This Moment in September
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.
Be sure to leave a review, and take a look at the author's note at the bottom. Thanks, and hope you enjoy. Another note: I can't get italics to work when I upload (suggestions, anyone?) so what is supposed to be in italics is surrounded by asterisks (*) instead.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Chapter One: Just the One Blanket
There are still the papers to file. Frowning slightly, Rachel looks around her office, papers and folders scattered casually across the desk's surface, and debates whether to take the time to tackle the quite unpleasant yet quite needed task of filing now or tomorrow. The choice is easy, really. Tomorrow, she decides. *Definitely* tomorrow. Order can wait for another day. She has to stifle a giggle; the thought of Monica's face if she ever uttered that statement in her presence is so amusing that she considers doing it. For now, she gathers her jacket and purse, on the way out saying a quick goodbye to Gavin and her assistant, a new wide-eyed girl who looks so young she could pull off saddle shoes.
The double glass doors open onto one of those splendid New York evenings so clear that the sounds, colors, and smells that float through Manhattan seem fuller, rounder, more at peace with themselves. It is late September, but you wouldn't know it from the weather. The remnants of an Indian summer still hang in the air, and tinge the crisp autumn with a warmth as sweet as a just-ripened orange. Rachel plunges into Madison Avenue, eager to gulp down the fresh air, the scents of September, and the jostle of midtown's crowd, whose eyes reflect notions of kicking their shoes off, of their families, and dinner on the table. All thoughts of hailing a cab are banished despite her high-healed Prada shoes and the need to get home quickly. The joy of the city is simply too much to resist.
She looks at her watch, smiling. Five o'clock. Two hours and five minutes from the start of the game.
Flashback: Several days earlier
The door to apartment 20 flies open, and an excited Joey bounces in waving a white envelope, face lit up like fireworks off the Brooklyn Bridge on the fourth of July. The other five, plus a now three year old Emma, who is pretending to read poems out of Where the Sidewalk Ends (which Phoebe gave her and has put to music), look expectantly from the kitchen. The gang still gathers at Monica and Chandler's apartment, as little has changed in their living arrangements. Ross still lives across the street in his apartment, which he now shares with Charlie, and Phoebe and Mike are engaged and living in Phoebe's apartment. Joey still lives faithfully in apartment 19 across from Monica and Chandler, and Rachel and Emma live next door, in apartment 17. Roughly two years ago, shortly after the trip to Barbados, Rachel and Joey's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kim, moved out of the city, and Rachel jumped at the chance to give her and Joey space. Just the tension and prying eyes surrounding the pair was reason enough to move, even if it was just next door. Not that she could bare to move much further.
"I got tickets!" Joey sang, at any moment threatening to break out into Chandler's happy dance. "Woohoo! I got tickets!"
"To what, a Broadway musical?" says Chandler, mouth curled up into his knowing half-grin. "42nd Street, perhaps?"
Joey pauses on the brink of dancing. "Wha . . . . ? What the hell is 42nd Street? Dude, you don't need tickets to go to Times Square!" Rachel watches as the others share humored glances so subtle and brief they are almost undetectable. She has long ago chosen to not participate in making explicit this implicit assumption that Joey is the least bright of the six. At least he knows where Times Square is, she thinks.
"So then where are you going, Joey?" asks Rachel.
The excitement flows back into Joey's face. "A Yankee game! Yeah, my sister Gina and her husband can't make it to the game next week, so they gave me the tickets." He looks guiltily around, "Who wants to come with me? I only have one extra."
"I do! I do!" Emma squeals, her little hand shooting above her head of loose dark curls.
"Emma, honey, do you really want to go? You don't even know about baseball, and it'll be really late at night," says Ross to his daughter, as always giving the most logical explanation possible. Sometimes Rachel wonders if is capable of an illogical thought, but then reminds herself that this is the man who dated Janice for a week and claims to have achieved a state of unagi. Op, no, wrong again--that would be irrational, not illogical.
"I do too know about baseball," she retorts. "Joey taught me." Rachel has to laugh at her indignant look. Emma gets up off of Rachel's lap, and, setting Shel Silverstein aside, stands as if holding a baseball bat, her feet shoulder's width apart, elbows out, smacking imaginary bubble bum, looking at Joey. She looks almost comic doing this in a yellow skirt and peasant blouse, but her eyes are serious under her brow. Seeing this, Joey gazes at her sideways and gives her a pitcher's sneer, fingering an imaginary baseball behind his back before throwing a slider in slow motion. Emma swings, body twisting in a perfect follow-through, sending the pretend ball towards right field, and no doubt into the bleachers. It would be plain to anyone that this is not the first time the two have done this. Out of the corner of her eye, as everyone laughs and applauds, Rachel can detect that Ross' too-wide smile is hiding something, something unsaid yet palpable, that has for two years kept a rift between her and Joey.
