A/N: As you might have noticed, it's already Sunday, and I'm just now updating this fic, which obviously means that I haven't yet started on 'If it's Love'. I apologize for all this delay, but I have a very valid reason - the word count of this chapter is 5267. This, I'm pretty sure, is the longest chapter I've ever written. I'm sorry for such a freakishly long chapter, but I did not want to turn this again into two parts. It's mostly dialogues, so it shouldn't be hard to read in one sitting (at least, I hope so).
And, I'm really in the mood to write some Mondler angst, so my next update will be 'If it's Love', which you can expect soon. Once again, I'm sorry!
Disclaimer: I think it should be pretty obvious by now that I don't own the show, and I sure don't own the lines from the show.
The One With Ross Geller's Weddings
1991 – Wedding of Ross Geller & Carol Willick (Part 2)
He hears another set of footsteps, and as he once again turns to see who it is, his heart stops beating for a second.
It is little Miss Toe Cutter Geller.
She bangs her fists repeatedly against the balcony railing as she mutters, "I hate her! I hate her!"
He raises his eyebrows, surprised on realizing that she hasn't noticed his presence there. Probably because he's leaning against the wall on the other end.
He takes another puff from his cigarette and blows it out, smirking. "So you're not that allergic to cigarette smoke after all."
"Shit!" she gasps in shock, taking an involuntary step back. A hand to her heart, her eyes wide, she breathes rapidly, staring at him. "You scared the crap out of me!"
He stubs out the cigarette on the railing and shrugs unapologetically, looking out onto the dark night sky. "Sorry."
Warily, she keeps staring at him for several seconds but looks away when he turns his head towards her. "What are you doing out here?" she asks finally.
"Just enjoying the view," he spread his hands. "What are you doing out here?"
"Nothing," she mutters again, wondering whether it is sensible to stay here alone with him on the balcony.
He might push her from the balcony, or quite possibly, she would push him.
Even though she feels his eyes on her, she resolutely stares down at the landscaping, ignoring him.
"So, um... Who do you hate?" he asks hesitantly after several seconds of silence. "Please don't say 'you'. I already know that," he chuckles, his nervousness unmistakable.
"It's none of your busi-" she starts heatedly, but as she sees the look on his face, she stops the acrid words from leaving her lips. His face is sincere, the look in his eyes convey that he knows she'll most probably hurt him with her answer. But he doesn't look away, he just gives her a mirthless smile. "My mom," she says finally, with much reluctance. "It's my mom."
"Oh," he nods. "What did she do again?" he smiles a little as he moves closer to her.
Why on earth are you starting a conversation with the toe cutter? his brain asks him, incredulous.
Because she looks like something is bothering her, he replies to his brain.
Y'know what they say, when you start talking to yourself, you're going crazy, chuckles another voice inside his head. He turns it off immediately.
Oh, and the lack of a pinky toe on your right foot isn't bothering you? his brain asks again.
Even as his brain protests, he puts it on mute.
"Well," she shrugs, still looking at him warily. "You know how mothers can be sometimes. Critical, disapproving, condescending," she lists, her face turning a deeper shade of red with each word. "Partial, irritating, bitchy," she finishes, her teeth gritted. "I'd rather not talk about her now," she shakes her head.
"Okay," he nods, "but that's a hell lot of adjectives, though."
She smiles lightly as she turns her head away, wondering what has changed suddenly. Why is she talking to him? Why is he talking to her? Is this not the same man she'd spent the entire evening glowering at? She turns to him again and meets his eyes. "This feels weird," she says, motioning between them.
"Tell me about it," he chuckles, looking away.
She stares at his profile, noticing how his sharp nose flares a little whenever he exhales. She smiles as she remembers that she had admired his nose endlessly when she'd harbored that very brief, but very intense crush on him.
He'd have balked at the idea of Ross's fat little sister having a crush on him.
She sighs. Maybe he is trying to mend things between them. After all, it has been nearly three years now. And she has to meet him at least halfway.
Eventually, she murmurs the words she never thought she'd say again in a million years. "I'm sorry I cut your toe off."
He snaps his head towards her, shocked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
She takes a deep breath and slowly repeats, "I'm sorry I cut your toe off."
"Wow," he shakes his head in amazement. When she arches an eyebrow, not looking very pleased, he hurries. "I mean, thanks! That- that means a lot to me."
She narrows her eyes unbelievingly.
"I cannot say 'That's okay, let's forget about it', 'cause I really do miss my toe," he grins. "But still, thanks." When she turns away, smiling softly, he moves even closer to her to ask her his next question. "Just so I know, why did you cut my toe off?"
