Chapter 4: The Runaway Bride Crisis, Part 4 of 8
Monica Geller stood in the lobby, her petite frame a fortress of determination beneath the dim, flickering hallway bulb. The brass plaque, bolted to the wall, stared back at her like a challenge—a smudge-ridden relic begging for her touch. She clutched a spray bottle of high-grade brass cleaner, its sharp, citrusy scent cutting through the stale air, and a stack of microfiber cloths rested under her arm. Her dark eyes narrowed, reflecting the faint glow of the bulb above. If this plaque is causing chaos, it's because it's dirty. A curse is just an excuse for bad maintenance. The building felt like an extension of her kitchen—her domain—and she'd restore order, one polished surface at a time.
She sprayed the polish with a generous hiss, the liquid glistening as it coated the brass. Her hands moved in fast, tight circles, the cloth rasping against the metal with a satisfying rhythm. The hallway bulb flickered suddenly, its buzz a discordant hum that sliced through her focus. The light dimmed, then surged back with a crackle, casting jittery shadows across the walls. Her breath hitched, but she pressed harder, determined to scrub away the superstition.
"See? I told you! It's the curse!" Mrs. Flaxman's nasally voice pierced the air, her wiry frame materializing from the shadows. She clutched her oversized purse to her chest, her gray curls trembling with triumph. Her beady eyes gleamed with a paranoid glee that made Monica's skin crawl.
Phoebe Buffay, standing a safe distance away, gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. Her pale blue eyes widened, shimmering with genuine fright beneath her loose blonde braids. "It's communicating! It wants us to know it's watching!" Her bohemian dress swayed as she took a step back, the jingle of her layered necklaces punctuating her words.
Monica's jaw tightened, her irritation flaring like a stovetop burner. The wiring is old! It's not a ghost! She scrubbed harder, the cloth squeaking as she attacked the plaque with punishing precision, trying to erase the rising panic. Her knuckles whitened around the bottle, the chemical scent burning her nostrils, but she refused to yield to their nonsense.
Barney Stinson stepped out of the elevator, his tailored suit pristine under the flickering light. His piercing blue eyes gleamed with mischief as he took in the scene—the terrified faces, the buzzing bulb, Monica's furious polishing. He adjusted his tie with a flourish, the silk sliding smoothly between his fingers. "A curse?" His theatrical voice boomed, filling the lobby with its polished resonance. "Challenge accepted! The only thing more legendary than a perfect life is fighting a supernatural force in a tailor-made suit! We need a defense protocol! Operation: Anti-Curse Suit!"
Monica froze, her hands trembling—not from fear of some imagined curse, but from the sheer frustration boiling inside her. Why can't anyone just be rational? The chaos was winning, spiraling beyond her control. She stared at the now-immaculate plaque, its surface a brass mirror reflecting her angry face and the still-flickering bulb. Her reflection scowled back, a stark reminder that her need for order had thrust her into the building's wildest drama yet. She exhaled sharply, the sound lost in the hum of the lights.
Marshall Eriksen hovered near the windowsill, his broad frame a comforting presence amid the madness. He watched Phoebe, who was crumpling aluminum foil into a makeshift hat, her slender fingers working with frantic energy. I love this woman. She sees the world like a cartoon. His lawyer's mind dismissed curses as nonsense, but his folklore-loving heart thumped with intrigue, a grin tugging at his scarred chin.
Phoebe jammed the crinkled tin-foil hat onto her head, the metal crackling softly. She pointed a trembling finger at a gray pigeon perched outside, its head cocked as if eavesdropping. "That pigeon! That is the curse's spy! It's gathering information on our weaknesses! It has eyes like tiny, evil beads!" Her voice dropped to a frantic whisper, her eccentricity reaching a fever pitch. "We need to give it misinformation! Marshall, tell it your biggest secret! But make it a fake one!"
Marshall's wide, earnest smile stretched across his face, his green eyes twinkling with delight. He knew his fiancée would love this game. He leaned close to Phoebe, cupping his hand around his mouth with exaggerated secrecy. "Okay, okay. Don't tell anyone. But I secretly believe that the real purpose of the moon landing was to get a better vantage point for a global game of Marco Polo!"
Lily Aldrin burst out laughing from the doorway, her charm bracelet jingling as she covered her mouth. Her red hair bounced in its messy bun as she sketched a cartoon pigeon wearing a spy mask beside her dino opera notes. This is why I'm marrying him. He commits to the bit. The pencil scratched against the paper, the sound a soft counterpoint to her giggles.
Phoebe nodded solemnly, the tin-foil hat crinkling with her movement. "Good. That's confusing. We've bought ourselves thirty minutes." Marshall clapped her back gently, his large hand warm against her shoulder. He felt a pure, quirky joy, his folklore background finding a new ally in her paranoia. He was her defender, and that role felt vital in this absurd moment.
Ted Mosby sipped his coffee at MacLaren's, the bitter taste grounding him as he watched the lobby's unfolding drama through the window. It's like watching two beautiful, exotic animals fighting over a water hole. I can't look away. His warm brown eyes tracked every move, his tousled hair mussed further as he ran a nervous hand through it. He saw it all through a romantic architect's lens, always seeking structure in chaos.
