Disclaimer: Yeah, um, I'm WAY too young to own Friends. Literally. So, unless I decided to make this thing in my mother's, um, body, then I think that I'm kinda out of luck if I want to own it. *cries* But I WANT CHANDLER! They can keep Ross, God knows I don't want whatever diseases Joey probably has, they can keep Rachel, they can keep Phoebe, and they, well, they can't keep Monica, because I want her too, BUT I WANT CHANDLER, damnit! *begs* ...well, on the upside, I have my collection of all ten seasons, AND I have a picture of Matthew Perry and Courteney Cox, so I feel pretty successful right about now.
Pairing: Chandler/Monica, some Monica/Richard
Rating: T. Hell, it could even be lower, maybe. If I hadn't just said 'hell.' Oh, well.
Summary: He was struck by the hopelessness in her somehow-still-beautiful-because-it's-Monica eyes. / "You are probably really the only person I would trust with this sort of stuff." / Chandler/Monica. Tag to TOW Barry and Mindy's Wedding.
Explanation: Okay. This just sort of happened in my mind when I wanted TOW Barry and Mindy's Wedding. You know, *SPOILERS* Monica and Richard broke up, and Chandler got back together with Janice in the end. I just...sort of...put in a scene between that. Therefore, in my mind, Monica left the wedding early after she and Richard broke up, and Chandler stopped by the girls' apartment before he went to the coffee shop to wait for Internet girl. Honestly, if you haven't seen this episode, you probably won't get it at all. Thus, my wandering mind and its perks. Which are only visible to some...meaning, well, me, and I only see them if I'm sleep-deprived and/or slightly high.
Yeah. Okay. You guys probably want the fic now. I don't blame you. Ok, here you guys go. I hope you're ready for the insaneness of it all.
Chandler hesitantly opened the door to the girls' apartment all the way. It had been left open, slightly cracked, and he heard hitched breathing. He walked in and saw a woman in a flowery-patterned white-cream dress, her back to him, with her dark hair pinned up in a messy bun, her shoulders bouncing in an untimed fashion, hunched over the kitchen table as she scrubbed it with a towel, the look completed by the gloves that she wore.
"Monica?"
The woman turned slightly, and he caught a glimpse of a tear-stained face before she quickly turned back around again. "What is it, Chandler?" she asked, sounding slightly strangled, like she was choking down a sob.
"Um…Rachel and Ross haven't left the wedding yet, you know. You came home kind of early. And Phoeb and Joey are over at the apartment, doing…something. I just, Ross called and said you left to get home early and that you were maybealittleupset—" he rushed that part, unsure on whether that would piss her off, "—and I thought we could maybe do something, maybe you could come over, or—Monica, what's wrong?" he asked, the last bit slipping out after an unexpected, quiet but audible gasp came from Monica.
"N-nothing, Chandler…I just—Richard—I—I can't—" she trailed off, a small high-pitched sound coming from her. It happened again. And then again.
And Chandler realized that she was full-blown, all-out weeping.
Not a pretty kind of crying. The nearly silent kind, where you can't breathe and the world looks and feels upside down and you're crying so hard, so unnoticeably, that your head hurts and your stomach rolls and your face feels swollen and you feel like a freaking river. Like when you're at your first funeral where you understand, or your puppy just got hit by a Mack truck, or you hear about your parents getting divorced via an angry message left by your moving-out father on the answering machine, or you break up with your first this-could-be-the-real-thing lover.
He crossed the room to the table, and she shied away from him, instinctively, as she heard his approaching footsteps. She covered her face with her hands, then let out a small disgusted noise and tugged off the gloves. He pressed up against her, her back to his chest, and took her small, ungloved hands in his own as she tossed the gloves down on the kitchen table, before she had the chance to bring her hands back up to her face. His fingers folded over hers and pressed all four hands together, his hands on top of hers, fingers meshing and tangling together. She pulled her hands back to her face as she cried and turned to face him, her face buried in his neck as she stood on tiptoe. She lowered herself back down and started soaking his shirt, hands still pressed up to her face, unwilling to let him see her cry.
Awkwardly, Chandler placed his hands on her back and started rubbing. She let out a hard sob at the contact—he assumed the last one to do so was probably Richard, and immediately felt bad for comforting her, which, he reminded himself, was weird, as he was supposed to be consoling her, and then he told his constant internal monologue to shut the hell up—and pressed herself up harder against his body. His hands folded over her shoulders and he pulled her away from him tentatively.