"Good-bye baseball!" yells Joey as he and Emma drop their stances. He rushes forward, swinging Emma off her feet, sending her hair flying and laughter flowing light and easy out of her mouth. Rachel looks at the two of them, so alike in their bright eyes and happy grins.
"So can I, Joey? Can I come?" she says, giving him a puppy dog face that she could have gotten from either of her parents.
"Actually, Ems," he says and eyes Rachel, who gives him a nod, "I think it'd be better if you stayed home for this one, but I'll tell you what. How about you and me go up to Central Park next weekend and practice that beautiful swing of yours?" Emma's face lights up.
"Okay!" she says, "but only if we get hotdogs, too."
"Deal." Joey sets her down and she scampers off to bug Monica in the kitchen. "So," he says, looking around. "Who's free next Tuesday for a Yankee game?"
(End of Flashback)
As it turns out, only one person was: Rachel. Tonight, the others would all be off to their other obligations: Monica at the restaurant, Chandler having a dinner meeting downtown, Ross and Charlie off to some "special paleontology lecture" at NYU, and Phoebe declared Emma could stay with her for the night because "those damn Yankees get paid millions of dollars for hitting a stupid ball and certain other people are stuck massaging for the rest of their lives!" And so Rachel, despite the fact that the whole of her baseball knowledge is based on A League of Their Own with Gina Davis, will sit in Yankee Stadium with Joey tonight. Just Joey. Her heart gives a little flutter and she smiles, watching contentedly as burnt orange and yellow leaves drift from the trees and splash the sidewalk with their fanciful colors. She suddenly has a vision of herself, Emma, and Joey bent over them, trying to find a perfect one to press inside a book. Her smile turns whimsical.
"You know," comes a familiar voice from behind her, "it's rare to find a person who delights in this city as much as you. Have you considered a long-term relationship?" Rachel spins around to find Chandler, clad in a handsome gray suit that brings out the swimming pool blue of his eyes, smiling warmly at her. More often than not, they bump into each other on the way home from work, and if the weather permits, walk toward home side by side until their feet get too tired and they have to take a cab or the subway.
"Well," she replies, letting him guide her off the curb and into 58th Street. "I think this city is my long-term relationship." Chandler laughs. "Oh sure, laugh hard, Bing!" she says, but the glint in her eye tells Chandler that she is teasing. "At least your long-term relationship is with a person. *And* you don't have to share her with eight million other people."
"Well, Monica has enough personality for eight million people. Does that count?" They pass a shoe store window with perfectly straight rows of designer shoes arranged on a clean white display tables. Rachel stops dead to bend and examine them.
"Oh my God! Gucci's fall line!" she squeals. "Chandler, we have to go in!" She tugs on his hand, as if this will persuade him to give up the inevitable hour that Rachel will want to spend in there.
"Uh, 'have to'? Rach, as much as I love Italians and their shoes, I'd have to say, umm, no," says Chandler, thinking that as much as Rachel has changed over the years, in some ways she is endearingly just the same.
"Please? Oh, pretty please? We'll get you something, too!"
"Oh?" says Chandler. "Well in that case, can it be these lovely black pumps, front row, second pair from the end?" he points while pretending to look longingly at the shoes. "You know, I really don't give you enough credit for knowing my taste in ladies shoes."
"Well not from here, silly! I mean, what would Monica think?" She pauses. "And 'black pumps'? How did you know these were pum-you know what, forget it. I don't wanna know. But please come in with me? Just for a second." Preparing this as her last attempt, she looks up at Chandler and pouts slightly, bottom lip looking positively irresistible, her soft blue eyes somehow becoming softer and rounder.
"Oh no! You're not getting me that way!" Chandler says, shaking his head and taking a step back. "That may work like a charm on Joey, but I'm not falling for the Rachel pout. That's the end of him, not me."
"Alrigh . . . . " she begins, but then it hits her. The shoes are suddenly forgotten. "The . . . the end of-? What? What do you mean it works like a charm on Joey?"
"N . . . . Nothing," stutters Chandler. "I didn't say 'Joey.' Or the word 'charm,' especially not in the same sentence . . . Are you okay, are you sure you don't have a fever?" He puts his palm to her forehead, but she brushes it impatiently away.