Rachel Green swept into the bar, her thrift store dress—a vibrant, patchwork marvel—swaying with each confident step. She tossed her long blonde hair back, her posture straighter than ever, and strutted past Robin with exaggerated poise. "Oh, hi, Robin," she said, her Long Island lilt dripping with false sweetness. "Sorry, I just realized this dress is, like, way too good to be from a thrift store. Did you know they sell nice things for, like, cheap?"
Robin Scherbatsky snorted into her scotch, the amber liquid sloshing in her glass. Her sharp blue eyes glinted with sarcasm as she leaned against the jukebox, her leather jacket creaking softly. "Right. Because nothing screams 'independence' like wearing someone else's hand-me-downs. Did you happen to find any confidence in the bargain bin?" Her Canadian coolness cracked, her voice tight with irritation.
The two women faced off near the bar, their beauty amplified by their hostility. Ted watched, his heart pounding with a romantic thrill. Future me would tell them this rivalry was destiny's first, terrible test. He thought, a nervous flutter in his stomach. It was the universe sorting out which one might be the Mother. He gestured vaguely to Marshall and Lily, his voice low with fervent conviction. "This is it. This is the clash of the titans. They both represent a different path. Rachel is the past I need to overcome. Robin is the future I need to achieve. And I am right in the middle!"
Marshall nodded, amused but distracted, his focus on Lily's sketch. Lily, however, added a small heart with an arrow pointing both ways, her pen swift and playful. Ted felt a rush of anxiety and hope, the rivalry fueled by a thrift store dress becoming a complication—a cornerstone of legendary stories. He had to stay neutral, but Robin's sharp wit made his pulse quicken, a secret he tucked away.
Chandler Bing leaned against the bar, the low-grade paranoia in the air a perfect target for his sarcasm. People are scared of a piece of metal. This is classic human insanity. It needs to be mocked. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief, his lean frame relaxed as he prepared to wield his wit like a shield. He loved the attention his absurdity brought.
He turned to Barney, who was sketching a "Anti-Curse Suit" design, his tie perfectly knotted. "You know what this place needs? A ghost story," Chandler deadpanned, his expression neutral. "I mean, if we're doing curses, we should go all-in. Did you hear the one about the old janitor whose spirit got trapped in the air ducts and now he only haunts people who use too many consonants?"
Barney's eyes lit up, his theatrical excitement palpable. "No! But that's brilliant! We should escalate. We need props. We need fog machines! I'll start a rumor that the janitor only comes out when someone wears a denim vest!" His voice rose, drawing curious glances.
Chandler's plan was to amuse, but Barney escalated it into a performance. "Attention, patrons! I have received intel that this bar is now haunted by the spirit of a disgruntled tenant who will only be appeased by the consumption of one hundred shrimp cocktails!" He gestured dramatically, his cufflinks glinting.
Monica marched over, her face a thundercloud of irritation. She planted her hands on her hips, her dark eyes blazing. "Are you kidding me? We're trying to run a business here! And a bar! And you're telling ghost stories? Stop turning my home into a lunatic asylum!"
Chandler's smile flickered with genuine mischief. Success! I have annoyed Monica and created a more entertaining version of reality. He and Barney exchanged a conspiratorial glance, their comedic partnership solidifying amid the chaos. He sipped his soda, the fizz mirroring the playful irritation he'd sparked, a taste of victory in the madness.
Joey Tribbiani sauntered into the lobby, his dark eyes lighting up at the sight of the polished plaque. His leather jacket creaked as he stretched, his broad shoulders rolling with casual confidence. "Whoa, check it out! This thing looks like it could star in a movie!" He ran a hand through his dark hair, his grin widening. "Maybe a romantic comedy where the plaque falls in love with a mailbox. I'd play the mailbox—charming, reliable, and always delivering!"
Barney slapped Joey's back, his laughter booming. "Joey, you're a genius! We'll pitch it to the studio—'Plaque of Love,' starring Joey Tribbiani as the Mailbox of Destiny!" His mind raced with marketing schemes, the suit-clad playboy seeing dollar signs in every glint of brass. He pulled out his playbook, scribbling notes with a flourish.
Chandler rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall with a sarcastic drawl. "Great. Now we've got a cursed plaque, a spy pigeon, and a mailbox love story. All we need is a subplot about a haunted vacuum cleaner, and we've got the full lunatic package." His tie dangled slightly as he gestured, the dry wit a shield against the absurdity enveloping them.
Monica threw her hands up, the sponge dropping to the floor with a wet slap. "Enough! I'm done! You're all banned from my lobby until you can act like adults!" Her voice echoed off the walls, a command drowned by the group's laughter. She stormed toward the elevator, her footsteps sharp against the tile, leaving the chaos to swirl in her wake.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
Love [ Friends and HIMYM Crossover ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Friends and HIMYM Crossover ] with exclusive access to 35+ chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse, Breaking Bad , The Walking dead ,The Hobbit,Wednesday].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!