Monica covered her face with her hands, still not letting him see her. He tugged her hands away, taking in her weepy face without blinking. Her hair hung from her bun, a few strands falling messily in her face, but looking perfect in the way that only Monica could ever pull off. Her eyes were a little bit swollen but not quite bloodshot. Her mouth hung open in a perfect O, probably still in shock from what she'd just done, breaking up with her boyfriend. Her hands hung in front of her face, wringing nervously as she waited for something.
Normally, he would cover up his sympathy and his comforting tendencies with a well-placed, sarcastic quip. But he didn't think that she wanted that. No, more importantly, she didn't need that. She needed a friend.
Instead, he just brushed away one of her tears, wiping it away with his right thumb, and she let out a small, heart-wrenchingly heartbroken smile. "Mon," he said softly, and she looked down. His hand found her chin, cupped her face upwards, forcing her to make eye contact with him, and he was struck by the hopelessness in her somehow-still-beautiful-because-it's-Monica eyes. "What happened? Ross didn't tell me the whole story, just that you rushed out really quickly."
"I—um—" she cleared her throat a little, and choked on another soul-wrenching sob. His chest ached for her, his heart hurt over her pain. "I broke up with Richard. I didn't…I couldn't—"
"What couldn't you do?" he asked her gently, pressing her a little to continue.
She hesitated, biting her lip. "I couldn't be with someone who didn't, who doesn't want kids, you know? I just, I, I couldn't…I—can't. And God, I wish I could. I want to, so damn badly, I, Chandler, oh, I—I wish—" she broke down in tears again, a full mess of weeping, and he wiped them all away, bending slightly at the knees to be at eye level with her.
"Monica, I won't lie. Richard is fun. I like him. And I know that he makes you happy. And I know that you love him. But…you can't compromise on having kids. You either want them, or you don't, and that's something that you have to agree on. That's a deal-breaker. And what you did was right," he whispered to her. Then he took her into his arms. His chin rested on her hair as she wept into the place between his neck and his shoulder, where, he noticed, she fit perfectly, like she was meant to be there. In another time, in another place, when she wasn't heartbroken and he wasn't caught up with Internet girl…
She's your best friend's little sister, Chandler. Ross. Think of Ross. Ross. Ross. Ew. Naked Ross. Didn't want to picture that. Dammit. Oh, oh, oh, oh God. Crying Monica. Right. Focus on crying Monica. Damn, she can cry a river, can't she?
He shut off his cynical internal monologue, instead choosing to look at it through a friend's eyes. No, not choosing. It was the only choice he had left. He couldn't not care about her heartbroken state, and the way that she went immediately for the cleaning supplies, and the way that she hiccupped once after a great big sob that sounded like a screech and made him wince with sympathy.
"Thank you, Chandler," she murmured back to him, her voice sending a rush of air at his throat.
He swallowed as she forced back yet another sob. "It's okay," he said softly. "It's all right to hurt, Monica."
"Yeah," she mumbled into his neck, her voice cracking a little, and he slightly stiffened as he felt her lips brush against his sensitive spot as she spoke. No one had ever found that place before.
Dammit.
Little sister. Ross's little sister. Ross, who really couldn't hurt you no matter what but would still do a damn good job of threatening to do it, and Ross, who—oh, ew, who you really shouldn't have seen at the showers during gym. Ew. Because Naked Ross is a gross image that your brain really should not have kept. Ew, Brain, why did you keep that image? This is like imagining your mother during sex! Which you really need to stop doing, Brain, I meant to remind you about that, and—oh, God, she's crying again.
And she was. She was trying really hard not to show it, and trying even harder not to do it, but her tears were undeniable as the cool wetness met his throat. He rubbed her back a little firmer, but still soft and soothingly. He cut off his internal monologue, wondering why his brain was so weird and badly arranged, and trying to console her.
"I just, I wanted so much to have it with him—my wedding day, and our anniversaries, and breaking his hand when I was having our first kid, and kindergarten graduation, and high school graduation, and college, and watching them grow up and being a mom—an annoying, better-than-mine-was honest-to-God mother—and dying of old age in our bed. I wanted The Princess Bride, I wanted fucking When Harry Met Sally with children, I wanted The Sound of Music, I wanted An Officer and a Gentleman, and I can't believe I'm such a romantic and that I've watched such crummy, corny romantic movies, but it's what I want, and I wanted it with him—" the flood overcame her dam again, and she cried, loudly, muffling her sobs into his shirt.
