.
"Wendy..."
His palm slides up to her cheek, feeling the warmth radiating off her skin. And the world around him slows when he leans in to catch the corner of her mouth with a tentative kiss.
"The ball is in your court."
Her breath catches in her throat. Carl's lips at the edge of hers are like a hot silk brand. His words seem faded, muted against the rush of blood in her ears, and she can hardly think to respond.
He shouldn't have kissed her.
Carl's face is a mere centimeter away from hers and he smells like spice and something familiar and he really shouldn't have kissed her because she's never been very good at the "ball in her court" thing. She should back away now.
Instead her hand slides up his chest and cups his jaw, testing the slight scrape of shadow there as those dark eyes pin hers. She kisses him again, a full kiss this time, but tentative. Something in her chest aches... or yearns... or...
Her mouth yields to his.
His hand shifts, brushing over her jaw, allowing his fingers to fold around the slender column of her throat. Now that her lips are on his and he can taste the sweet cherries on her lip gloss, he doesn't want to stop.
He wants this moment to last, wants it to linger until the heat builds up so fast she won’t have time to pull away from him.
"Wendy..." Her name is a breathy prayer on his lips, leg nudging between her thighs. He doesn't know if its too far, too fast...doesn't know if its too much...but his need for her is overwhelming, the need to feel every inch of her.
She pulls him down to capture the word in her mouth. Maybe to keep him from saying anything else. This feels too fragile to analyze now, too on-the-edge of something for any distraction.
Wendy slides back so she's sitting fully on the desk, pushing schedules and receipts aside with her hand. She doesn't mean to move so quickly but she has a leg wrapped around Carl's thigh before she even realizes what's happening.
Which is that... her boss is kissing her like he means it. Like they've been waiting for it to happen and last night was the catalyst. She sighs into his mouth, her tongue darting forward to taste him, suddenly extremely aware of the fact that his fingers are burning tiny circles on her skin.
Carl's fingers drag over her biceps, memorizing sinew, tendons, bones, flesh. At the same time, his lips explore the nooks and crannies of her hot, wet mouth and his tongue dances and swirls around hers.
His body presses tighter against hers as his other arm slides around to brace her back and he can feel the heave of her breasts against his chest. He can feel the pitter-patter-thump of her heartbeat and can't help but wonder how far down that thumping goes.
In this moment, she's not his waitress anymore. She's a gorgeous woman, offering her supple form for a taste, and he wants to give her everything he has.
His arm pulls her a little closer and Wendy doesn't protest. Quite the opposite, actually. Carl wasn't kidding when he said he knew how to treat a woman. He's got her pulse racing, and the sweep of his tongue over hers sends a shot of warmth straight through her, pooling deep in her belly. It scares her a little, how easily he affects her.
She turns her head, breaking the kiss. She needs just a moment, just a little air, but her fingers creep over his scalp and pull him down until his mouth meets her neck. "C--Carl..." she moans softly as he kisses her there, the ticklish shock of nerves shooting to her toes. "What are we..."
He smiles against her skin, lips spreading over the soft flesh of her throat and the sweet pulse of her rushing blood. She smells like the bar, smells like sugar cinnamon and Granny Smith apples, smells like...single malt scotch.
The rough, raw scent is enough to jerk his head back. Enough to remind him that just last night she was humping Barney Stinson. Enough to remind him that there's still blood caked under his fingernails.
"Wendy...we shouldn't do this."
Her eyes pop open and she leans back quickly to look at him. Her toes are still curling from his kiss. Her heart is still beating wildly, and he-- she shakes her head. "I-- what?" His hand has already pulled away from her. She lets her own hand drop, sliding down his shoulder and the hard muscle of his arm, sweeping over his hand. For a moment, her mind flickers to what it would be like to have that warm, capable hand touching her in places...
She stops. Looks up at him. "Um... I should... go. Back to... work." Her fingertips touch her lips as she slides off the desk, pushing him gently back. She can feel the blush starting in her cheeks begin to spread as she heads for the door.
Carl watches her go, his heart pounding against his chest as if it has its own mission to chase after her, its own mission to get her back in his arms, its own mission to call mutiny against his brain and his logic.
After a minute's hesitation, he gets to his feet, slowly walking into the almost empty bar. She's standing there with a wad of bar napkins in her hands, crumpling them into tiny balls, squeezing them inside her fists.
On instinct, his arms curl around her waist and he pulls her backwards, burying his nose in her hair.
"Wendy...I think I'm in love with you."
She feels the air whoosh from her lungs, her stomach flutter with a thousand butterflies, her temperature rise. Like a textbook case, she's a goner. The napkins drop from her hand.
His breath is warm on her neck, and he steadies her for the moment she stands, against his chest. She can still feel his kisses, burned across her lips and throat, and it only takes half a second to push away everything else, her doubt, her meager track record, her stupid mistake last night (because it was a mistake, for so many reasons she hasn't even considered yet, but mostly that there's only one guy she can really see herself with in this cold city).
Trembling slightly, she turns in his arms. "Carl," she murmurs, and it's all she can get out before her body takes over and she's kissing him.
His arms wrap around her waist, and he sighs against her lips. This is where he belongs, where he always belonged. And if it took a blue-eyed sleazeball to get him here...then Barney's drinks are on the house for the next month.
