Chapter 5 — How I Met Everyone Else (Retcons, Reality & the Right Amount of Ugly)
Ted Mosby believed stories made us better people if we told them well enough.
Barney Stinson believed stories sold better if you cut the boring morals.
And Ivar Scherbatsky? He believed stories were contracts; if you leave out the ugly clauses, the debt comes due with interest.
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MacLaren's did that Friday thing where it smells like hope (and fries). The neon hummed, the air buzzed, and our booth wore the night like armor: Marshall and Lily close enough to be a single organism, Robin scanning the room with the professional alertness of someone who now got paid to notice things, Barney drumming fingertips on an empty rocks glass like he could will a refill into existence. Ivar sat centered, temple of stillness, whiskey notched on the table as if gravity worked harder for him. Megan and Yvonne bracketed him — Megan amused, Yvonne evaluating. You could sell storm insurance to the bar with these three at the table.
Ted arrived with a face that meant plot. He didn't sit so much as present himself.
"Gang," he said, breathless. "I met someone."
"What's her name," Robin asked, crisp as a lead-in. It wasn't jealousy; it was journalism.
"Stacy," Ted said, a hair too fast.
Barney raised a brow. "You just chose that right now."
"It's her name," Ted insisted. "She's—she's different."
Marshall smiled the Midwestern smile that forgives preemptively. "Different like 'architect different' or different like 'rebound different'?"
"Different like fate," Ted said, and you could hear Ivar's internal flinch even if he didn't move.
Megan tilted her head. "Correction: different like draft three of the same speech."
Yvonne deadpanned, "Put a pin in 'fate.' We'll autopsy it later."
Stacy materialized a heartbeat later: sharp dress, warmer grin, eyes that didn't miss exits. She slid in beside Ted like the booth had planned for her.
"I'm Stacy," she said. "I've heard about all of you. Especially Canadian Batman."
"Libel," Ivar said, gentle as a closed door.
Barney leaned forward. "You've heard about me, right?"
"I have a spam filter," Stacy said sweetly.
Introductions ping-ponged; drinks arrived. Stacy's energy said "improv class captain," but her laugh was real, and real beats style nine nights out of ten in this bar.
"So," she said, claiming the room with cheer. "I asked Ted how he met everyone, and he gave me the t-shirt version. I want the box set. Special features. Commentary track."
Ted went pink. "It's boring!"
"It's never boring," Lily said. "And anyway, we'll tell the truth."
"Or as close as Ted's ego allows," Robin added, smiling.
Barney cracked his knuckles. "Finally, a captive audience."
Ivar tapped his glass once. "We'll start with the contract: we don't fix the mirror. We fix the face."
"Translation," Megan said to Stacy, "we roast with love."
"Correction," Yvonne said, "we roast."
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Marshall & Lily: The Pencil, The Door, The Decade
"Freshman year," Marshall began, because Marshall always starts when sincerity is required. "I'm in a dorm the size of a cereal box with a roommate who thinks feng shui will help him meet destiny."
"That was one blog post," Ted muttered.
"And then she knocks," Marshall continued, looking at Lily like the story couldn't contain her. "Purple overalls, paint on her knuckles, asking for a pencil like she was auditioning to be my entire future."
Lily groaned and grinned at once. "I was a walking bruise."
"Adorable bruise," Megan said.
Yvonne lifted a shoulder. "Bold color choice. Respect."
"Anyway," Marshall said, "Ted and I introduce ourselves, and that's the day I met my wife."
Stacy sighed. "That's—wow."
"Attention is romance," Ivar said quietly. "Marshall has always paid it correctly."
Barney saluted with an empty glass. "And that was the last time anything wholesome happened at Wesleyan."
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Barney: The Moustache, The Mojito, The Makeover
Barney clapped once. "I met Teddy Westside when he was wearing a red cowboy hat, a fake moustache, and crying into a mojito."
Stacy's eyes widened. "No."
Lily: "Yes."
Ted tried to interrupt; Barney steamrolled him. "He looked like a children's book character who'd just been dumped by the lowercase alphabet. I approached, purely as a humanitarian effort, and said: 'Sir, I will rebuild you.'"
"You handed me a laminated list of pickup lines," Ted said.
"Blueprints," Barney corrected. "I gave him a calling. I said, 'From now on, we are men who legend.'"
"'Legend' isn't a verb," Robin said.
"It is if you do it right," Barney replied.
Ivar's voice didn't rise and didn't need to. "Friendship isn't a makeover montage, Barney. It's co-authorship. You don't get to narrate other people's arcs."
