Chapter 10: The Missing Package Mystery, Part 2 of 6
Ted Mosby shoved the mailroom door open, the rusty hinges groaning like a tired old man, his warm brown eyes narrowing against the dim flicker of the overhead light.
The air hit him hard—stale, thick with the musty scent of damp cardboard and metal, coating his tongue with a gritty film.
His scuffed loafers scraped the linoleum, each step sending a dull ache up his calves, his navy peacoat weighing on his shoulders like a burden.
Another dead end. Fifty-fifty odds this turns into a circus, he thought, the dry scratch in his throat nagging as he leaned against the cold wall, its plaster rough under his palm.
Joey Tribbiani strutted in, chest puffed out, a ridiculous grin splitting his handsome face, his dark eyes glinting with some half-baked glory.
Joey's tweed trench coat hung off him like a deflated balloon, three sizes too big, the hem dragging with a soft rasp across the floor.
A fedora tilted over one eye, casting a shadow, a chewed toothpick jutting from his mouth like a cheap gangster prop.
Great. Another clown, Ted mused, his fingers brushing his peacoat collar, the fabric stiff and cold, a tic kicking in.
Barney Stinson glided in behind, a peacock in a pinstripe grey suit, the fabric hugging his frame with smug precision.
His blond hair gleamed under the buzzing fluorescents, gelled into perfect peaks, a magnifying glass winking brass in his hand.
"Listen up, sidekick," Joey growled, his voice a gravelly rasp, the toothpick bobbing as he spoke, tasting of wood and bravado.
"This whole building is a dame named Mystery."
Barney adjusted his silk collar, the whisper of fabric against his fingertips slicing through the tension, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Actually, I prefer the term 'A-List Suspect Pool,' Joey," he said, his tone smooth, dripping with self-assured charm.
"And the key to this case, much like the key to landing that blonde in 3B, is always The Suit."
He flicked his fedora brim with a flourish, the gesture so over-the-top Ted's stomach twisted with irritation.
Legendary, my ass. This is a damn circus, he thought, adjusting his collar again, the motion a silent plea for control.
Monica Geller stormed in, arms crossed tight, her gold necklace glinting with each sharp step, her cheeks flushed red.
The dust Barney's entrance stirred settled on her freshly swept floor, a gritty insult to her order, the musty air clawing at Ted's nose.
"You two are being ridiculous!" she snapped, her voice tight, slicing the air like a blade, her finger jabbing at Joey's coat.
"You're going to scare off the actual thief!"
"And take off that ridiculous costume, Joey! You look like a sad, abandoned Muppet!"
Joey missed the insult, leaning against the mailboxes with a creak, his grin undeterred, winking with a twitchy intensity.
"You're cute when you're mad, Dollface," he said, the words clumsy, more painful than charming.
"But this is bigger than us. This is The Package."
Ted shifted, the ache in his lower back flaring from standing too long, his mind racing with survival odds.
Sixty percent this ends in a fistfight, forty percent a clue, he calculated, the dry rasp in his throat demanding relief he couldn't find.
Before Monica could unleash her "dry-cleaning bill" rant—Ted could hear it forming—Wendy the Waitress burst in, hazel eyes wide.
Her blonde ponytail bounced, a tray of steaming coffees trembling, the clink of ceramic cutting through, the rich aroma of dark roast flooding the room.
The sudden halt sent the top cup spilling, black liquid arcing across Barney's pristine suit like a caffeinated explosion.
"Oh my god! I'm so sorry!" Wendy squeaked, her face paling, fingers tugging at her stained apron strings, fear coiling in her gut.
The heat soaked into Barney's chest, the stain blooming like a grotesque flower, and Ted felt a grim, hypocritical satisfaction.
Serves him right, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck, the skin hot and sweaty.
"My suit," Barney whispered, his voice low, the legendary sheen draining from his eyes, fabric clinging to his skin.
Joey clapped Barney's shoulder, the slap loud in the silence, his grin bright and oblivious.
"Whoa! Good thing you were in disguise, Bar! You're soaked!"
"It's like, a plot twist!"
Stuart, lurking by the door, his scruffy beard twitching, saw his chance, scratching his chin nervously.
"Hey, Wendy, listen," he began, his gravelly voice faltering, trying Barney's line, the words stumbling.
"Are you a professional magician? Because every time I look at you, everyone else in the room…"
Chandler cut in, leaning against the wall, his smirk lazy, voice dry.
"…disappears? You're dead, Stuart. That line is older than Ross's leather pants."
"Yeah, Stu," Barney muttered, dabbing at his suit with a soggy napkin, the paper disintegrating, leaving brown streaks on his fingers.
"Your comic book's better."
Wendy bit her lip, her dimpled smile flickering, backing away, the tray clattering softly, apron strings twisting tighter.
Ted trudged upstairs, the weight of the day sinking into his loafers, his mind replaying the absurdity below.
This is what I get for chasing destiny in a mailroom farce, he thought, the hallway's chill seeping through his peacoat, collar adjusted again.
Rachel and Robin entered the living room, Lily trailing, her sketchbook in hand, charm bracelet jingling like a tiny bell.
Rachel carried a T. Pendergrass box, her green eyes alight, the cool metal of coasters inside grounding her, a contrast to her shed nerves.
"It's a set of brass architectural coasters," she said, setting the box on the counter with a soft thud, the sound reverberating.
"They're expensive, minimalist… and they come in a package exactly the size of a locket Mrs. Jenkins is constantly talking about."
Robin slid her leather jacket off, the creak blending with her hair's rustle, catching Rachel's eye, a silent nod passing.
"We're a lot alike, you know," Rachel said, her fingers brushing Robin's pendant, the metal cool, a nervous tic betraying her.
"We both run from things. I ran from my wedding, you ran from… well, you're always running to the next story."
Robin stiffened, a flash of fear tightening her features, a school dance rejection flickering in her mind.
"I'm sorry for the, you know, the rivalry thing," she said, her husky voice softening, Canadian lilt creeping in, tapping the box.
"You're not just a 'preppy vibe.' You're good at this."
"And I'm sorry for being a spoiled brat," Rachel replied, her smile genuine, tension dissolving like morning mist.
Marshall and Phoebe burst in, giggling wildly, the pigeon camera dangling from Marshall's hands, covered in droppings and snapped wires.
"We're bonding and solving crimes!" Marshall boomed, wrapping an arm around Lily, her green eyes twinkling.
"This is the most fun I've had since I finished my 50,000-word paper on environmental law!"
Friendship isn't boring, Ted's narrator-mind murmured, doubt easing, a reflective thought softening his gut.
Maybe it's not about her. Maybe it's about them, he mused, the back ache fading, watching the group's chaos unfold.
Later, Ted slumped on the fire escape with Joey and Lily, the city's hum a distant lullaby.
Joey offered pizza, the greasy cheese stretching, Lily laughing, the yeasty scent a comfort.
Ted adjusted his collar, the fabric rough, his mind drifting to the coasters and unsolved mystery.
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