A/N: I had to do it. For my mom, bless her, who has never seen The Princess Bride.
Oh, and Amy, Chandler says you can smell him. The rest of us will just have to wait in line.
-
"Chandler!" Monica yelled sharply from the kitchen. It was Sunday night, and her household was in disarray. Erica was tromping through the house in rebelliously dirty shoes, Chandler was in the living room pretending to watch football, and Jack – "Chandler!" she yelled again, heroically balancing the telephone on her shoulder as stood, elbow-deep in bread dough. "Tell Jack to stop waving those sticks around! He's going to kill himself!"
"Mooommm," whined a voice at waist-level.
"What?" Monica asked distractedly, as Chandler traipsed into the kitchen and ruffled his daughter's hair.
"Jack won't let me play with his sticks!"
"You know, you don't have to have the game on so loud," Monica admonished Chandler. Erica continued to whine below her. "It's not like Rachel can hear it."
"Hi Rach," Chandler said into the phone.
Monica said, "Listen, I have to go, my third child just arrived."
Erica tugged on Monica's apron as she hung up the phone. "Mooommm," she implored pitifully.
"What?"
"Jack won't let me play with his sticks!"
Monica rolled her eyes heavenward. "Chandler, your children are heathens. Tell them to quit waving sticks around!"
"Oh, so they're my children now?" he teased her, leaning in for a kiss.
Monica sighed, defeated. "You know what I mean."
He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "Of course I do. This is true love. You think this happens every day?"
"You're such a sap," Monica told him, smiling.
Erica stepped between her parents impatiently. "Eww, stop it! Dad, tell Jack to let me play!"
Before Monica could protest, Erica grabbed Chandler's hand and whisked him through the sliding door. A second later Chandler was back; both Jack and Erica now had sticks, and they were smacking each other as they ran screaming around the backyard. Monica gave Chandler a stern glare.
"At least I didn't give them cleavers," Chandler said defensively, swiftly reading her mind. "They just needed to let off a little steam. Besides, unless I'm wrong – and I'm never wrong – I haven't had you to myself all day."
"Inconceivable!" Monica said, feigning shock. He grinned at her.
"What could I do to convince you to sit down, put your feet up, and just relax?"
"It would take a miracle," she replied, adding a pinch of nutmeg to the dough.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
"You're doing it again."
"I am not!"
"You are," he said accusingly. "You can sit down. I swear to God the kids aren't stupid enough to eat dish soap."
Monica cracked a smile. "Oh my God, remember that one Thanksgiving? Rachel's date, Manuel, put liquid soap in the dishwasher. Remember? It overflowed, and the whole kitchen filled with bubbles –"
"I knew he was an idiot."
"Oh, please, you were just mad because he beat you at that juggling contest."
"It was my one thing! My one thing!" Chandler cried. "And, besides, you were eyeing him the whole night. What is it with you and accents, anyway?"
"You're still mad about that?"
"No. Joey's date was pretty hot, I remember her."
"Are you trying to make me jealous?"
Chandler crossed his arms. "No."
"Okay."
"Okay, then." Chandler evasively looked into the bowl of dough. Monica pursed her lips as Jack began to throw mud at Erica. "So what are you making, anyway?"
"It's called cheoreg. It's very good, I learned the recipe from an Armenian family across the street."
"Armenians? As in dangerous pitchfork-wielding Christian farmers?"
"That's right." Monica kneaded the dough furiously. "Though I wouldn't call them dangerous, unless stuffing Jack and Erica with food is a major threat in your book."
"Maybe, considering."
"Watch it," Monica warned.
"Sorry, sorry," he said. "But seriously, when'd we start meeting neighbors, anyway? I thought that was our rule. No social gatherings, no unions, no neighborly bonding."
"That was your rule, you anti-social freak," Monica said. Chandler caught her around the waist before she could reach the oven.
"But I'm your anti-social freak."
"Yes, and my drowning moron, if you remember correctly," she added fondly. "God, remember, that Thanksgiving, how we got into that argument about our favorite movies and you wouldn't talk to me for two whole hours?"
"I still say Princess Bride beats all," Chandler said. "It's got everything. Action, adventure, romance, fantasy, comedy – I mean, seriously, how can you compete with that?"
"It's campy."
"So? It makes fun of itself, that's the beauty of it."
"Huh. Rings a bell." She looked out the window. "Jack!" she yelled. "Stop pulling Erica's hair!"
"Are my heathens at it again?" Chandler asked.
"They'll drive me to insanity," she said, shaking her head. "Half the time I feel like I'm managing a circus."
"You don't look like the bearded lady."
Monica gave him a look.
"I mean, gee, Monica, you've done such a swell job – I love you," he said, kissing her.
"That's better."
"Should I go wash them off and bring them in?" Chandler asked her, smiling impishly.
"You'd better," she said, dividing the dough into sections. She hummed absentmindedly as she braided the dough, and brushed her spiced egg mixture onto each loaf. She was about to load the cookie sheet into the oven when she once again felt a presence at waist-level. Jack grinned up at her, still wielding his stick like a sword.
"Hello," he said. "My name is Jack Geller-Bing. You killed my father. Prepare to die."