A/N: I was watching TOA Ross Says Rachel and this just came to me, unforeseen and completely out of the blue. This is on the 'what if' premise of "what if Chandler and Monica had gone down to the wine cellar after the wedding ceremony?"

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"Hey."

"Hey."

"You know what's really weird?"

"What?"

"I don't think I've ever been in a wine cellar before."

"No kidding."

"Yeah, I mean, you see those old movies where people are always trying to hide drugs or other illegal substances in the wine bottles – it's pretty exciting, actually. I always scream when the bad guy comes. It's a reflex."

"Ingrid Bergman. Cary Grant. Nazis. Poison. It's all good."

"You know it?"

"Oh yeah. I used to think my dad watched because of Ingrid, but now I know otherwise."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, what can you do?" He paused. "Isn't it weird how all the men in old movies seem to push women away?"

"Huh."

"Rear Window, for starters. What was James thinking throughout the whole thing? I mean, dude, you had Grace Kelly making out with you and all you wanted was your career! There's something horrendously wrong with that. And what about Gone With the Wind? See what I mean?"

"Of course, Scarlett had the bitch factor."

"True."

"Chandler?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are we stalling?"

"No . . ." He paused. "Yeah."

"Is there something wrong with us?"

"We're sober, if that's what you mean."

Monica didn't answer.

"Monica –"

"What?"

"Does this have to do with the exceptionally disturbing thought that Ross could be standing right above us, or is there something else you want to talk about?"

"There's no this," Monica snapped. "There was never a this. If there was a this then that would mean there was something that this was about, which there isn't because that would be stupid. And – and Ross is probably still wandering around like a lost puppy, so that doesn't really matter."

"Cool, so you're perfectly fine with us having sex in this wine cellar. Okay, now I see. That's why we're not stalling, not talking about Hitchcock films, and definitely not breaking our first and foremost rule that Ross's name never enters any conversation concerning this."

"There's no this!" Monica protested.

"Mon, there is a this." He gestured between them. "This is this. I mean," he laughed awkwardly, "after last night we really can't hide this this."

Monica nervously shifted her weight between feet. "I guess not."

"I know I don't regret anything," he commented.

"Don't do that," Monica said sharply.

"Don't do what?"

"That. Guilt-tripping me. It's hard enough without you trying to – to tip the scales or something."

"Well, why does this have to be so hard?" Chandler asked.

"Because it's you!" Monica cried, jabbing her finger into his chest. "It's you, Chandler! Chandler! I mean, I slept with you because I was depressed and, I don't know, I guess it backfired, because now you're all sexy and sweet and wonderful and everything else and I . . ." She took a deep breath. "I just – I thought that it would be harder than this, you know? Like, we'd get down here and someone else would be here, or Ross would be following us around, or Rachel would be looking for some heart-to-heart, or the building would collapse or something! I guess I've been caught off-guard because everything hasn't gone horribly wrong."

Chandler nodded. "Me too."

"Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Yeah, really. But I wasn't thinking in terms of natural disasters or inconvenient friends, it was more like I was scared you would wake up, remember everything, freak out, admonish me for ruining the sanctity of our friendship, call in the hounds, etcetera, etcetera. I was actually thinking of pulling an Emily and getting the hell out of there."

"You think I would do that to you, Chandler?" The question was asked carefully; he was surprised to hear the hurt in her voice.

"Truthfully, I don't know. I didn't think so until I saw you sleeping. You looked so normal, you know? So unaffected – I guess it just hit me then how freaked out you might be about this, about us." He peered nervously at her when she didn't respond. "I mean, nothing's on our side here. You're my best friend's little sister and there are rules for this kind of thing, we've known each other for what? – ten years, so there's the whole 'oh no, but our friendship would be ruined' business . . . besides, you're way hotter than me and our kids would have a hard time trying to compensate for my half of the gene pool."

"Our kids?"

Chandler, catching the mistake too far into his ramblings, panicked. "What? No, no, no. Of course not our kids! I mean, we can't have kids until we get a cat . . . that wouldn't be . . . fair to all the homeless cats."

"You want to get a cat?" asked Monica in confusion.

"No," Chandler said unconvincingly.

Monica smiled, looking relieved. "Oh good, because I wanted a dog."

"But I hate dogs!" Chandler cried. "I can't get a dog! They're related to wolves! Wolves! As in, monstrous animals with long, sharp teeth, always licking their chops, watching you with those malevolent eyes –"

Monica stared at him. "Chandler, I was kidding."

"Well, yeah," Chandler started feebly. "Of course. I totally knew that."

There was a pause, in which Monica and Chandler both became fascinated with the shape of their shoes.

"You know what I learned the other day?"

"What?"

"Okay, you know at the airport, when you're walking along and you always see these weird black spots on the concrete?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So, do you know what those are?"

Monica shrugged. "I don't know, I never really pay attention to that part of the airport."

"Guess."

"I really don't know."

"Seriously, guess."

"Tar? Chandler, what does this have to do with anything?"

"Nothing really, I just thought it was interesting. And no, it's not tar, it's gum."

"Ewww."

"Yeah, seriously, millions and millions of pieces of gum strewn across the length of the parking garages, each trampled on so many times they have actually turned black."

"Wow, I didn't know that."

"Yeah."

"Chandler?"

"What?"

"We're doing it again."

"What?"

"Stalling."

"We've really got to stop doing this, haven't we?"

"So here's the plan. I'll undress and you tell me how stalactites and stalagmites differ in appearance."

"Ha, ha. Very funny."

"At least you're not as bad as Ross. He flirts like someone has just shoved a dictionary, encyclopedia, and grammar text down his throat."

"Who says I was trying to flirt?" Chandler asked, looking offended. "I was just trying to enlighten you with my awesome pearls of wisdom."

"Okay."

"Really!"

Monica sighed. "Chandler?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think what we're doing is okay? I mean, in the whole scheme of things?"

"I thought we covered this with the 'Not in New York' rule. That we were away in a foreign, romantic country and it was fine to keep doing it when we're here."

"Well, yeah, I know, but that was before I knew that meeting you here would be this easy."

"So are you saying that we need a kind of calamitous sign before we can do it again?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know!"

"Well," said Chandler kindly, "if it means that much to you, then we'll just hold off for now."

"Thanks," said Monica gratefully.

"Of course." He smiled. "I guess we'll just head back upstairs, then."

Turning, they suddenly heard the door to the stairwell open. A group of about twenty people descended the concrete steps and passed them, following a very drunken Mr. Waltham. They froze.

"A tour?" Monica said in astonishment. "Oh my God, what if we had been –"

"That was almost cataclysmic, wouldn't you say?" Chandler asked her, grinning.

"That would have been mortifying!"

"Everything could have gone wrong!" he commented enthusiastically.

Monica beamed. "So we are doomed!"

"So . . ." Chandler began hopefully. "Was that a good enough bad sign?"

Monica grinned lewdly. "Oh yeah, definitely."