"Chandler!" Rachel stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk on Madison Avenue with hands on her hips, trying her best to look surprised at something deep down she has known all along. But Chandler doesn't notice; he has gone into panic mode.
"No? No fever?" he asks, beginning to pace, much to the annoyance of some passersby. "Maybe it was something you ate? Or the weather! You know, these fantastically clear fall days can really test a person's hearing."
"Chandler!" says Rachel, her voice raising a little to match her impatience. "I do *not* have a fever, my stomach does *not* hurt, and the weather is just *fine,* so can you please, please . . . . " And then her voice turns soft, her eyes pleading. "Can you please just tell me what you meant by that?" Chandler stops pacing and closes his eyes, thinking that this is as bad as, if not worse than, the crystal duck incident. He lets out a groan. There's really no way to undo the damage.
"I should just stop talking, *forever.*" He resignedly opens his eyes and finds Rachel standing before him, in her hopefulness looking more vulnerable and yet more alive than he can ever remember her being.
"Rach, I . . . I think you already know."
"I need to hear it, Chandler. You have no idea . . . . . These past two years, I've wondered." He nods, understanding.
"He's never stopped loving you, Rach. Not for a second." Rachel gives a slight nod and she bits her lip, trying to stop tears from welling in her eyes and her smile from becoming too wide, but fails miserably. For once she is at a loss for words. Smiling at her smile, Chandler wraps one arm around her, using the other to hail a cab. "Taxi!"
"No, that's okay Chandler, I think I'd rather walk a bit more," says Rachel as a yellow cab pulls up beside them. "But you go ahead." Off of Chandler's dubious look, she adds, "Don't worry, hon, I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you slipped."
"Yeah?" he says, opening the back door to the taxi. Rachel nods, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh good. Listen, I'll see you later." And after a pause, "Have fun at that game tonight." A sly smile. "Let Joey bring just the one blanket . . . . It should be cold tonight." He pulls the door shut and winks as the cab pulls into a sea of yellow and black, taxis and town cars, leaving Rachel to slowly grasp the meaning of his last words . . . . . *Let Joey bring just the one blanket.* At least Chandler is on her and Joey's side. But then again, he was never much for the order of things, fate, or the way things have to be.
Rachel turns towards downtown and resumes her walk down Madison avenue alone, thinking of Chandler, his revelation ringing clear and nagging in her ear. Was he right? Her thoughts drift slowly, almost reluctantly to Joey, as if him in her mind's eye is as potent a thing as him in the flesh would be, standing before her, off-set with his dark hair against the ink-blue sky. Has she dwelled on him too long these past two years? Or has it been, as Chandler seems to think, simply working up to this day, this moment in September, here on the sidewalk on Madison Avenue, yellow leaves playing tag in the wind?
There's no denying the connection that was once between them, she thinks, listening to the rhythmic clomp of her shoes against the pavement. Perhaps it could be there again, if she let it. She can still feel its traces, a certain electricity that makes the air shimmer whenever she and Joey are talking side by side on the orange couch in the coffeehouse, the steam from their cups rising between them, or when they both grab for the TV Guide and their fingers graze and they pause, staring at their touching fingers, sharing a secret that is unsaid even between themselves. It's all there, all that happiness, just waiting to be rediscovered.
She had discovered it once, in Barbados. She remembers it perfectly. Joey had knocked and entered, and he had kissed her right there in the doorway of room 1202. A soft and beautiful kiss, full of promises and hope. He had pulled away, she remembers, all too soon, and as her mind caught up wither stirring emotions, she had muttered a small "oh," and searched his eyes, floating light and blissful on his gaze. Then, after brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead, he had kissed her again, sending her pulse and her spirits soaring, her whole body tingling with his every touch. Yes, she remembers, his tongue had felt its way into her mouth, and she wasted no time meeting it with hers as they kissed, trying to get as much of each other's warm, sweet mouths as possible.
It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and they had seemed, momentarily, wonderfully alone, as if the late afternoon would stretch on into forever, and their whole lives lay before them, open and trusting and lovely. But then something had happened, only minutes after the door was kicked closed, and the moment of happiness remained just that: a moment. It was over before it had even begun . . . .
Flashback: Barbados, Room 1202, Joey is kicking the door shut.
Joey kicks the door shut, closing them off from the rest of the world, and they continue on until breathlessness takes over. Rachel gives a moan of protest when Joey pulls away for the second time.
"You came back," she says, and smiles wonderingly up at him, running her hand along the line of his brow and down his cheek, which sends Joey leaning in for another kiss, pleasure shooting through him as Rachel almost absentmindedly toys with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with aching slowness. Joey again pulls away.