"I know, I know." He rubbed her back. "You better get out all your crying now, or else I'm going to have to call you Weepy, the oversensitive mime," he joked, feeling that the time for lighthearted humor had finally come. He was right, and a small laugh escaped her.
She looked up at him. "Thank you. For making me smile again. I haven't smiled once in two hours. It felt…weird."
"Two hours? Jeez, my record is probably ten minutes if I'm not sleeping or, um, at work. Wow. I really don't smile a lot in a normal day, when I really think about it."
Looking down at her shoes and biting her lip to hold back more tears, she cracked another smile, which made him feel a little bit happier. Even if it meant making fun of himself, if it made her feel better…
"Thanks, Chandler. You are probably really the only person I would trust with this sort of stuff."
He couldn't hide his surprise. "Really? Why's that?"
She looked up at him. "Well, um, Joey and I aren't really that close, you know, and Phoebe's psychotic and wouldn't say the right things, and Rachel's a blabbermouth that I cannot trust with anything unless I want all of freaking New York to know about it—" she interrupted herself with a slight giggle "—and Ross and I, we're close, but not that kind of close, and I haven't cried on him in forever, and you, well, you have this sort of unbiased view on my relationships, unlike Ross, and, so, we used to be really close before Joey moved in, and then we just kind of backed off, I guess, and I want that again, but you're still the only person I would really trust to see this really depressing side of me, and—"
"—Monica, that is the longest freaking sentence ever so I'm gonna cut you off right there," he said, removing a hand from her back to hold it up in her face, causing her to laugh a little again. "Thank you for trusting me with that. And believe me, I do not have an unbiased view on your relationships."
"'Cause I'm like your little sister, too?" she asked.
Not quite. Ross. Ross. Ross would kill you. No. No, he would threaten to kill you, and then find someone to actually do it. This is Ross we're talking about. He'd find some beefy paleontologist to pin me up against a skeleton and strangle me with ancient freaking rope. So, nope, not quite little-brother-like, but still heavily biased against your boyfriends, sweetheart.
"Yeah," he managed hoarsely, croaking it out, and she hugged him, which wasn't hard to do considering the little amount of space that was hardly there between them to begin with.
"Thanks, Chandler," she mumbled against his shirt, hardly understandable.
He tightened his hold on her slightly, basking in the feeling of holding the forbidden fruit, and then released her before she could notice, knowing that she would question it and that would lead to all nasty kinds of awkwardness. "You're welcome," he whispered almost silently.
"Love you," she murmured.
"You, too," he said, surprised. Monica, though rather affectionate in relationships from what he'd seen of her with her boyfriends, was not a very lovey-dovey person around him or Joey. With Phoebe and Rachel, she could be girly and hug them, and with Ross, well, they were siblings, so they hugged and fought quite often, but he and Joey were kind of excluded from the whole Monica-hugging-thing. They'd once been closer, like she said, before Joey moved in, but he'd forgotten her hugs and the I-love-yous she gave sometimes. It had been a while since he'd gotten one.
"Am I ever going to get over him?" she said, whispering as she pulled away from his shirt, still clinging to him. Her body was nestled in his arms as she held her arms up, hands next to her face and resting on the fabric, still holding him but no longer planting her face into his chest.
He thought about the best response possible for a second. "Of course you are," he said gently. "And, hey, if you don't soon, then I'll be your boyfriend. We'll make a great couple, promise. So, hey, if you don't move on quick, you just say the word, you just tell me, and we can go out and have a date and see if that doesn't make you feel better. Which it should. Because a date with the Chandler-man is awesome."
"Did you just refer to yourself as 'the Chandler-man'? Because that's totally, completely lame," she said, and sighed. "But thank you. That means a lot. But, hey, aren't you dating that Internet girl I heard all about from Phoebs?"
He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "Um. Yeah. But hey, it might not work out. We might fizzle. We might have no spark at all. Huh. That actually sounds pretty likely when I think about it. Damn, my love life sucks."
She shrugged. "Mine, too, so far. I'd forgotten how much being single sucked. Well, that hasn't changed."
"You're great single. You're great anytime. Now let's go. They're probably all waiting for us at the coffee place. I'm supposed to meet 'Internet girl' there," he said, making his fingers into air quotes as he mocked the nickname.
Monica suppressed a smile. "Ok, you go ahead, I'll catch up. I just probably need to, um, redo my hair. And probably cover my face in cold wet washcloths so the swelling goes down. I probably look like a hive of bees stung me."
He looked her up and down exaggeratedly, causing her to burst into laughter. "I think you look all right to me."
"Gee, thanks."