"Are you saying I did it on purpose?" she counters, offended, her angry demeanor returning.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," he holds his hands up in mock defense, "but would you deny if I said that you were acting incredibly weird just before you cut my toe off?"
"Stop saying the phrase 'You cut my toe off'!" she exclaims in exasperation.
"Well, that is the truth, isn't it? You did cut my toe off!" he exclaims in return. "And I think I deserve to know at least why you cut my toe off!"
They glare at each other for several moments before they both start to laugh at the ridiculousness of their conversation.
"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," he says finally, smiling.
"Alright, you wanna know why I was acting weird?" she relents.
"If you don't mind telling me..." he shrugs.
Placing her dignity on the line, she quietly says, "I was trying to flirt with you."
"Um... what?" he shakes his head, certain that he'd heard her wrong.
Why is he making her repeat each and every single embarrassing thing!
"I said, I was trying to flirt with you," she repeats, stressing her words.
"You- you- you were trying to flirt with me?" he asks her incredulously. "With the carrots and the knife?" His eyes wide, he stares at her in disbelief, his expression a little too gleeful for her liking. "Let me tell you, that was some Class-A flirting!"
"I wasn't 'flirting' flirting! I just wanted to get you naked!" she says, and immediately, her hand flies to her mouth, covering her lips with her palm, shocked with herself.
He nods appreciatively, his smirk getting wider. "Wow, this is turning more and more interesting by the minute!"
She slowly removes her hand from her mouth and looks at him with a little sympathy. "Okay, look," she inhales deeply before she sighs, "God, this is embarrassing."
"Let me stop you right there," he raises a hand. "This conversation has provided me with a much-needed ego boost, so if you're going to ruin that for me by saying something like 'I was planning on doing an on the spot castration on you', please don't continue," he pleads.
She giggles, realizing that he'd come very close to what she'd had in mind on that fateful day.
"You weren't going to perform castration on me, were you?" he looks at her dubiously as she continues to giggle.
"No," she shakes her head, "but you're very close."
He raises an eyebrow.
"I was trying to get you naked and throw you out the front yard."
He stares at her blankly. "Because that's one of your family's customary acts...?"
Here comes the hard part. "Do you remember the first time you came to our house? Do you remember that Thanksgiving?"
"Yeah," he shrugs.
"Do you remember how I used to look back then?"
"Um..." he shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah."
"Do you remember calling me fat?"
"What?!" he looks at her, shocked.
"You called me fat," she tells him, looking him in the eye. "I was trying to get my revenge by making you think that I wanted to have sex with you, get you naked, and then throw you out the door, but my plan went awry and I got a little more revenge than I'd have liked," she chuckles.
"I called you fat?"
Judging by the expression on his face, she knows he's stunned by this piece of information. She nods, "Yes."
"I don't even remember that..." he trails off, his eyes wide.
"Well, I do," she shrugs.
"I'm so sorry," he shakes his head. "I really am. I'm sorry, but you have to cut me some slack – I mean, I was an idiot back then!" he throws his hands up. "Do you not remember my Flock of Seagulls haircut?"
She laughs, nodding. "I do."
"And did you know that I rushed the stage at a 'Wham!' concert?" he asks her, and nods to emphasize his point when she looks at him. "George Michael slapped me." He sighs, "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," she shrugs. "I guess we're even."
"Even?" he cocks an eyebrow. "I'd say we're more than even," he lifts his foot a little and shakes it.
She grins. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too."
"And," he continues, "if it's of any consolation to you, I think you're smokin' hot now."
He gives her an appreciative once-over, watching her cheeks turn a light shade of pink, such that they match the color of her cocktail dress.
She looks away from him, feeling her cheeks burn, smiling in spite of herself. "That's not much of a consolation, really," she shakes her head.
"Really?" he asks her, curious.
"Really," she nods.
"Really?" he raises an unbelieving eyebrow, leaning closer to her.
"Really," she laughs, pushing him away.
~.~
"My middle name is Muriel," he says slowly, his voice tinged with embarrassment.
"Okay," she nods, biting her cheeks to stop herself from grinning. "I had sex on a pool table once."
They're sitting together on the balcony steps, and she doesn't know how long they'd been out there.
Their conversation has changed its direction several times and it'd finally reached this point – sharing a secret without being judged.
He had offered her his coat, which she wears now over her sleeveless dress. She pulls it closer around her, seeking warmth within its confines.