"I had to, Rach," he says. "I had to." He looks at her and for probably the millionth time wonders at the beauty of her eyes. They seem to change color depending on the light, and at the moment he can detect a hint of gold shooting through them.
"I know, sweetie, but I still can't believe it," she says, parting his shirt and lightly stroking the bare skin under it. Joey shivers in pleasure. Inquisitiveness finds its way into her eyes and she asks, "What happened? Why are you back?"
"Aw, you didn't want me to come back?" teases Joey, and pokes her in the stomach, causing a giggle to pour unchecked out of her mouth. She catches his hand with hers and their fingers intertwine.
"Oh, I think all that kissing pretty much answers your question," she says, but then turns serious again. "So why did you come back? What about Ross?" Joey gives a short laugh.
"Yeah, I think, I *think,* Ross will be okay with the whole thing," he says, and gives Rachel a knowing look. She frowns slightly, taking a step back from Joey to get a better look at his expression.
"Okay, what are you not telling me? Did you talk to Ross or is this one of Phoebe's weird karma-psychic-I-can-see-the-future things?"
"What? Oh, no, it's not that. The thing is, when I went down to the lobby to see about a room for tonight, I, ummm, saw Ross and Charlie kissing."
"You --- you what?" says Rachel, quite shocked.
"Yeah, they were pretty much going at it right there next to the concierge desk, and not hiding too well behind that bush, I'll tell ya." He chuckles. Rachel doesn't.
"Wait, are you trying to tell me that you saw your very, very recent-- we're talking less that an hour here-- ex-girlfriend kissing your best friend in the lobby and from that you decided to kiss me? Out of *spite* for them??" She looks demandingly yet pleadingly at Joey, her fiery eyes begging him to disagree with her.
"Rach, it's not what you think-" he begins desperately, but is cut off.
"You . you guys kissed?" says a voice from the door, and Joey and Rachel spin around to find Ross standing in the doorway, looking utterly taken aback, jealousy beginning to boil hot and dangerous in his eyes as he takes in their flushed cheeks, guilty eyes, and Joey's unbuttoned shirt. "Oh my God."
(End of Flashback)
That was the beginning of everything, thinks Rachel as she continues her walk. Or the end, depending on how you choose to look at it. The light at 46th turns green and Rachel steps into the street, wrapping her coat more tightly around her as a cool and slightly damp autumn breeze catches up with her from the east. It was the trip to Barbados, more than anything else, that has determined her life for the past two years. She left the island with as many questions as when she arrived, but more doubts. In the end, tensions and emotions ran high, and she had been left with an aching feeling that Joey had kissed her partly out of spite for Charlie, whom he had genuinely liked, and with the equally horrible feeling that if this wasn't the case and she and Joey did start a relationship, Ross would certainly not be able to handle it. There was also Emma to think about. And to top it off, word of their kiss spread quickly throughout the rest of the gang, sending mostly well-meaning, but nonetheless prying questions hurling towards them from all directions, seeming to step mercilessly on the sacredness in which Rachel regarded the happenings in Barbados. It was as if her happiness had been trampled on. Now their minutes together are nothing more than a memory, but every time Rachel chances to lock eyes with Joey she can feel traces his lips silky and warm on hers, the pressure of his firm body against hers, his tantalizing, dewy breath hot on her neck, his fingers kneading the skin of her shoulders, arms, and back, his hands in her hair. He has not failed to leave his mark on her. He has left it in her very skin, in the blue depths of her eyes, and on her heart.
*Just the one blanket*.
Rachel smiles. She bends to pick up a crisp, crimson colored leaf for Emma and twirls it between her fingers, watching as the edges blur by like children on a merry-go-round. Perhaps she will just have to make her own visions come true.
End of chapter one.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading and please leave a review! I found this story extremely difficult to write, so further chapters will mainly rest on the reader's interest (otherwise I may move on, for now, to other stories). And be sure to tell me if you like the style and the pace of it, as it may be a bit more measured (okay fine, slower, I admit it!) than most fics. Thank you! :0)
Oh, and I promise that Joey will surface soon. I know it's a bit strange to have a Joey/Rachel story when Joey is, for the moment, missing in action.
Okay, and another note I feel is needed, although it may not be relevant . . . my proofreader said some phrases read too much like the book The Hours, which I have yet to read (or see the movie), but I don't really want to change anything, so if there are any too-close resemblances, I apologize, and it is certainly not intended.
