Ross is completely tuned out. This afternoon's topic is Compassion vs Competition and Dr. Phalange has been lecturing for a good five minutes about seeking each other's positive energy but Ross can't find any type of energy in him at all - at least it's Friday. It's been one of those weeks where one day piles on top of the other. Half of it has been a juggling act of covering colleagues' classes aside from his own, studying tenses in French, Emma getting sniffles, and the other half of it, whatever buttons him and Rachel are continuing to push testing his resolve harder than a dissertation.
After last week's session, he'd hoped that the light at the end of the tunnel is within reach. Come Away With Me had to mean something, right? But between their busy schedules, progress's been all away and nothing is coming. (Well, except for them, at night, falling seamlessly back into the old pattern of being all over each other as soon as they're home, lingering looks and squeezing hands and, yeah, his breath on her skin until his name leaves her lips.)
But apart from that, nothing. No acknowledgment of even the songs, no further discussion about any and all revelations that session had dug up.
He'd had no idea that what she was ready for more back then. Because he'd wanted more, that much is a given. If he had known...his life would be so different now. He isn't even sure if they'd be in Paris still, but is one hundred percent sure he would've had less divorces. And now...
When he imagines his life would be like if they'd had that conversation back then, it's a whole world of difference. The conversation would have gone: "Oh, by the way honey, I know I've been busy but I really like this job and I feel we can move into the next step of our relationship" and then him replying: "What a coincidence sweetie, this velvet box has been burning my pocket for several weeks now." If that happened, he doesn't know if they would even be in this therapist's office. All he knows is, had it happened, Scarsdale would've too, and they wouldn't flinch at the name Emily. But he loves the world they're in now far too much to ask for anything else.
Therefore, the next obvious logical thought in his head, taking in that whole session, had been: It didn't happen then because I believed when you said you weren't ready and you didn't care to tell me that you already were but now we've listened to those songs and mine says 'Home is where I wanna be but I guess I'm already here' and yours says 'All I ask is for you to come away with me' then what do you want me to do Rach?
But she said nothing, so he did nothing - at least not yet. It had taken her the exact time getting to the creche to pick Emma up to seemingly forget about what happened in the hour before. He knows she's kept it in the back of her head, and he wishes he wasn't made aware of their scientific brain connection. Because no matter how gutsy he would've felt, maybe approaching the topic himself, his confidence had taken a backseat to give her space to percolate, clearly a lesson learned from dredging up that night. He'd just waited the following seven days for her to maybe throw him a bone but he should've known better as that was like waiting for her to get dressed for a night out.
"So we've established that you've treated your post-break up as a competition and how that shouldn't have been the case," Dr. Phalange remarks from the other side of the room and Ross then realizes that he has not heard a single word that's been said in the last few minutes. "Do you feel like there are still areas in your relationship where that rears its head?"
"I think so," Ross blurts out, still thinking about their now month-long game of intimacy yoyo, and Rachel must know what he's referring to from the sharp breath that seeps through her pouted lips, as if she hasn't been the one egging him to rip off her La Perlas with his teeth. Not that he's complaining.
"For example?" Dr. Phalange asks because that's her job and Ross scrambles for a half truth that would make sense.
"Chores, mostly," Rachel covers smoothly and he wants to flip her off.
Their therapist eyes them suspiciously but lets it go and proceeds to scribble on that thickening notepad of hers, which must be full of professional ways to say WTF by now. Ross has been thinking about booking a solo session with the good doctor, if only to make sure that he made the right decision in suggesting this in the first place.
"Okay, so mundane things," Dr. Phalange says, standing up and grabbing a fading box from one of the shelves. "I know I said no trust falls before, but let's take a look at that competitive streak through a quick game of Twister."
And Ross can't help but laugh out loud.
"What are we, twelve?" he shifts in his seat, staying put. "It would be hardly fair for Rach, I'm way taller and have longer limbs."
"Oh, your money's mine Geller, it always has been," she retorts, standing up immediately and dusting off her grey dress, as she turns over to look at him. There's that sparkle in her eyes he adores so much. She tugs on his sleeve and he follows her on reflex, watches her kneel between two green dots.
(And the way she looks up at him from down there brings back last night's memory that has him half-hard in seconds, so he quickly joins her on the mat before Dr. Phalange sees and puts him in the corner.)
"Super," Dr. Phalange says from the comfort of her own couch still, twiddling with the spinner with a flourish. "Before we begin, I'd like for you to keep your mind working. Keep in mind what the competition is doing to you, how you're feeling, what changes in the process."
"Sure, doc," Ross replies, still transfixed by Rachel, who's full on glaring at him, while sporting a sly smirk.
"Spin it," she says, her tone clipped, without taking her eyes off Ross either.
"Génial," Dr. Phalange starts. "Rachel, right foot green."
