AN: I am alive! I know I haven't been active on this site for a really long time but I've been busy graduating and stuff, so there was that. And I haven't had much inspiration lately. This was originally was supposed to be a chapter of "Stumbling" but I didn't really think it fit so I decided to just post it as a one shot. I have to say that I have head canons for just about everything of this show and I could probably write thousands of one shots like these if I had the motivation (reviews are great motivators). I hope you guys all enjoy!
The thing about Chandler and pretty girls is that they are pretty and he is Chandler.
…Okay that's not the thing. Well it's the thing but it's not the point. The pointy thing (heh) about Chandler and pretty girls is that because they are pretty he, in turn, acts like "Chandler". Neurotic, bumbling, overly verbose, and more often than not completely unintelligible: "Chandler". With most girls, especially the ones he finds attractive, getting a single, coherent sentence out is like pulling teeth but with more embarrassment and awkward boners.
But the thing about Monica is that she is not a pretty girl.
No, that's not right. Of course she is pretty. She's beautiful really; and sexy and gorgeous and lovely and all the other adjectives that add up to the same thing. He isn't blind and he is entirely aware of how pretty Monica is (sometimes a bit too aware).
What he actually means is that she is so completely and utterly infuriating that he usually forgets how pretty she is in favor of remembering how much he enjoys arguing with her.
And they argue a lot.
Take the night of that horrible Thanksgiving (the one with the minor dismemberment, not the one with the houseboy).
A sudden but quiet knock on his door woke Chandler. He shook his head slightly at the sound, trying to orient himself. The steady throbbing of his foot didn't particularly help.
"Who's there?" He asked once he realized where he was (The Geller's guest room, minus half a pinky toe, plus three rather powerful pain killers).
"Monica," the voice on the other side of the door informed him. "Can I come in?"
Chandler hesitated; he was basically still pissed at her, she cut off his toe and he figured that was allowed. But he was also vaguely curious to hear what she had to say. And she was a hot girl, even if she was his best friend's little sister.
"Yeah," he answered, sitting up carefully in bed trying not to jostle his wounded toe. "One second," he added as he arranged himself into a comfortable position. Chandler reached up and tried to smash down his hair, which he was sure looked absolutely ridiculous. As he ran his fingers carefully through his mussed hair, Chandler realized he probably shouldn't care about Monica's opinions on his appearance and, oddly embarrassed, jerked his hand away from head. "Alright," he called as he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had kept her waiting outside his door longer then what would be considered normal. Feeling a little contradictory, Chandler purposefully mussed up his hair again as she came in.
She stuck her head in first, large blue eyes flitting over the sight he made, before entering the room through a barely cracked open door. She wore a pair of faded flannel boxer shorts and a black tank top with the words "Rolling Stones" printed in white. She put her finger to her lips and quietly closed the door behind her.
"Hey," Monica said awkwardly as she moved closer to the foot of the guest bed. Her hand reached for the brass bed frame and her fingers lightly touched the bars. She refused to meet his eyes directly and kept her head down.
"Hi." He debated for a moment whether he should offer her a seat on the bed but passed on that. She cut off his toe; let her feet hurt for a little while, he thought vindictively.
"Ummm…" She stared down at her hands as they furiously twisted around each other and he watched with interest as she shuffled her feet nervously. It wasn't often that he was the less nervous one when around a girl. He was enjoying the change. "How's the toe?" She finally asked.
"Missing a nail," he told her bluntly.
Her head popped up at his words and, instead of the guilty look he had been expecting, her face was screwed into a grimace of annoyance. "What is your problem?" She hissed at him with more venom than he had expected from, what could still technically be qualified as, a whisper.
Chandler's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "My problem?" He whispered back, matching her anger with his own. "Hmmm," he touched his chin sarcastically, "Let me think. Maybe it has something to do with you CUTTING MY TOE OFF!" His last few words came out louder than either of them had anticipated, startling Monica into motion. She quickly rushed towards his side of the bed, clamping her hand over his mouth as she shushed him angrily.