"Hey, you're prettier than most crying girls. Hell, you're beautiful. You are." He cupped her chin, making her look up at him. Blue met blue. "Gorgeous. Now, hey, we'll meet you there."
"Yeah, all right," she said. "But, hey, don't get too attached to Internet-girl. Might decide I need ya, huh?"
"Always a pleasure to be of service," he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her and placing it back on his head. She laughed. "I love being my best friend's backup boyfriend."
"Chandler," she said, eyeing him seriously.
"Monica," he answered back oh-so-innocently, complete with the wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights image.
"Chandler."
"Monica."
"Chandler."
"Monica."
"Chandler."
"Monica." His gaze held level with hers. He wasn't giving in.
She sighed, giving up. "Fine. Whatever. You win. Now get the fuck out and meet Internet girl and see if you actually like her."
"I'll be waiting eagerly for you. I promise. You're not there in thirty minutes and consider our deal off."
She placed her hands on her hips. "Fine," she gave in to those irresistible blue eyes. She wondered how his mother had told him no in his childhood. "Thirty minutes. I promise."
"Okay, Mon," he said, kissing her cheek, winking, and exiting the apartment, calling a, "Bye," over his shoulder.
"Bye," she yelled after him, her voice breaking a little from the strain of having cried so long.
She touched a hand to her cheek. It felt warmer than it ever had when Richard touched her, and she wondered if best friends could make great boyfriends too.
But then it took thirty-four minutes to get to the Central Perk. Which really, totally sucked in the long run.
"Where is she?" Chandler asked. It's been almost thirty minutes.
His friends, thinking that he was discussing Internet girl, offered all sorts of useless excuse—Phoebe's being the most useless, something about a boiling door—and he returned his gaze to the door.
Thirty-one minutes.
But then, Janice entered the coffee house, and, struck by her, he crossed the room. She was still beautiful, and God her voice was still so damn annoying, but oddly, he didn't really care.
I deserve this. I liked her. I like her now. She's fun to be with. And, hey, if Monica doesn't care enough to be here when she said that she would be, knowing full well that I said thirty minutes exactly, and that I meant it when I said thirty minutes exactly, then I should take Janice while I can get her. She's safe. Dependable. Married, but, hey. Monica dated a guy nearly twice her age. Live a little, Chandler. And shut your inner trap before you do something stupid.
He tried to ignore the fact that he already had, already noticing the way that Janice's lips tasted familiar and sweet and perfectly one hundred percent wrong.
He convinced himself otherwise. And ignored that, when trying to imagine Janice's face, all he saw was Monica.
She made her choice, he reminded himself, knowing all the well that he had too, and that it was the completely wrong one.
Monica hurriedly entered Central Perk, hair loosened and hanging around her shoulders, and her flowery wedding dress replaced by jeans and a tight-fitting white t-shirt that maybe-kind-of showed off her bra.
Best to give guys a little eye candy. Makes them go for it faster.
But then she saw a couple furiously kissing through the window.
Chandler. Janice. Lips. Tongue.
She picked up her purse, clutched it to her chest, waved hi to Rachel, turned around, bit back tears that she convinced herself were irrational, and went to her apartment.
Maybe they weren't meant to be.
"Hey, it wasn't like he meant it, right?" she tried to convince herself on her way back to the apartment. "It's not like he asked me out or something! It's not like he proposed or anything. It's not as if he actually wanted to go out with me, or be with me, he just suggested it as like an emergency backup plan! Besides, why would he want me? I'm neurotic and insane and annoying, and he's said it all plenty of times, and I'm not funny enough or pretty enough or smart enough. I'm too cleanliness-centered and I'm so stubborn and I always have to win and…" She sighed, noticing the people watching her. "…and I talk to myself. Great. I'm freaking crazy. And I just broke up with my long-time boyfriend. How could I expect him to want me, compared to Janice?"
She entered the apartment angrily, hardly noticing as she threw her purse down on the kitchen table and started to make some coffee. Honestly, she should have just gotten some at the coffee place, but that would involve going in and watching Janice and Chandler make out (not by choice).
This was just easier. He deserved Janice, and not in the mean-he-deserves-an-annoying-snob kind of way. Just in the he-deserves-someone-to-make-him-happy-and-he-didn't-actually-mean-anything-by-asking-me way.
She poured the coffee into her favorite cup, one that she had had before she'd even moved into this place, and sighed. This was Chandler, right? He was her best friend. Her best guy friend, anyway.
This is why guys and girls should not be friends. Feelings get in the way.