Barney paused—tiny, but visible. "Counterpoint: have you considered how good I look holding a metaphor?"
Megan whistled. "He's got you there."
Yvonne: "He does not."
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Robin: The Blue French Horn, The Blue Timing
Stacy turned to Robin. "And you?"
Robin's smile warped into the wince of memory. "Ted saw me at the bar and decided he'd discovered destiny. He told me he loved me on the first date."
Stacy blinked. "Bold."
"Incorrect," Ivar said.
Ted bristled. "I was honest."
"You outsourced the risk," Ivar said simply. "You tried to buy certainty with a confession. Honesty without patience is just pressure with better PR."
The table went quiet enough to hear the neon hum.
Robin drew a slow breath and nodded. "He's right. We kept lying about the one thing you can't edit: timing."
Ted stared into his beer and found no subtitles. "Yeah."
Barney opened his mouth for a punchline and, for once, holstered it. Growth looks boring if you're not paying attention.
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"Sandwiches": Director's Cut
Stacy tapped her glass. "Okay. But how did you meet me?"
Ted straightened. "We met at a party. There were sandwiches."
Marshall choked on nothing. Lily shot him a look that said do not.
Robin hid a smile behind her drink. Barney perked up like a meerkat. Megan and Yvonne exchanged a mute "here we go."
Stacy tilted her head. "I told you we met at a party."
"And I said 'me too,'" Ted rushed. "Like fate!"
Yvonne's eyebrow arced. "Ted, were there sandwiches or 'sandwiches'?"
Ted faltered. "There were… plates."
"College code," Lily translated gently to Stacy. "For… being a little high."
"Oh." Stacy's smile wobbled a centimeter. Not a scandal, just a shift of footing.
"You don't have to be ashamed," Megan said. "But you should know the real origin story. Cute lies turn heavy later."
Ted's shoulders sagged. "I just—liked the version where we were destined and sober and charming."
"Destiny is a lazy editor," Ivar said. "You weren't chosen. You chose. Two separate acts, both important."
"Choice can be magic," Stacy said, surprising him.
"It is," Ivar said. "After the work."
Ted looked at her, not the floor. "Okay. We met at a party. We were both a little high. You laughed at a joke that wasn't funny and I liked your laugh more than the joke. I asked if you wanted to go get real food and you said no and then yes and we split a greasy grilled cheese and I tried to pretend ketchup was a personality."
Stacy was grinning by the time he reached ketchup. "That's better. It's ours."
Barney gagged theatrically. "I prefer the mojito moustache cinematic universe."
"Of course you do," Robin said.
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The Remastered Origins
"While we're pulling receipts," Lily said, wicked, "tell Stacy how you met yourself, Ted."
Ted exhaled like a balloon resigning itself to party duties. "Marshall and I got locked on our dorm roof once and talked about who we wanted to be until the sun told us to shut up. I said I wanted to design buildings that made ordinary people feel considered. Marshall said he wanted to build a life that could hold love without spilling."
Marshall squeezed Lily's fingers; she blinked hard.
Lily added, softer, "I set up a pop-up gallery in a laundromat our junior year. One woman stood in front of this painting of a crooked little apartment and cried because it looked like the first place she'd lost. That's when I realized art could be a hand, not just a mirror."
Robin nodded. "I did a snowstorm human-interest piece where a homeless man kept sticking hand-warmers back into my palm. I slipped one into his mitten mid-standup. The cameraman didn't even notice. I did. That's how I knew I'm supposed to pay attention even when the red light isn't on."
Barney shrugged, unexpectedly honest. "I wore a white suit for the feeling of it, not for anyone watching. Got mustard on it in fourteen minutes. Still worth it."
Megan looked at Ivar with a tiny smile. "They're getting good at this."
Yvonne: "Correction: they're getting honest."
"Same thing," Ivar said.
Ted found a grin. "My first 'real' design got called an 'ambitious bird feeder' by Druthers. It became a bus stop shelter in Queens. It leaks a little when it rains. People love it anyway. Somehow that felt… right. Like architecture isn't perfection; it's a place to stand while you figure yourself out."
"Architecture is patience," Ivar said. "So is love."
Barney flopped backward. "If we don't pivot to slapstick in the next five seconds I'm going to grow character."
"Unlikely," Yvonne said.