Kristine
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.
Be sure to leave a review, and take a look at the author's note at the bottom. Thanks, and hope you enjoy. Another note: I can't get italics to work when I upload (suggestions, anyone?) so what is supposed to be in italics is surrounded by asterisks (*) instead.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
Chapter One: Just the One Blanket
There are still the papers to file. Frowning slightly, Rachel looks around her office, papers and folders scattered casually across the desk's surface, and debates whether to take the time to tackle the quite unpleasant yet quite needed task of filing now or tomorrow. The choice is easy, really. Tomorrow, she decides. *Definitely* tomorrow. Order can wait for another day. She has to stifle a giggle; the thought of Monica's face if she ever uttered that statement in her presence is so amusing that she considers doing it. For now, she gathers her jacket and purse, on the way out saying a quick goodbye to Gavin and her assistant, a new wide-eyed girl who looks so young she could pull off saddle shoes.
The double glass doors open onto one of those splendid New York evenings so clear that the sounds, colors, and smells that float through Manhattan seem fuller, rounder, more at peace with themselves. It is late September, but you wouldn't know it from the weather. The remnants of an Indian summer still hang in the air, and tinge the crisp autumn with a warmth as sweet as a just-ripened orange. Rachel plunges into Madison Avenue, eager to gulp down the fresh air, the scents of September, and the jostle of midtown's crowd, whose eyes reflect notions of kicking their shoes off, of their families, and dinner on the table. All thoughts of hailing a cab are banished despite her high-healed Prada shoes and the need to get home quickly. The joy of the city is simply too much to resist.
She looks at her watch, smiling. Five o'clock. Two hours and five minutes from the start of the game.
Flashback: Several days earlier
The door to apartment 20 flies open, and an excited Joey bounces in waving a white envelope, face lit up like fireworks off the Brooklyn Bridge on the fourth of July. The other five, plus a now three year old Emma, who is pretending to read poems out of Where the Sidewalk Ends (which Phoebe gave her and has put to music), look expectantly from the kitchen. The gang still gathers at Monica and Chandler's apartment, as little has changed in their living arrangements. Ross still lives across the street in his apartment, which he now shares with Charlie, and Phoebe and Mike are engaged and living in Phoebe's apartment. Joey still lives faithfully in apartment 19 across from Monica and Chandler, and Rachel and Emma live next door, in apartment 17. Roughly two years ago, shortly after the trip to Barbados, Rachel and Joey's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kim, moved out of the city, and Rachel jumped at the chance to give her and Joey space. Just the tension and prying eyes surrounding the pair was reason enough to move, even if it was just next door. Not that she could bare to move much further.
"I got tickets!" Joey sang, at any moment threatening to break out into Chandler's happy dance. "Woohoo! I got tickets!"
"To what, a Broadway musical?" says Chandler, mouth curled up into his knowing half-grin. "42nd Street, perhaps?"
Joey pauses on the brink of dancing. "Wha . . . . ? What the hell is 42nd Street? Dude, you don't need tickets to go to Times Square!" Rachel watches as the others share humored glances so subtle and brief they are almost undetectable. She has long ago chosen to not participate in making explicit this implicit assumption that Joey is the least bright of the six. At least he knows where Times Square is, she thinks.
"So then where are you going, Joey?" asks Rachel.
The excitement flows back into Joey's face. "A Yankee game! Yeah, my sister Gina and her husband can't make it to the game next week, so they gave me the tickets." He looks guiltily around, "Who wants to come with me? I only have one extra."
"I do! I do!" Emma squeals, her little hand shooting above her head of loose dark curls.
"Emma, honey, do you really want to go? You don't even know about baseball, and it'll be really late at night," says Ross to his daughter, as always giving the most logical explanation possible. Sometimes Rachel wonders if is capable of an illogical thought, but then reminds herself that this is the man who dated Janice for a week and claims to have achieved a state of unagi. Op, no, wrong again--that would be irrational, not illogical.
"I do too know about baseball," she retorts. "Joey taught me." Rachel has to laugh at her indignant look. Emma gets up off of Rachel's lap, and, setting Shel Silverstein aside, stands as if holding a baseball bat, her feet shoulder's width apart, elbows out, smacking imaginary bubble bum, looking at Joey. She looks almost comic doing this in a yellow skirt and peasant blouse, but her eyes are serious under her brow. Seeing this, Joey gazes at her sideways and gives her a pitcher's sneer, fingering an imaginary baseball behind his back before throwing a slider in slow motion. Emma swings, body twisting in a perfect follow-through, sending the pretend ball towards right field, and no doubt into the bleachers. It would be plain to anyone that this is not the first time the two have done this. Out of the corner of her eye, as everyone laughs and applauds, Rachel can detect that Ross' too-wide smile is hiding something, something unsaid yet palpable, that has for two years kept a rift between her and Joey.