Several turns later and Rachel hasn't let up at all. What else to expect from the cheerleader. She'd been taking Emma to Mommy and Me yoga while he'd been relying on physical genetics. Of course she's in fantastic shape. Ross quickly eats his words about going easy on her because he simply can't, because she's going for it and honestly, the spinner must be playing against him too, to have her back arched and all fours under him. He's humbled right away and reaches for his spot across the mat with slight difficulty. She's full on smiling now, must notice how the veins on his arm are working overtime and he wonders why he's surprised. He bruises like a peach! And she knows it. He hates her and he loves her and there, at the back of his conscience is a primal, ugly instinct that smells like man, yelling 'is this the best you can do?'
No. So he pushes back. And ah, there goes the first domino when his hand passes between her legs and the grin on her face fades, quickly replaced with a snarl as she brushes her bare foot against his inner thigh to step on the yellow dot.
Her eyes shine dangerously as she brushes her tongue across her lips, then bites down hard on the bottom one, and what was once half-hard goes rock solid. He's straining against the fitted trim of his khakis and he has to grunt at his blood to stay in their vessels . He groans, half in frustration at being a testosterone-addled male, and half in effort to keep up with her as he flexes his arms to stay further up, practically in a plank. Rachel bares her teeth, like a rabid animal, and oh he's so screwed, he wants her so badly he could shout.
He has half a mind to let her win just to see her face break into that adorable victory squeal but an idea springs to mind, and seeing her all riled up is just as appealing.
Feeling quite smug, he leans forward as far as the angle of their bodies allow and licks his own lips, very slowly, and stares at her in steely mode as he makes no attempt to hide that he's undressing her with his eyes. He's thinking every filthy word right at her and hopes she hears them all. And maybe their shared brains do work because next, her mouth drops open on a gasp and he grins at her wickedly, visualizing in perfect clarity how he would scoop her into his arms and lock her legs on either side of his waist, push those flimsy panties to the side under that curve-hugging dress and grind into her while nipping her neck purple and pin her against the far shelves until those board game boxes rattle to the floor.
Rachel whines, squeaky and lewd, and the way she looks up at him could shatter this building. Undeniable smoke brews to the surface, a manic energy straining to fight fire with fire and neither of them relents. Sweat falls from his forehead and into the mat and his pants grow even tighter, and with what few braincells he has left functioning, he hopes Dr. Phalange cannot see from her hawk's eye view. But that last shred of shame goes straight out the door when Rachel skims her palm past his crotch ever so slightly on her way to the red dot. Her soft touch may as well be a thousand volts and Ross nearly moans.
He rocks forward, presses his front to her behind so she knows he's got her gist ("Yeah, you like that sweetie?" his debauched mind wonders without shame, zero room for much else) and Rachel's breath stalls before coming out in a huff. She clearly does, her gaze darkening from ocean eyes to electric blue and it's gratifying and grating at the same time; he is a literal moment way from pulling her onto his lap, where they are and who he is thrown out the window.
"Ça suffit! Stop it right now." Dr. Phalange's voice is hoarse from the couch and Ross and Rachel freeze as if doused with a cold shower, the tension wound tighter, then breaking into shivers of realization. They skitter away from each other, onto opposite sides of the mat, and turn their heads to their therapist who is somehow still there. "Ne vois-tu pas? What's going on here?!"
They kinda do, but in true Ross-and-Rachel fashion, they don't want to.
"You bring sex into the equation," Dr. Phalange says in disbelief. "With your knack for equivalent retaliation stemming from an ugly breakup, you've made little competitions out of sex."
"No we don't!" Rachel protests as Ross's still-glazed eyes flutter over to her reddened chest.
"We played into her hand Rach," he sputters and wonders why it took him so long to figure out. Because he's read a fair share of psych books for school and they'd already been applying game theory in their past sessions. Dr. Phalange just wanted to gain proof of her hypothesis and they'd delivered it on a platter.
"Hook, line, and sinker," Dr. Phalange says dryly. "So it's absolutely no surprise that you're confused and you're complicating my relatively simple assignment. If you're deliberately turning your sexual tension or attraction into a currency to table communication, what do you expect will be the result of that? You've compared your relationship to stars last week, and we know stars can burst. This is absurdite. You've always been the ones making it hard on yourselves."
Silence, followed by more silence (while Ross can't bear to look at Rachel and feels like a dumbass squatting on the floor and put on the spot like that), ends up with Dr. Phalange going off in profane French. And it would be kind of funny if Ross hadn't been scolding his own students mere hours earlier.
"I've been lenient so far but you either have to confront this tension or stop with this behaviour or there's no point in all of us meeting," Dr. Phalange sighs out. "So? Do you want to take this discussion seriously now?"
They nod wordlessly at their therapist.
"D'accord," Dr. Phalange says. "Let's try your hands at anti-intimacy."
The first time Rachel looks at Ross again after the twisted Twister and deserved call-out, is when Dr. Phalange has them stand in front of the wooden shelves facing each other and commands them to look at the other's eyes. Rachel meets Ross's with a softness that's both guarded and vulnerable. I'll read all your letters, eighteen pages, front and back, five in the morning.