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Interlude: Work, Wires, and a Window with Pastries
Phones buzzed. The world rudely continued. Robin fielded a quick call from a producer at NS Entertainment about a film-festival scandal; she threaded a question, an eyebrow, and a promise into thirty seconds, then returned radiant with that particular oxygen. Ivar gave her a compartmental nod that said "good kill." Megan teased her sign-off cadence until Robin swatted her with a cocktail napkin. Yvonne adjusted Robin's mic pin with the competence of a pit crew and the tenderness of someone allergic to admitting tenderness.
Across the table, Ivar glanced at a message from an international number and did not smile — which is how you know it mattered. A photo: sugar-dusted pastries lined on a window ledge, city lights in bokeh behind them. Caption: For your people. Save one for yourself. No name, no need. Victoria never wasted flour or words. He typed: There's room. He didn't hit send. He didn't have to rush the truth.
Earlier at Northern Star Tech, Megan had broken a Titan 2 hinge ("If I can, a customer will") and Yvonne had stress-tossed a Forge 2 demo across a conference room ("Gravity is QA"). Engineers whined. Then redesigned. When you keep competent wolves around, sheep get sharper or they leave. Ivar's theology in practice.
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Stacy's Audit
When the noise dipped from big band to quartet, Stacy set down her glass and faced Ted like a careful storm. "I like you," she said. "I like this—" palm open to the table, the fries, the jackets, the laughter that kept not quite dying— "but I need you to tell me the real version first. The pretty version later. I can forgive true clumsy. I can't forgive strategic clumsy."
Ted nodded, jaw flexing like he'd just decided to grow one. "Deal."
Barney squinted. "Is 'strategic clumsy' a thing I can sell?"
"No," three voices said at once (Megan, Yvonne, Ivar), different tones, same verdict.
Marshall raised his beer. "To ugly clauses in honest contracts."
Lily clinked. "To the down payment of truth."
Robin smirked. "To not fixing the mirror."
"Correction," Yvonne said. "To exfoliating the face."
Megan snorted. "I hate how right that is."
We drank. Even Ivar's glass consented to a soft chime.
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The Goat, The Slap, The Scrabble: Exhibit A, B, Please Not C
"Since Stacy's committed to the syllabus," Robin said, wicked glint activated, "we could show her the slap bet."
"No," Barney said, hand protectively covering his cheek. "We don't revisit Sparkles without legal counsel."
"The goat?" Marshall offered.
"Also no," Ted and Lily said, too quickly.
Megan brightened. "The almost-threesome! He panic-compared it to Scrabble."
Ted covered his face. "Why do I have friends."
Yvonne: "Because you are salvageable."
Stacy patted Ted's shoulder. "We'll do electives later."
Barney groaned into the table. "I hate electives."
"You hate accountability," Robin said.
"Same thing," Barney grumbled.
"Opposite," Ivar said.
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Exit Music (with Honest Air)
The check came. Jackets reappeared. The night leaned toward the door; New York's autumn made its argument in cool sentences. On the sidewalk, our shapes became a little less noisy.
Marshall and Lily walked like ivy, not performative, just attached. Barney attempted to hail a cab with choreography; a taxi swerved in distaste. Robin replied to a producer with a grin that sounded like tomorrow's segment. Megan and Yvonne flanked Ivar, running a quiet post-mortem on an NS Gaming latency issue (Yvonne: "It's the scheduler." Megan: "Or the ego of the guy who wrote it." Ivar: "Fix both.")
Ted and Stacy lagged half a pace behind, negotiating the terrain of a new honesty. He said something simple; she laughed without making it pretty; he let it land without gilding it. That's what progress looks like: unremarkable from across the street, decisive from the inside.
At the corner, Ivar stopped. He took out his phone and — this time — sent There's room to the number with pastries. Not urgent. True.
Megan nudged him. "Final verdict?"
"On Stacy?" Robin asked.
"On Ted," Yvonne corrected.
Ivar looked down the avenue where cabs pretended not to see hands and hands pretended not to care. "He's spent a long time telling the version of himself he wanted to be. Tonight he met the one he is. That's how you meet everyone else."
Barney snorted. "Put that on a mug."
Lily brightened. "I would absolutely buy that mug."
Marshall nodded solemn as church. "Sincerity coffee."
Ted and Stacy caught up. "What'd I miss?" Ted asked.
"Nothing," Megan said.
"Everything," Yvonne said.
"Friends," Robin said.
Ivar said nothing. He didn't have to. The contract had been signed in ordinary ink: not destiny, not fireworks, just the quiet air of the right amount of ugly telling the right amount of truth.
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Word count: ~1,530