Chapter 3 — Sweet Taste of Liberty (High Stakes & Higher Ceilings)
Ted Mosby believed that Tuesday nights were for staying in, drinking cheap wine, and pretending love could be scheduled like a dentist appointment.
Barney Stinson believed Tuesday nights were for airports.
And Ivar Scherbatsky? He believed Tuesday nights were for watching Barney drag Ted into chaos while he decided whether to add jet engines to his next laptop model.
---
MacLaren's, Tuesday Night
"Come on, Ted," Barney said, practically vibrating in his suit. "This is it. Tonight. Adventure. Mystery. The world at our fingertips."
Ted groaned into his beer. "Barney, it's Tuesday."
"EXACTLY," Barney said. "Do you think legends are born on Fridays? No. Tuesdays. Tuesdays are when kings are forged in JFK terminals."
Marshall leaned across the table. "Is this another airport thing?"
"It's THE airport thing," Barney said. "The plan. The holy grail. The Have-You-Met-Ted of international travel."
Ivar swirled his whiskey, unimpressed. "Translation: He wants to hit on women in baggage claim."
"Correction," Barney said, pointing like a lawyer. "I want to hit on exotic women in baggage claim. It's called the Sweet Taste of Liberty—look it up."
"I did," Ivar said. "It's not a thing."
"It will be!" Barney barked. Then, lowering his voice, "Unless you're scared."
Ted sighed. "I'm not flying anywhere on a Tuesday. I have work tomorrow."
"That's the spirit!" Barney slapped him on the back. "Come on!"
"Hard pass," Ted muttered.
Barney's eyes swung toward Ivar, who was idly scrolling on his Northern Star One.
"You. Myth. Legend. Canadian."
"No," Ivar said instantly.
"Yes," Barney countered. "Wingman. Airport. Now."
"I have a company to run."
"You have employees to run it for you."
Ivar looked at Ted, who was already shaking his head. He looked back at Barney, who was practically bouncing like a caffeinated Labrador. Then he pocketed his phone, stood, and said: "Fine. Let's burn a Tuesday."
---
JFK Airport
Within an hour, Ted was at home sulking, while Barney and Ivar were breezing through TSA like men on a mission.
Barney whispered, "Okay, step one: act casual. We blend, we mingle, we strike."
Ivar pointed at the VIP lounge sign. "Or we go up there."
"You can't just—" Barney froze as Ivar flashed a Northern Star corporate card at the gate attendant. The velvet rope opened like Moses parting the Red Sea.
The lounge was all leather chairs, glass walls, and drinks that cost as much as Ted's rent. Barney's jaw hit the carpet. "We're in. We're actually in."
Ivar shrugged. "Tuesday night. Might as well go first-class."
Barney grabbed two martinis. "This. This is why you're my favorite Scherbatsky. Robin's hot, but you? You're a lifestyle."
---
Inside the Lounge
Barney launched into his usual theatrics—stories about owning racehorses, saving orphans, and maybe being a spy. Half the women rolled their eyes. The other half took selfies with Ivar.
One leaned over, fascinated. "Are you… are you that Ivar Scherbatsky? The phone guy?"
Ivar kept his smile small. "Depends. Do you like your phone?"
"It dies constantly."
"Then yes," he said, sliding his Northern Star One across the table. "Trade up. Battery lasts a week. $299 retail. Indestructible."
Barney whispered furiously, "You just gave away a phone?"
"I'll survive," Ivar said.
Barney pressed both hands to his temples. "You're ruining my mystique. How am I supposed to compete with Mr. Affordable Tony Stark?"
"Don't try," Ivar said. "Adapt."
---
Midnight Departure
Hours later, Barney stumbled out of the lounge looking like he'd been baptized in champagne. Ivar was calm, as if midnight airports were just another boardroom.
"That," Barney slurred reverently, "was the sweetest taste of liberty."
"You didn't even talk to a woman without lying," Ivar said.
Barney pointed at him. "Details. History won't remember the details."
Ivar smirked. "History remembers the receipts. And I paid for all your drinks."
They hailed a cab. As Manhattan glittered like a restless crown, Barney leaned back, grinning. "Tuesday nights. With you, Scherbatsky? Always legendary."
"Don't make a habit of it," Ivar said, but he was smiling too.
---
Epilogue
Back at Ted's apartment, Ted was pacing in his pajamas, rehearsing lines to ask Robin out. Marshall and Lily were asleep on the couch, Skyrim still running on Ivar's laptop.
Ted sighed, picked up his old phone, and found the battery dead.
"Of course," he muttered.
Across town, Ivar set his Northern Star One on the nightstand. Still at 87%. Still ready for tomorrow.
Because that was the difference between Ted Mosby and Ivar Scherbatsky.
Ted waited for the right moment.
Ivar carried it in his pocket.