"Good-bye baseball!" yells Joey as he and Emma drop their stances. He rushes forward, swinging Emma off her feet, sending her hair flying and laughter flowing light and easy out of her mouth. Rachel looks at the two of them, so alike in their bright eyes and happy grins.
"So can I, Joey? Can I come?" she says, giving him a puppy dog face that she could have gotten from either of her parents.
"Actually, Ems," he says and eyes Rachel, who gives him a nod, "I think it'd be better if you stayed home for this one, but I'll tell you what. How about you and me go up to Central Park next weekend and practice that beautiful swing of yours?" Emma's face lights up.
"Okay!" she says, "but only if we get hotdogs, too."
"Deal." Joey sets her down and she scampers off to bug Monica in the kitchen. "So," he says, looking around. "Who's free next Tuesday for a Yankee game?"
(End of Flashback)
As it turns out, only one person was: Rachel. Tonight, the others would all be off to their other obligations: Monica at the restaurant, Chandler having a dinner meeting downtown, Ross and Charlie off to some "special paleontology lecture" at NYU, and Phoebe declared Emma could stay with her for the night because "those damn Yankees get paid millions of dollars for hitting a stupid ball and certain other people are stuck massaging for the rest of their lives!" And so Rachel, despite the fact that the whole of her baseball knowledge is based on A League of Their Own with Gina Davis, will sit in Yankee Stadium with Joey tonight. Just Joey. Her heart gives a little flutter and she smiles, watching contentedly as burnt orange and yellow leaves drift from the trees and splash the sidewalk with their fanciful colors. She suddenly has a vision of herself, Emma, and Joey bent over them, trying to find a perfect one to press inside a book. Her smile turns whimsical.
"You know," comes a familiar voice from behind her, "it's rare to find a person who delights in this city as much as you. Have you considered a long-term relationship?" Rachel spins around to find Chandler, clad in a handsome gray suit that brings out the swimming pool blue of his eyes, smiling warmly at her. More often than not, they bump into each other on the way home from work, and if the weather permits, walk toward home side by side until their feet get too tired and they have to take a cab or the subway.
"Well," she replies, letting him guide her off the curb and into 58th Street. "I think this city is my long-term relationship." Chandler laughs. "Oh sure, laugh hard, Bing!" she says, but the glint in her eye tells Chandler that she is teasing. "At least your long-term relationship is with a person. *And* you don't have to share her with eight million other people."
"Well, Monica has enough personality for eight million people. Does that count?" They pass a shoe store window with perfectly straight rows of designer shoes arranged on a clean white display tables. Rachel stops dead to bend and examine them.
"Oh my God! Gucci's fall line!" she squeals. "Chandler, we have to go in!" She tugs on his hand, as if this will persuade him to give up the inevitable hour that Rachel will want to spend in there.
"Uh, 'have to'? Rach, as much as I love Italians and their shoes, I'd have to say, umm, no," says Chandler, thinking that as much as Rachel has changed over the years, in some ways she is endearingly just the same.
"Please? Oh, pretty please? We'll get you something, too!"
"Oh?" says Chandler. "Well in that case, can it be these lovely black pumps, front row, second pair from the end?" he points while pretending to look longingly at the shoes. "You know, I really don't give you enough credit for knowing my taste in ladies shoes."
"Well not from here, silly! I mean, what would Monica think?" She pauses. "And 'black pumps'? How did you know these were pum-you know what, forget it. I don't wanna know. But please come in with me? Just for a second." Preparing this as her last attempt, she looks up at Chandler and pouts slightly, bottom lip looking positively irresistible, her soft blue eyes somehow becoming softer and rounder.
"Oh no! You're not getting me that way!" Chandler says, shaking his head and taking a step back. "That may work like a charm on Joey, but I'm not falling for the Rachel pout. That's the end of him, not me."
"Alrigh . . . . " she begins, but then it hits her. The shoes are suddenly forgotten. "The . . . the end of-? What? What do you mean it works like a charm on Joey?"
"N . . . . Nothing," stutters Chandler. "I didn't say 'Joey.' Or the word 'charm,' especially not in the same sentence . . . Are you okay, are you sure you don't have a fever?" He puts his palm to her forehead, but she brushes it impatiently away.