They stood completely still in the silence, her hand still covering his mouth, as they strained their ears for the any responding sounds of either Ross or, even worse, her parents. The house creaked once and Chandler felt her hand pushed harder against the curve of his lips. His heart rate picked up as he waited for the inevitable sound of Jack Geller approaching his door but it never came. He counted to one hundred and the house remain silent. After a moment, he heard Monica let out a sigh of relief beside him which he would have echoed if he were able to.
He turned his head up towards her, his eyes smiling at escaping what felt like a close call, and found her smiling down at him as well. For a moment they stayed like that; smiling at each other, united for just a second by their mutual fear of getting caught together.
Together. The word gave him pause as Chandler suddenly realized what this would look like if anyone had come in at this moment. Visions of shotguns pointed at him filled his head; one in the hands of an angry father and the other in the hands of angry brother.
As if she had the read his mind, Monica quickly pulled her hand away from his mouth, wiping it surreptitiously against her shorts. Her smile faded into another scowl and her hands twitched as if she were resisting the urge to smack him. "Are you trying to wake up the whole house?" She whispered even more quietly now but the venom still stuck.
"No," he replied lamely, feeling awkward as his brain halfheartedly tried to identify the smell of her hand lotion which was still lingering around his face. It was something flowery, maybe rose or magnolia. Definitely not lilac, a smell that he knew well and always associated with his great aunt Helen who used to visit all the time back when his parents were still together. His dad and Helen had got on like gangbusters, always swapping "war stories" that went completely over his head at eight and scarred him for life at nineteen. Much to his great aunt's delight, Charles' had chosen his stage name in her honor.
To this day the smell of lilacs made his unreasonably nervous.
But Monica didn't smell like lilacs, she smelled nice. A thought that was also making him unreasonably nervous. "Why are you here?" He asked, at this point just wanting to pop another pill and go back to sleep, far away from annoying little sisters who happened to be hot and smelled nice.
"I was here to apologize, you jerk." She folded her arms beneath her chest and plopped herself down (uninvited!) on the bed near his hip.
"Yeah," his eyes followed her movements, "you're doing a really great job of it. Keep going!" His eyes flickered nervously at her thigh which was pushed up against his side. He felt himself stutter inwardly as he struggled not to pull a "Chandler". "You know what," he continued hardly even realizing it, "you should take the rest of the toe. Between that and all the insulting and mouth covering I would definitely know you were sorry."
"Why are you so mean?" She glared as warm color suffused her cheeks and her hands balled up in the crook of her arms.
"Why did you cut off my toe?" He growled back just as angrily.
"Because I was trying to get you to like me!"
Chandler felt his jaw drop and he stared at Monica as her eyes widen. "What?"
She blushed an even darker shade of red as embarrassment filled her. "I-I meant...I," she stuttered out and his brows lifted in even higher as the conversation took a decidedly more interesting turn. Again she seemed to be able to read his mind because her mouth tightened into a thin line and her eyes narrowed. "It's not what you are thinking you weirdo," she spat, the venom in her voice returning with a vengeance. And for some strange reason that he really would rather not delve into (Chandler knew himself well enough to know he probably didn't want to know himself better), he found that he rather enjoyed her ire. He felt comfortable being scolded by her and, though he would deny until the day he died, he thought she looked rather cute with her face all scrunched up in a scowl.
"And what am I thinking," he taunted deliberately.
She rolled her eyes and (probably unconsciously) leaned infinitesimally closer to him as her arms uncrossed and her hands rested against her knees. "You think that I wanted you to like me because I like you," she practically mocked him. "But I don't like you. I hate you." She told him primly. His face furrowed in confusion.
"Why do you want to make someone you hate like you?"
The question seemed to catch her off-guard for a moment and he watched as she struggled to come up with a proper response. "Because..." She looked away from him for a moment and again Chandler felt himself become intrigued despite himself. "I want everyone to like me." Her voice was soft as if she were admitting it only to herself. He made a noncommittal noise, not entirely sure where this conversation was heading now. "Plus," she continued in a more sure voice. "You seem important to my brother and we didn't really get along last year, so I thought I'd try to be nice. Guess that didn't really go the way I hoped it would," she chuckled humorlessly to herself. Monica still refused to look at him and he got the distinct impression that she was incredibly uncomfortable with the things she was saying.
