Marshall's Perspective
Meanwhile, at The Scorpion and the Frog, Marshall was sweating. The starch from his shirt scratched his neck, a constant reminder of how out of place he felt. Alyx had ironed it meticulously that afternoon—a silent gesture of support that now felt like a cruel irony. Marshall felt like a kid playing dress-up in a grown-up's suit, adrift in the noise of the bar.
Beside him, Barney was a whirlwind of energy and confidence, a beacon in the stormy night of New York singlehood. His impeccable, custom-made suit seemed like a second skin.
"Strategy number seven, my friend: The Mystery Man," Barney coached him. "You keep the target guessing all night."
Marshall tried to apply these techniques with a blonde named Amy. The conversation started off awkward until she began to excuse herself. Subtly, as if dropping a hint for Marshall to pick up, she murmured about "having to go" and added, "maybe another time… if you knew how to reach me."
Marshall could only blink, confused. The hint had been so subtle that, from the other side of the bar, one could practically see neon signs flashing ASK FOR MY NUMBER.
That's when Barney intervened, seeing how lost and confused Marshall was.
"Hello! I'm Barney, Marshall's friend."
Marshall felt a flash of indignation. "Not again," he murmured, resigned to seeing Barney steal another "sweet." But Barney, with a theatrical bow, addressed Amy: "What my friend here is trying to say is, would you do him the honor of bestowing your digits upon him?" Amy, amused and relieved, scribbled her number on a paper napkin and handed it to Marshall.
In the taxi back home, Marshall radiated pure euphoria. The paper with the number was in his hand, slightly crumpled but held like a treasure. It was proof he could land a woman on his own. The window was down, the night air of New York rushing in.
"I did it, Barney! And look, she has beautiful handwriting! Details like that say a lot about a person! Do you think she likes the Muppets? I love the Muppets!" His laugh was broad and happy.
"Really? Let me see," Barney said, extending a hand with feigned curiosity. He took the napkin, studied it under the light from the passing streetlamps, and made a face. "Oh, buddy, I'm sorry. This is my number." With a fluid motion, he snatched the paper from Marshall's hand.
Marshall froze. His euphoria shattered. "Twice, Barney? Twice! And now, this one was my sweet!" he roared, his voice loaded with a betrayal that went far beyond a simple phone number.
This time, Marshall didn't just take it. He fought back. He lunged at Barney in the cramped backseat. It was a clumsy scuffle, full of elbows and grunts.
"Give it back!"
"Not a chance!"
Feeling cornered, Barney made a desperate decision. With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the napkin out the taxi's open window.
"Stop! Stop the cab!" Marshall yelled at the driver. The vehicle screeched to a halt.
Without looking back, Marshall flung the door open and launched himself into the street.
"Marshall, wait!" Barney shouted from the window, but his voice sounded more like a ritualistic call than a genuine warning.
Watching the door close and his friend disappear into the night, Barney settled back into the seat. "81st and First, please," he told the driver calmly. Then, with the smile of a cat who'd just snatched a piece of meat, he pulled the napkin with Amy's number from the sleeve of his impeccable suit. What he had thrown out was a scrap of pizza parlor advertisement he had in his pocket.
"Yeah... very nice handwriting," he murmured to himself, a lascivious smile playing on his lips.
As Barney rode away in the cab, Marshall spent over an hour searching the street and gutters for the little piece of paper. Finally, cold and a bit grimy from the dust kicked up by passing cars, he hailed another taxi and returned to the apartment.
Opening the door, he saw Alyx on the sofa, the soft glow from her laptop illuminating her concentrated face. She looked up at him. She saw his dusty clothes, the shirt she had so carefully pressed now wrinkled, then his face—which wore the expression of a beaten dog—and finally, his defeated posture.
She didn't say a word. She simply held his gaze briefly, her eyes filled with pity and understanding at the sight of his defeat and exhaustion. Then, she returned to her screen. Silently, like a ghost, Marshall crossed the living room and shut himself in his bedroom. The sound of the door clicking shut was the final period on a very long night.
A huge thank you to adiavts for the 2 Power Stones and to Sunduz_Karacaoglan for the 1 Power Stone!
Your support powers this story and fuels the magic (and the plot twists 😉).
You're amazing! 💙✨