"Y'know what, this is totally unfair," he shakes his head. "Your embarrassing secrets are not embarrassing enough!" he exclaims. "I mean, 'sex on a pool table'? That's not embarrassing, that's just... hot!"
He stares off into the space behind her with a dreamy look on his face and she knows that his imagination has gone wild. He yelps in pain when she elbows him hard. She grins knowing that she'd succeeded in bringing him back to reality.
"I cut a man's toe off while trying to flirt with him. Do you think anything could be more embarrassing than that?" she asks. "Maybe my secrets are not as embarrassing as yours," she smirks, "but on my scale, mine are pretty embarrassing."
"Okay," he nods reluctantly. "Umm..." he frowns as he searches his brain for one of his 'embarrassing secrets', "yeah, okay, I've been smoking since I was nine," he shrugs as if it's no big deal.
"Nine?!" she exclaims, shocked.
"Hey, you said no judging!"
"I'm not judging," she shakes her head unconvincingly, "but nine?!"
"Thank you for not judging," he smiles, his voice oozing with sarcasm.
"I'm sorry, but..." she trails off, staring at him.
"My parent's got divorced when I was nine," he explains. "It was one of my coping strategies."
"And I'm scared to ask what your other coping strategies were."
"Yeah, you'll be better off without knowing that," he nods, patting her arm. "Anyway, it's your turn."
"I've wanted to kill my mother ever since I was nine," she chuckles.
She's joking, he knows that, but when her smile disappears, something tugs at his heart. Without any signal from his brain, his hand reaches for hers and squeezes it comfortingly. He releases it a second later.
"Your turn," she smiles at him.
He leans back to check whether the hallway is clear and leans in towards her again, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Promise you won't laugh?"
She giggles a little but stops when he raises an eyebrow. "I promise."
"Okay, no one knows this. Well, except for my parents," he shrugs, "and the few girls who were crazy enough to sleep with me," he mumbles. "Oh, my nanny most probably knew, but I don't real-"
"Chandler," she interrupts his rambling. "What is it?"
"Fine, not even your brother knows this, and remember, you promised you wouldn't laugh," he reminds her. He takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "I have a third nipple."
She stares at him blankly for several seconds before she lets out a snort. "What?"
"Hey, you promised you wouldn't laugh!" he glares at her, offended.
"It's true?" she doesn't even try to stop herself from laughing. "You have a third nipple?!"
He turns away without replying, but she can see he's trying hard not to laugh himself.
"You know, if you were a woman, you'd be every guy's fantasy," she falls into another fit of giggles as he turns towards her again and continues to glare at her.
"And thank you for not laughing," he says in a monotone.
"I'm sorry," she shakes her head finally, wiping tears aways from her eyes. "See?" she smiles, "I didn't laugh."
"Yeah, right," he snorts.
"I'm sorry, but did you actually expect me not to laugh?" she looks at him incredulously. "I mean, you have a third nipple," she giggles again.
"Well, that'll teach me to tell a woman that I have a third nipple," he mutters. "It's your turn now," he nudges her knee. "You don't by any chance have a third nipple, do you?"
"No," she shakes her head, grinning. "I'm sure only a blessed few have one."
"All right, that's it, no more 'third nipple' talk, okay?"
"Okay," she nods.
"Now, tell me a secret," he leans back against the wall, smiling at her.
She glances at her watch. Almost twelve-fifteen. She looks back at him, realizing that she has no desire to leave him and go up to her room. She pushes her hands into his coat pockets and tugs the coat closer to her body. She looks at him, trying to judge whether it'd be right to tell him what she now has in mind. She decides to risk it. "A guy called me fat once, and I lost nearly 90 pounds in a year just because of him."
"Well," he smirks, "a girl told me that she cut my toe off because she was trying to flirt with me. I've been trying to flirt back with for quite some time now, and I have no idea whether it's working."
She grins, squinting at him. "If the girl's thinking about the guy's third nipple, does it mean that the flirting is working?"
"Okay, that's it, I'm going to my room," he moves to stand up, but she pulls him back, both of them laughing.
"I'm sorry," she shakes her head. "I couldn't resist."
"Obviously," he mutters.
They look away from each other, staring ahead, relishing the comfortable silence.
She still doesn't understand how the evening had turned out this way. A few hours back, she couldn't even have imagined herself being in the same room with Chandler, now she is sitting next to him, wearing his coat, wishing that they both could stay out here all night, stay out here even after dawn.
He interrupts her thoughts as he starts to speak again slowly.