"Chandler!" Rachel stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk on Madison Avenue with hands on her hips, trying her best to look surprised at something deep down she has known all along. But Chandler doesn't notice; he has gone into panic mode.
"No? No fever?" he asks, beginning to pace, much to the annoyance of some passersby. "Maybe it was something you ate? Or the weather! You know, these fantastically clear fall days can really test a person's hearing."
"Chandler!" says Rachel, her voice raising a little to match her impatience. "I do *not* have a fever, my stomach does *not* hurt, and the weather is just *fine,* so can you please, please . . . . " And then her voice turns soft, her eyes pleading. "Can you please just tell me what you meant by that?" Chandler stops pacing and closes his eyes, thinking that this is as bad as, if not worse than, the crystal duck incident. He lets out a groan. There's really no way to undo the damage.
"I should just stop talking, *forever.*" He resignedly opens his eyes and finds Rachel standing before him, in her hopefulness looking more vulnerable and yet more alive than he can ever remember her being.
"Rach, I . . . I think you already know."
"I need to hear it, Chandler. You have no idea . . . . . These past two years, I've wondered." He nods, understanding.
"He's never stopped loving you, Rach. Not for a second." Rachel gives a slight nod and she bits her lip, trying to stop tears from welling in her eyes and her smile from becoming too wide, but fails miserably. For once she is at a loss for words. Smiling at her smile, Chandler wraps one arm around her, using the other to hail a cab. "Taxi!"
"No, that's okay Chandler, I think I'd rather walk a bit more," says Rachel as a yellow cab pulls up beside them. "But you go ahead." Off of Chandler's dubious look, she adds, "Don't worry, hon, I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you slipped."
"Yeah?" he says, opening the back door to the taxi. Rachel nods, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh good. Listen, I'll see you later." And after a pause, "Have fun at that game tonight." A sly smile. "Let Joey bring just the one blanket . . . . It should be cold tonight." He pulls the door shut and winks as the cab pulls into a sea of yellow and black, taxis and town cars, leaving Rachel to slowly grasp the meaning of his last words . . . . . *Let Joey bring just the one blanket.* At least Chandler is on her and Joey's side. But then again, he was never much for the order of things, fate, or the way things have to be.
Rachel turns towards downtown and resumes her walk down Madison avenue alone, thinking of Chandler, his revelation ringing clear and nagging in her ear. Was he right? Her thoughts drift slowly, almost reluctantly to Joey, as if him in her mind's eye is as potent a thing as him in the flesh would be, standing before her, off-set with his dark hair against the ink-blue sky. Has she dwelled on him too long these past two years? Or has it been, as Chandler seems to think, simply working up to this day, this moment in September, here on the sidewalk on Madison Avenue, yellow leaves playing tag in the wind?
There's no denying the connection that was once between them, she thinks, listening to the rhythmic clomp of her shoes against the pavement. Perhaps it could be there again, if she let it. She can still feel its traces, a certain electricity that makes the air shimmer whenever she and Joey are talking side by side on the orange couch in the coffeehouse, the steam from their cups rising between them, or when they both grab for the TV Guide and their fingers graze and they pause, staring at their touching fingers, sharing a secret that is unsaid even between themselves. It's all there, all that happiness, just waiting to be rediscovered.
She had discovered it once, in Barbados. She remembers it perfectly. Joey had knocked and entered, and he had kissed her right there in the doorway of room 1202. A soft and beautiful kiss, full of promises and hope. He had pulled away, she remembers, all too soon, and as her mind caught up wither stirring emotions, she had muttered a small "oh," and searched his eyes, floating light and blissful on his gaze. Then, after brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead, he had kissed her again, sending her pulse and her spirits soaring, her whole body tingling with his every touch. Yes, she remembers, his tongue had felt its way into her mouth, and she wasted no time meeting it with hers as they kissed, trying to get as much of each other's warm, sweet mouths as possible.
It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and they had seemed, momentarily, wonderfully alone, as if the late afternoon would stretch on into forever, and their whole lives lay before them, open and trusting and lovely. But then something had happened, only minutes after the door was kicked closed, and the moment of happiness remained just that: a moment. It was over before it had even begun . . . .
Flashback: Barbados, Room 1202, Joey is kicking the door shut.
Joey kicks the door shut, closing them off from the rest of the world, and they continue on until breathlessness takes over. Rachel gives a moan of protest when Joey pulls away for the second time.
"You came back," she says, and smiles wonderingly up at him, running her hand along the line of his brow and down his cheek, which sends Joey leaning in for another kiss, pleasure shooting through him as Rachel almost absentmindedly toys with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with aching slowness. Joey again pulls away.
