A/N: Inspiration? Watching my season three DVD for eleven and a half hours straight. I have many, many ideas a-churning in my head, but I had to prioritize. Then, voila! This baby was born.

Oh, and happy birthday, Amy! Consider this my present from me to you.

-

Monica dropped onto the sand-strewn couch, stretched herself across its length, and closed her eyes. "My head is exploding."

"Hangover?"

"Yeah, either that, or someone is playing Tequila against my skull with cymbols," she replied. "Urgh." She massaged the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "I guess it's my punishment for letting Rachel make margaritas."

"Well, let me tell you, Rachel's version is much better than the sugar water alcohol thing I was served last night."

"What's that?"

"Joey's idea of a good drink."

Monica laughed and shook her head. "You should be a professional cheerer-upper."

"Yeah, well, don't let it get out that I'm sensitive or something. I want to keep my macho hard-ass exterior." He picked up Monica's foot. "So what color do you want again?"

"I'm thinking red."

Chandler made his way over to the table laden with color-coordinated bottles of toenail polish. He plucked the bottle from its position nestled between the oranges and purples and said, "So why exactly am I panting your toenails?"

"Because I have no tolerance for movement, Rachel is still sleeping, and Phoebe is in her room, convinced she can hear the beach inside seashells."

"And Joey –"

"Are you kidding? Joey doesn't know how to paint toenails!"

"Ouch. Cheap shot."

Monica rolled her eyes; he placed her foot in his lap and unscrewed the lid of the polish.

"You have paper towels, right?" she asked worriedly.

"No." Monica gasped, scandalized. "I won't spill, c'mon! I promise. And even if I do, Phoebe's fuzzy-backed client will probably never, ever notice. Half the place is sand."

Monica begrudgingly crossed her arms. "Okay, fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"Good." He swirled the brush around, leaned over her feet, and applied polish to her toes. "So . . ." he began, as if resuming a conversation they had been having earlier, "you wouldn't date me if I was the second to last man on earth, if Joey was holding a gun to your head, if the whole world was smoldering with radiation, and I promised you a safe fall-out shelter where we could live out our happy lives with bonanzas of canned goods –"

"Is there such thing as a safe fall-out shelter?"

Chandler stared at her. "I can't believe it – you're avoiding my question again!"

"Chandler, just drop it, okay?"

"So there's just no way I can persuade you –"

"Oh my God!" she cried in frustration. "For the last time, I just – it's just – you're just –"

"Yes, uninformative sentence fragments, that's what I need."

"Hey!" Monica cried defensively. "You forced this question on me! Don't you dare start being a smart-ass! You just . . . go back to painting my toenails."

"Well!" Chandler cried. "If I wasn't so . . . awesome, and gentlemanly, and boyishly charming, you'd be staring at . . . you know . . . unpainted toenails right now."

"Okay, now you're just conceited."

"Maybe you're just impossible to please. Give me one good reason why we wouldn't be great together."

"I already told you! You're just too immature. I need a grown-up."

"Uh-huh."

"And – and – you're my brother's best friend!"

"And?"

Monica glared at him. "You can't expect me to come up with reasons off the top of my head! What do you want me to say? 'Ooh, Chandler, darling, I love you, you're so sexy! I want you to make love to me, I want to marry you! I want to bear your children!'"

Ross and Rachel entered the room. Rachel stared at Chandler and Monica with her eyebrows raised. Ross was staring at Chandler as though fantasizing about ripping him from limb to limb. "Uh, bad time?" Rachel asked.

"No," Monica said furiously, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yeah, sort of," said Chandler, equally as angry. He applied more red polish to Monica's toenails with a vengeance.

"Oh, okay . . ." said Rachel uncertainly. After a moment, she hugged Ross around the waist. When Monica and Chandler didn't seem to notice, she said excitedly, "Guess what? Ross and I are back together!"

Monica shot Rachel an exasperated look, then snapped, "Chandler, are you trying to paint my feet?"

"What's your problem?" he said. "I'm trying to do you a favor!"

"It was an excuse to bug me about your stupid 'boyfriend material' crap again!"

"You laughed!" he said, looking deeply offended. "You laughed when I said it!"

Monica shook her head. "Don't make me the bad guy, Chandler – I thought you were joking. I thought it was a joke."

"It was a joke!" he said.

"But –"

Rachel said meekly, "Did you guys hear the good news –"

Monica rounded on her. "For God's sakes, you two, make up your goddamn minds!"

Rachel looked torn between crying and flinging bottles of toenail polish at her. Instead, she just stormed away, with Ross scrambling in her wake.

As soon as they were gone, Monica said crossly, "Chandler, seriously, if it was a joke, then why are you so angry that I laughed?"

"Because – because –" he sputtered. "It wasn't supposed to be 'ha ha' funny! You weren't supposed to laugh!"

"Okay, Chandler, this conversation has made me feel uncomfortable since the beginning," Monica said, massaging her forehead. "So let's just drop it. We were just on different pages, that's all. It's a simple misunderstanding."

He stared at her. "But why were you so determined not to answer the question in the first place?"

"What?"

"Why can't you just answer it?"

"What?" she repeated stupidly.

"Would you ever date me? Ever?" he asked. "Would you ever even consider me boyfriend material?"

"I told you, you're too immature," said Monica firmly. "I need someone whose biological clock isn't stuck at twelve years old."

Chandler shrugged, unperturbed. "The way I see it, Mon – how well has that worked out for you? At least I'm mature enough to see when I have something really special – and not to let it go, not for anything."

Monica watched him bemusedly as he leaned over her feet. "Oh."

After what seemed like hours and hours, Chandler finished painting her toenails. "There! Done! Not too shabby for a twelve-year-old miscreant, huh?"

"Thanks," she said.

He grinned. "No problemo. You know I'm always here for your toenail-painting needs."

Monica couldn't help but smile. "Yeah. I know. And, hey," she added, as he began to get up from the couch. "I'm really sorry for laughing."

He squeezed her knee affectionately. "And I'm sorry for being so weird about this. I pinky swear I won't bother you about it again."

Monica linked her pinky with his. "And I swear I won't reject your canned goods if the world becomes inhospitable."

"Cool."

"Cool."