Turning to the direction of her bedroom, she picked up her purse and walked into it, collapsing on the bed as soon as she'd dropped her purse. Picking up the remote, she flipped through the channels, settling on When Harry Met Sally. She needed a little reminder.
Watching as Billy Crystal explained why girls couldn't befriend guys and vice versa to Meg Ryan, she decided that Chandler was much more like Billy Crystal than Richard ever was.
But Chandler, presumably (and by "presumably," she meant, "you have to be with someone when you're sticking your tongue that far down their throat"), was with Janice, and life was not a movie. The high-maintenance, competitive girl did not end up with the funny, cynical guy in this case.
Life was not a two-hour romance film.
She needed to remember that in the future.
Time to forget Chandler. Time to mourn Richard.
She was still crying when Rachel and Phoebe got in the apartment. Ross hurriedly excused himself, uneager to watch his sister cry and be forced into watching bad chick flicks, and Joey and Chandler didn't even come in. She guessed that Chandler was probably still somewhere with Janice. She would make herself be happy for him, even as she cried over him and Richard.
She was still crying later that night when she heard Janice and Chandler come home, bumping into the walls and their teeth clacking together audibly even through the wall.
Yes. She was still crying. But this time, she wasn't crying over just Richard.
She didn't sleep for days.
Chandler called her Weepy the Mime that cared too much. He probably meant to get back at her, or to just make a joke out of it all, the pretend that their moment had never happened, that he had never offered to go out with her, that she hadn't missed it by four minutes. He probably wanted to just make her feel even worse.
It worked. She went back home and cried a little more.
She missed Richard. But she also missed what she could have had with Chandler.
Who knew that it would take two years and a trip to London to get their chance again.
I guess I'd better go
Before I make a grave mistake and let my feelings show
And twenty miles away she waits alone for me
But when I try to picture her you're the one I see
And in another situation I could put up a fight
But you will be my downfall tonight.
-Del Amitri, "Be My Downfall"
*The song, I suppose, kind of represents how, even though Chandler's got Internet-girl (Janice) waiting for him somewhere, he also feels this deep connection with Monica. Yet he still makes a stupid decision. Sigh. Tsk, tsk, Mr. Bing, tsk, tsk. I am thoroughly ashamed of you. Have you never seen When Harry Met Sally? The beloved uptight, stubborn girl always gets the funny guy! Dumbass. (*points* That's Chandler. We keep him in the locked ward. Why, you ask? Because, as belovably funny and awesome as he is, he's also a real dumbass.)
Yet another sign that my life has been too cushioned by movies. Why can't life be like what Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal trick us into wanting? Alas, the eighties. You big deceivers you. Shame on you.
…I am such an idiot.
Thus, my tentative entrance into Friends. I hope I did an okay job. I didn't mean to make it into an angst, it's just, I can't write for Chandler/Monica and not make it into a sort-of romance, but they didn't get together (regrettably) in season two, so I had to make it into angst to explain it all and the feelings that had to go away for two seasons.
I hope I didn't disappoint all of you, whoever reads this. I try not to enter funny sitcoms like this (HIMYM, I think, has been my only true attempt, and even then, there's enough Robin/Barney angst that I do okay off of it) but I had to because I simply love Chandler and Monica together. I think I started cheering them on in London. I honestly did. I totally scared the guests, but it was SO worth it!
Anyway, if I get a good (or, um, even an okay one, because I'm desperate...:D) response to this, I promise to write more Chandler/Monica...after I write more of my other stuff that I keep promising to write but I never do.
To those of you who already know my amateur works, here we go:
I am currently writing a sequel to "a sleepy kisser, a pretty war."
I am currently writing at least four other VD stories.
I am trying to completely more chapters of "Coping."
I am writing a sequel to "No Judgment," which I had at least half of it written a month ago but I'm weird like that.
And I have like a million more to write after that.
...but I still have work to do for my classes. *cheerful face* Oh, well, those professors can suck it! Not like my grades actually affect my life! *Phoebe-like tone*
Anyway, you guys, just review if you want! No pressure. I love you all. Thank you for reading this all the way through, you deserve cookies. *gives away oatmeal raisin cookies* I promise there are no drugs in these. Eat them wisely. Savor it.
Yeah, you guys probably have a pretty good idea of just how weird I am...that, or you have no freaking idea and I've only just shown you a tenth of it. Either way, I hope you guys review! And, I repeat, I love all of you! In the completely I-have-no-idea-who-you-people-are-in-real-life kind of way!