"You know what scares me the most?"
There's something different in his tone this time. She turns to look at him. "What?"
"The thought of standing at the altar as the groom and staring at a woman who's not my bride, thinking, 'God, I wish I was marrying her."
She frowns, confused. What is he talking about?
"Or worse," he continues, "finding that one woman, and then screwing things up with her by doing something stupid."
"What are you saying?"
This is one secret that Ross had trusted him with since the beginning of their friendship. He will not tell her that. He just tells her what he feels. "Have you seen the way Ross looks at your friend Rachel?"
Her frown deepens. "What are you talking about? They've known each other since they were kids."
"I may be wrong," he shrugs, "but whenever I see the way he looks at Rachel, it scares me to think of myself in his place. And you know what makes it even worse? Tonight I saw Carol looking at Rachel, pretty much the same way."
"Chandler!" she looks at him, shocked. "That's not funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny," he shrugs again. When he sees that she still looks stunned, he waves his hand lightly. "Just, just- forget I said that."
"But I don't-" she starts.
"Really," he says more firmly. "Forget I said that."
She turns away with reluctance. He cannot just say something like that and expect her to 'forget' about it. "Are you seeing someone?" she asks, suddenly very curious.
"No, no," he chuckles. "It's been nearly six months now. You see, I don't do the commitment thing," he explains. "It completely freaks me out, and the fact that it freaks me out freaks women out, so... y'know they get tired and just don't stick around for too long, or I chase them away by getting all weird and extremely commitment-phobic. To be precise, I'm like the Anti-Ross," he laughs.
"Ross... I don't know," she shrugs, her tone a little skeptical. "I feel like he's a little too young to be getting married, but I think he's happy with Carol, despite what you just said," she arches an eyebrow, "and I think he'll make this work. All I want is for him to be happy," she smiles. "But you, why wouldn't you do the 'commitment thing'?"
"I don't know. There's this alarm inside my head which begins to ring incessantly when things start to get serious; when I start to feel something for that woman. Y'know, something besides that basic liking," he states it as a matter-of-fact.
"Why does it scare you?" she asks softly, feeling a small sense of elation somewhere inside of her, knowing that she's probably the only woman to whom he'd willingly opened up.
"Doesn't it scare you?" he retorts curiously.
"On some level, yes," she nods. "But I don't push people away. I'm by no means commitment-phobic. Most of the times, I'm just scared that I'll never meet the right person, or I've met him already but never really noticed him." She hugs her knees, gazing at him. "Why does it scare you?" she repeats.
"It feels like drowning, and that's never a pleasant feeling," he smiles.
"What happens after you 'drown'?" she frowns.
"Man, you ask a lot of questions," he laughs.
"I'm just curious," she shrugs, smiling back.
"Oh, I never drown," he shakes his head. "When it starts to feel like I'm drowning, that's the point where I get all weird, scared, and commitment-phobic."
"So what do you do when you get scared?"
"I run," he shrugs. "Sometimes, literally," he laughs again.
She laughs with him, but shakes her head a moment later. "But you can't just run every time you're scared."
"I can't?!"
Thinking that he's mocking her, she glares at him. But from the look on his face, she realizes the truth – this man is genuinely distraught by the idea of not being able to run whenever he's scared.
"No, honey, you can't," she smiles at him tenderly.
The term of endearment has slipped out so easily and naturally. Both notice, but neither minds.
"Well, that's a little unsettling," he comments, turning away. "But... I just figured that if the right woman comes along, I'll just know it," he says slowly. "With her, I wouldn't freak out. With her, I'll at least work hard not to freak out," he turns to her again, his expression hopeful, like he's seeking her reassurance. "Does that make sense?"
She gazes back at him, feeling a sudden, intense surge of companionate love for him. Her brain tells her that this is the same Chandler whom she'd not have hesitated to kill, just a few hours back, had the circumstance been conducive, but her heart tells her that this is a different guy, altogether.
Her fingers rise against her volition to brush his cheek.
His light stubble scrapes her knuckles. He peers into her eyes, his gaze unwavering and intense, and she thinks she can see a trace of lust in his eyes. Feeling a hazy, unfamiliar dizziness, she returns his gaze, wondering whether her own eyes mirror his lust.
No good could come out of this, says a voice inside her brain, and she immediately knows that it's true. No good will come out of this.
She pulls her hand away sharply, turning her eyes to the floor, feeling the color flood her cheeks.
The last thing she needs now is another crush on this man, who, in his own words, is 'commitment-phobic'.