"Ross, I want you to put your hands on her, wherever you like," their therapist instructs. "Rachel, I want you to do the same."
She hesitates but in the end, her hands are on him first, one flat on his chest, approximately where his heart is, the other one tugging at the hem of the shirt she picked out for him. His palm splays the small of her back on instinct, unconsciously landing on the tattooed heart hidden in her hip, his other hand curling around hers where it rests over his heart. A wave of warmth cuts to the tension, their legs almost swaying in a natural dance.
"Now - stay that way and let the other person be," Dr. Phalange continues. "Connection, feeling each other's presence, good. But crazy faces, weird looks, funny business - bad. Just stand there and don't make this about competition - or sex. If you want this new phase to work the way you say you do, you have to learn how to be close without going there. Find comfort in discomfort."
Funny how they'd started off laughing between first date kisses.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," their therapist gingerly walks over to the door. "Just giving you some breathing room, no glass panes on the other side. But so help me, if I come back and you've desecrated my couch, I'm dropping you immediately."
The door shuts and Ross and Rachel are left in the quiet. Her hands burn on him, his on hers are steady yet trembling still, ever so slightly.
"Hey you," she says, eventually.
"Hi," he replies with a nervous chuckle.
"Let's go to therapy, he said, it'll be fun, he said," she quips while shaking her head with a smile.
"Hey, I never said it was going to be fun," he defends in a hushed voice. "But I am sorry."
"For what now?" she asks, sincere.
"I don't know, it's easier to say it in advance?" he answers and sounds guilty.
"Hey, that's not how it works and you know it," she pokes him lightly.
"Yeah, but...like you said...I suggested this, and we have been using sex to avoid talking," he admits - one band-aid ripped off. "And it's been a lot of fun, not gonna lie. But too much of a good thing..."
"I know. Ugh, what's wrong with us?!" she says, toying with the last button on his shirt, not even in that way, just out of habit.
"Do we have an extra hour?" he jokes, and then adds, seriously this time: "Rach, I truly love where we're at right now. You and Emma and me in this beautiful city you've brought us in, just enjoying life and knowing this is it and I cannot ask for more."
"But do you ever wonder what's next after it?" she whispers, almost muted, and covers her mouth as if she'd slipped.
Are you - are you implying what I think...? He nearly asks but bites his tongue in the end.
"That's what we're here for and what Dr. Phalange wants us to talk about," he says instead and she looks so relieved it breaks his heart a little. Are you ready? Am I ready?
"Fully clothed," she adds with a snigger. "Full on conference."
Then her face shifts, switches from musing to amused and she cocks her head to the side. "You know what I just realized?"
"You hit your head on the wall and you shouldn't have gotten off the plane?" he asks, unable to not mirror her grin that's brightened his whole life.
"Self deprecation is Chandler's thing," she plays along with an exaggerated eyeroll, before gazing up at him again. "Remember when I turned thirty and we all shared our existential crises?"
"You burst into tears when a card called you grandma," he recalls with a teasing wince.
"In my defense, I cry all the time," she shrugs back. "But seriously - remember? I was making plans myself, about having a kid at thirty-five, which meant I should already be with someone by the time I'm thirty. Prada still hasn't made maternity clothes, by the way, which I guess is why I don't work for them!"
"To be fair, Rach, I was beside you at that table."
Rachel wants to wipe the dimples off his face yet can't help but giggle, and it eases Ross further into relaxing under her touch.
"I know, that's why I'm bringing it up," she says softly. "We've both made plans that didn't exactly pan out the way they were supposed to, but it still ended up falling into place for us, didn't it? Perhaps what wasn't meant to be before was probably just waiting for the right time."
Her tone is bordering on both hope and prudence and his heart is buzzing at what's between the lines, eager to pry her words open and seek its hidden truth. She's laid out the inkling right there for him to discover, but he has to be one hundred and ten percent sure this time - he doesn't ever want to mess this up for her again.
"I see you're both still wearing clothes," Dr. Phalange says in jest, closing the door behind her and motioning for her clients to sit back on the couch.
Once they follow, the therapist keeps staring at them for a bit and Ross thinks she's zoning in on the lipstick mark on his collar (it's from this morning!).
"Do we get a couple of gold stars?" Rachel remarks with a grin.
Dr. Phalange purses her lips, to maybe, probably to berate her joke, but then pedals back.
"Look, I'm not making fun of either of you. But I am doing my job, which is trying to give you the tools to foster communication in your relationship. I just want to help you be the best couple you can be."
"We understand," Ross replies. "And it's much appreciated. Kick the old habits out of old people - or maybe just me, I think my back's in a pinch."
(Ross feels Rachel sit much closer to him now and that electric feeling radiating from her skin to his continues to hum, sparking an epiphany about the woman who's chosen to love him. For someone as fearless as she is, her caution around them - around him - is completely warranted. He wants to take her question by the hand and show her what's next. So like when she'd run into a coffee shop in a wet wedding dress, and sprinted away from an airport to her heart's desire - maybe it's now his time to be brave and seize the day.)