A/N: A non-chapter fic, with a Chandler / Phoebe pairing. Yes, I know how improbable it is. Do I care? No. It's my favorite pairing. Get over it. For story purposes only, Mike never existed. Set roughly a year after the season finale.

A/N2: It wasn't beta'd. Be warned.

The Affair

It was an unlikely match, to say the least. They had been friends for fifteen years or more, and not once had there been an attraction. Unless you considered Phoebe's brief infatuation to Chandler's money and "firm hand" attraction.

But here they were, while Monica was at work and the twins were with Jack and Judy for the weekend, after they had graciously accepted to baby-sit and give Monica and Chandler some alone time. To rekindle a dwindling flame, or some nonsense like that. But Monica hadn't been for it, and opted to work. Instead of ordering porn on a Saturday afternoon, like he had on all previous Saturday afternoons up until a month ago, Chandler decided to get laid.

The first time he had traveled to Phoebe's bright yellow apartment with the creepy painting of a woman coming out of a frame, which Phoebe affectionately called Gladys, Chandler and Monica had had a major fight. It was certainly nottheir first and most definitely not their last.

To this day, Chandler could not figure out what had drawn him to Phoebe's. They had never been close – in fact, they were probably the least two close people out of the entire group of friends, but there he had stood, fisting his baby blue cotton sweater in his hands, staring into her bright blue eyes. He eventually blamed it on the four beers he had had before coming over, and it would never matter if that was the truth.

She made him tea and he sat on her couch. It was that simple. He told her about his continuous fights with Monica since they had moved, and he was tempted to express how he almost resented the twins for taking her away from him. He mourned the loss of their relationship as though one of them had died, and Phoebe was there to comfort him. She had spotted a tear, but didn't say anything. Normally a sarcastic joke on her part would have been in order – she had thrived on making fun of her friends, not in the joking way that Chandler had, but in the almost cruelly ironic way that normal people never had the guts to use – but she did know when to keep her mouth shut. This was most certainly one of those occasions.

Somewhere between "I wonder if Monica even loves me anymore" and an attempted, but failed joke, Phoebe had kissed him. To shut him up, probably, but there she was, next to him, holding his face and pressing her lips hard against his.

He didn't kiss back at first, and he had a split second to make a decision. He could go through with this, finish what Phoebe had just started, or he could take the high road and walk away.

Who was he kidding?

His tongue parted her lips and it only escalated from there. Half an hour later they were in her bed, tangled in her floral sheets, and Chandler was smoking a cigarette. She didn't say a word about it, but simple rolled on her side and fell asleep.

He had left, feeling a little more than guilty. He bought roses for Monica on the way home, but she was sound asleep when he got there. The fight they had the next morning had slowly started to suck all the poison out of his newly inflicted wound of regret, until there was nothing but a faint scar to show for it.

Now he was here again, knocking on her door, much more confident this time. His face was scruffy from not shaving in two days, the sleeves of his button-up shirt rolled almost to his elbows, a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. There had been no fight that morning. Or the morning before that, or the night before that. In fact, he and Monica had barely spoken to each other at all in over two weeks.

Phoebe opened the door and looked more than pleased to see him. She didn't say anything – she didn't have to – and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him roughly through the door.

It seemed like only seconds passed before their clothes were on the floor in a messy heap. Another thing that was different from making love to Monica – she liked going slow, taking her time, and always encouraging Chandler to do the same, but Phoebe was the complete opposite. Phoebe was raw, passionate, hungry… hot.

They had done it all over her apartment by now – in the kitchen, on the couch, in Phoebe's bedroom, on her kitchen table (but never in the bathroom – one of Chandler's rules, although Phoebe was determined to break him of it), and up against the wall in the hallway at two a.m.

Chandler could hear a voice in his head, a voice that sounded a lot like the guy on the radio who reviewed The Mets games. Today's events will take place… against Phoebe's door! The scores will be tied, and in the end, Chandler will hit a home run but Phoebe will leave the victor with a grand slam!

The foreplay was minimal, which was fine with both parties. She hooked her legs around her hips and allowed him to slide inside her with a forceful gracefulness she had never felt with anyone else. She raked her long, French-manicured nails along his smooth back, dug her fingertips into his shoulders, and begged him to go faster.

He complied with force and he could hear her head pounding against the door, over and over again, but he never lost speed, never slowed down. He gripped her hips – not as slender as Monica's, and he found he enjoyedhaving more to grab onto – and moved at an angle, hitting her g-spot continuously until she was rolling her head and mewling his name.

Her fingers would leave marks along his pale body, but it wouldn't matter. None of it would matter because Monica would never have to know, and that's what was going through Chandler's mind seconds before his body tensed and he finally came, Phoebe's name a moan on his lips.

He slid off of her and helped her stand on shaky legs, took her hand, and led her to the couch where they both collapsed onto it, Chandler against the couch and Phoebe laying against his chest. She played with the sprinkling of hair on his chest and he slid his hand along her back, and nobody spoke.

Chandler guessed that the first time that one of them actually said something after sex, it'd be to say it was over. He dreaded that inevitable day, but for now, he was content lying there with this woman in his arms.

A woman he could be with, with no strings attached. A woman who knew how to bring him the maximum amount of pleasure without guilting him into a "relationship." A woman who was content with exactly what they were having.

An affair.