She rises to her feet, removes his coat slowly, and extends it towards him as she quietly says, "It's getting late."
"Where are you going?" he asks without taking his coat from her.
"To my room," she shrugs, leaning down to place the coat on his lap.
"Can't you stay for a little while longer, Mon?" He frowns, "Can I call you Mon?"
"Yes," she nods, smiling, "you can, but I can't stay. It's-"
"We could just talk or something," he interrupts, his tone hopeful.
"Chandler... I don't think-"
His hand rises, and his fingers thread their way through hers. "Stay," he murmurs.
She nods slowly, wondering why she had wanted to leave in the first place.
~.~
She is pinned between the hallway wall and Chandler. His warm fingers are splayed against the cool skin of her back, trailing along her skin, drawing patterns that she cannot be bothered to decipher right now.
One hand wrapped around his nape, holding him close, her other hand snakes its way through his hair absently as he trails kisses along her jawline.
His lips return to hers, and she parts her lips to meet his tongue with her own, feeling his thumb trace her cheekbone.
He kisses her as if his life depends on it, and even as she clings back to him, she doesn't know how the moment has transcended to this point.
One second, they are standing in front of her door, facing each other awkwardly; the next, his lips are on hers, and she is left wondering, just for a second before she loses her sense of reality, how this could possibly feel so natural. So right.
He fingers the satin of her dress, edging above her breasts, tentatively. Her skin burns wherever he touches.
He pulls away a second later, his gaze soft as he leans in to brush his lips against her eyelids.
Her eyes closed, she sighs, trailing her hands from his nape to his neck, pulling him closer by his shirt collar.
Just as he leans in to kiss her again, the elevator in the hallway pings open to reveal a middle-aged man stepping out of it.
Chandler places his hands flat on the wall either side of Monica's waist, both of them breathing hard as they look down, waiting for the man to go past them to reach his room.
The man eyes the couple suspiciously as he passes them. He retrieves the key-card from his pocket, and just before he enters his room, he shakes his head disapprovingly, muttering, "Kids these days..."
Once the door closes, Chandler chuckles, turning to Monica, but he turns quiet on seeing the look on her face.
Reality has settled in.
She shakes her head slowly as her brain manages one small moment of lucidity. "It probably wouldn't have been the greatest idea," she whispers, looking down.
His heart hammers against his ribs, his desire for her overwhelming him, but as reluctant as he is to admit it, it is true – it wouldn't have been the greatest idea. After all, she is Ross's little sister.
"Yeah," he whispers back eventually.
Her hands remain on his collar, and his still remain in such a way that she's effectively trapped between his arms.
She lifts her eyes to meet his, her gaze lingering on his lips for a moment – her own feel swollen and tender from his kisses.
Why is she looking at him like that? If she wants him to stop, she should push him away, not look at him like that.
Reality fades away once again as the moment returns. He seizes it by leaning forward, nibbling on her lower lip.
She closes her eyes again, her grip on his collar tightening.
He pulls back from her lips and leans his forehead against hers, nudging her nose with his gently. "I make poor decisions all the time," he murmurs, his own eyes closed.
"Me, too," she murmurs back as she pulls him by his collar for another kiss.
~.~
She stretches languorously in her bed the next morning, feeling deliciously sore, the post-coital afterglow still lingering.
Her eyes still closed, she smiles a little as her hand reaches the other side of the bed, searching for him.
Her eyes snap open when all she feels is the cold bed. His side of the bed is empty.
She props herself on her elbow to check whether his clothes are still in the room, tears pricking her eyes when she finds none.
He has left.
She returns her eyes to the bed, touching the place where he'd slept next to her.
The only proof for the fact that he had spent the night there, holding her in his arms, is the smell of him on the rumpled sheets.
He has left her like a cheap one-night stand.
~.~
He has hurt her. He knows that.
He watches her move around gracefully beside her mother. Her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed, she pretends to be happy when she's not.
She meets his eyes for a moment, her eyes flashing hurt. She looks away immediately, her eyes turning bright and shiny with tears that he knows he had caused.
He wants to pull her aside and explain to her that he had not meant to hurt her, that it had been a reflex – a very strong urge to run; a very strong urge to escape that overwhelming sense of drowning.
I run every time I'm scared, he had told her last night, and now he'd showed her how he does it.
He watches her walk down the aisle alone, her head held low, her face expressionless, his heart breaking with every step that she takes towards him.
As Carol walks down the aisle, he knows that Ross is looking at Rachel, just like he had told Monica last night.