Chandler thought back to the moments before "the incident" and could see how her strange behavior could have been attributed to her trying to be nice. But if that were the case she was even worse at social interactions than he was. Which was saying something. Chandler thought back to his behavior last year and he realized that he had been kind of a jerk to the overbearing but kind Monica. He felt the back of his neck warm with shame. He knew what he wasn't the most naturally nice person to begin with and on Thanksgiving he was basically impossible to bear.
Chandler glanced up from his lap to find Monica watching him carefully, looking almost afraid of his reaction, and the shame he felt magnified by a hundred. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he swallowed his pride. "Listen," he said softly. "I'm sorry." Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly in surprise at his apology.
"Why are you sorry?"
"I should have let you apologize." He told her, attempting to sound as sincere as he felt and resisting the urge to make a snarky comment. She seemed to be scanning his face for any sarcasm and Chandler purposely held her gaze. "It was a stupid accident and I shouldn't have bitten off your head when you came in." He paused and gave her a small smile. "It was an accident, right?" He teased, hoping she would recognize the amiability of his words.
She did as she ducked her head slightly and gave him a small smile. "Yeah, it was definitely an accident."
"Even though you hate me?" He joked.
Her smile grew wider. "Even though I hate you," she repeated.
Chandler's heart warmed at the soft tone of her voice, a sensation that made him feel both uncomfortable and lighthearted. They both sat together in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's company in the wake of their odd reconciliation. He studied Monica's face, watching as her expression wavered between accomplished and something that he might call fondness.
A loud snore that came from down the hall shook them both out of their reverie. Blushing again, Monica looked towards the door for a moment before turning back to him. "I think I should go," she whispered.
Chandler nodded "Yeah, I don't think your parent's would be too happy to find you here with me. And I can only handle one instance of violence per holiday."
She gave him a look of mock scorn that sent that same heartwarming feeling rushing towards his extremities. "Careful, Bing," she chirped back. "Don't think I won't take that last bit of toe." Mischief glistened in her eyes.
Maybe it was the look in her eyes or maybe that last pain med was kicking in hard, but he couldn't be entirely sure what possessed him to say, "I don't know. It might be worth losing a full toe to spend time with you." Immediately his eyes widened in shock at his words and he wished with all his might that he were anyone but himself. Who says things like that to a girl who clearly just started tolerating him? He watched Monica carefully as her expression morphed from mischievous to confused. He was grateful that at least she wasn't mad at him, but slapped himself inwardly as he felt her discomfort come off of her in waves. "I-" he tried to think of words to make him sound like less of a crazy person in her eyes but she cut him off.
"Maybe some other time," she said enigmatically. With that she stood up and turned towards the door, turning as she exited. "Night," she whispered into the dark room. And with that she was gone.
"Night," Chandler muttered dazedly into the empty air.
"Morning Chandler," Ross greeted him as he entered the living room to find the Geller family sitting down to breakfast. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah," he craned his head towards the kitchen trying to see where Monica was. "I slept fine."
At that moment, Monica emerged from the kitchen doors carrying a plate of delicious looking pancakes. She immediately met Chandler's gaze. "Oh, you're awake," she said disdainfully.
"Yeah," he shot back. "I had to put on my knife repelling shoes before I thought it would be safe to come down."
She set the plate down on the table and Mrs. Geller shot Monica a dirty look and Ross groaned. "Are you guys always going to be like this?" Ross complained as he reached over with his fork to grab some pancakes.
"Probably," said Monica primly as she sat down and stabbed at a strawberry on her plate.
"Definitely," Chandler echoed as he dribbled some syrup onto his pancakes.
As the Geller's started in on their food, nobody noticed the quick look that the two shared and no one said anything about the small smiles that remained on their faces for the rest of the day.