"I had to, Rach," he says. "I had to." He looks at her and for probably the millionth time wonders at the beauty of her eyes. They seem to change color depending on the light, and at the moment he can detect a hint of gold shooting through them.
"I know, sweetie, but I still can't believe it," she says, parting his shirt and lightly stroking the bare skin under it. Joey shivers in pleasure. Inquisitiveness finds its way into her eyes and she asks, "What happened? Why are you back?"
"Aw, you didn't want me to come back?" teases Joey, and pokes her in the stomach, causing a giggle to pour unchecked out of her mouth. She catches his hand with hers and their fingers intertwine.
"Oh, I think all that kissing pretty much answers your question," she says, but then turns serious again. "So why did you come back? What about Ross?" Joey gives a short laugh.
"Yeah, I think, I *think,* Ross will be okay with the whole thing," he says, and gives Rachel a knowing look. She frowns slightly, taking a step back from Joey to get a better look at his expression.
"Okay, what are you not telling me? Did you talk to Ross or is this one of Phoebe's weird karma-psychic-I-can-see-the-future things?"
"What? Oh, no, it's not that. The thing is, when I went down to the lobby to see about a room for tonight, I, ummm, saw Ross and Charlie kissing."
"You --- you what?" says Rachel, quite shocked.
"Yeah, they were pretty much going at it right there next to the concierge desk, and not hiding too well behind that bush, I'll tell ya." He chuckles. Rachel doesn't.
"Wait, are you trying to tell me that you saw your very, very recent-- we're talking less that an hour here-- ex-girlfriend kissing your best friend in the lobby and from that you decided to kiss me? Out of *spite* for them??" She looks demandingly yet pleadingly at Joey, her fiery eyes begging him to disagree with her.
"Rach, it's not what you think-" he begins desperately, but is cut off.
"You . you guys kissed?" says a voice from the door, and Joey and Rachel spin around to find Ross standing in the doorway, looking utterly taken aback, jealousy beginning to boil hot and dangerous in his eyes as he takes in their flushed cheeks, guilty eyes, and Joey's unbuttoned shirt. "Oh my God."
(End of Flashback)
That was the beginning of everything, thinks Rachel as she continues her walk. Or the end, depending on how you choose to look at it. The light at 46th turns green and Rachel steps into the street, wrapping her coat more tightly around her as a cool and slightly damp autumn breeze catches up with her from the east. It was the trip to Barbados, more than anything else, that has determined her life for the past two years. She left the island with as many questions as when she arrived, but more doubts. In the end, tensions and emotions ran high, and she had been left with an aching feeling that Joey had kissed her partly out of spite for Charlie, whom he had genuinely liked, and with the equally horrible feeling that if this wasn't the case and she and Joey did start a relationship, Ross would certainly not be able to handle it. There was also Emma to think about. And to top it off, word of their kiss spread quickly throughout the rest of the gang, sending mostly well-meaning, but nonetheless prying questions hurling towards them from all directions, seeming to step mercilessly on the sacredness in which Rachel regarded the happenings in Barbados. It was as if her happiness had been trampled on. Now their minutes together are nothing more than a memory, but every time Rachel chances to lock eyes with Joey she can feel traces his lips silky and warm on hers, the pressure of his firm body against hers, his tantalizing, dewy breath hot on her neck, his fingers kneading the skin of her shoulders, arms, and back, his hands in her hair. He has not failed to leave his mark on her. He has left it in her very skin, in the blue depths of her eyes, and on her heart.
*Just the one blanket*.
Rachel smiles. She bends to pick up a crisp, crimson colored leaf for Emma and twirls it between her fingers, watching as the edges blur by like children on a merry-go-round. Perhaps she will just have to make her own visions come true.
End of chapter one.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading and please leave a review! I found this story extremely difficult to write, so further chapters will mainly rest on the reader's interest (otherwise I may move on, for now, to other stories). And be sure to tell me if you like the style and the pace of it, as it may be a bit more measured (okay fine, slower, I admit it!) than most fics. Thank you! :0)
Oh, and I promise that Joey will surface soon. I know it's a bit strange to have a Joey/Rachel story when Joey is, for the moment, missing in action.
Okay, and another note I feel is needed, although it may not be relevant . . . my proofreader said some phrases read too much like the book The Hours, which I have yet to read (or see the movie), but I don't really want to change anything, so if there are any too-close resemblances, I apologize, and it is certainly not intended.
Kristine