His own eyes never leave her.
She had been right. He cannot run every time he's scared.
He should not have run away from her.
~.~
The bride and the groom kiss, and as they begin to walk away from the altar, hand in hand, he knows it's the moment that he'd been both awaiting and dreading.
She places her hand on his arm lightly, never once looking up at him.
"Mon..." he whispers slowly, but she shakes her head.
"Don't," she whispers back fiercely. "Just. Don't."
He forces himself to be silent. He will talk to her when they reach the end of the aisle. He will make her understand that the last thing he'd wanted was to hurt her.
Once they reach the end of the aisle, though, she pulls her hand away from him and swiftly turns away, heading out the wedding hall.
He runs after her, not caring that people would wonder where the Maid of Honor and the Best Man are going in a hurry.
This is more important. She is more important.
It takes him several seconds to catch up with her, and when he does, he realizes that they'd both reached the hallway of the floor where their rooms are.
He grabs her by her arm, and she pulls away from him forcefully, her cheeks turning dangerously red, her eyes flooding with tears that she tries hard to hold back, but fails miserably.
"Leave me alone!" she hisses, backing against the wall when he comes closer.
"Monica-"
"Are you happy now?" she demands menacingly.
"What?" he whispers, confused and apprehensive.
"Is that what you wanted, revenge? Use me and leave me?"
Revenge? What is she talking about?
And then he realizes that she's referring to their whole ludicrous enmity that had lasted three years, and suddenly he wants to laugh at her naïvety.
"No, Mon," he shakes his head, wanting so badly to pull her into his embrace, but knowing that this time, she wouldn't hesitate to push him away.
He really has hurt her.
"Monica..." he trails off, at a loss of words.
"Why did you leave, Chandler?" she asks softly, tears spilling from her eyes.
He can feel his heart breaking within his chest. "I was scared," he whispers finally.
She looks down, the tears now freely flowing down her cheeks.
She doesn't understand why she is crying – it most probably would have remained a one-night stand. She might never see him again after today.
She had slept with very few men, and none of those men had left her alone in the morning, but she knows she wouldn't have cared even if they had left.
She is now crying because it's him.
"You don't deserve me," he tells her, his voice gentle. "You deserve someone better, someone who wouldn't run away every time he feels something." He moves closer to her, his words just a breath, "You deserve someone who isn't afraid to fall in love with you."
He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away again, her angry exterior returning.
"You made me feel like a whore."
Her words aren't too loud, but they're loud enough that they echo in the empty hallway. They are loud enough to make him flinch.
"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, suddenly feeling too ashamed to even look at her. "I never meant to hurt you. That's the last thing I wanted." He raises his eyes from the floor reluctantly, to look at her. "I cannot be in a relationship right now," he says slowly. "You want to know the truth?" he tilts his head to one side. "I'm not mature enough to sustain a healthy relationship. I'm sloppy, I'm immature, and I screw things up like nobody's business," he smiles lightly. "Believe me, you wouldn't want to be with this Chandler, either."
His fingers rise to wipe her tears away. She allows him to touch her this time.
"This may sound cliché, but I have to tell you – it's not you," he says emphatically. "You're perfect; perfect in every single way there is," he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, her tears moistening his fingers. "It's all me. I'm sorry I hurt you. I never meant to," he sighs. "But commitment has never been my thing, it probably never will be." His thumb trails down her cheek, tracing the stains that her tears had left. "I'm sorry for everything," he whispers finally.
She remains quiet for several moments before she gently moves away from his touch and looks up at him. "I never asked you to be in a relationship with me," she shakes her head. Her voice is low and husky. Her eyes brim with fresh tears. "I just wanted you to stay."
~.~.~
A/N: If you indeed had finished this in one sitting, I applaud you!
So how do you like this fic so far? I'd appreciate it very much if you'd let me know :)
HALLELUJAH, certaindarkthings, Stephy-Lou Clark-Weasley, WendyCR72, gAnGsTa GaBbY lOvEs JoKeR, ladover, Shyfighter, MatTeneyMoNdlerLoVer, ScandalousScavos, Trude, dizuz, Gabbergirl11, Mystery Girl 911, Ghee Buttersnaps15, and matteney - as always, thank you for all those amazing reviews! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your confidence in me as a writer. Thank you!
Oh, and another thing - I most probably will change the rating of this fic from T to M when I post the next chapter. So, unless you have either me/this story on alert or unless you check the M-rated category from time to time, you might miss the next update.