Disclaimer: I checked my records, folks, several times; I really don't own 'em! I know! It sucks!!
Chapter 6:
Stay
Rachel slammed into the room and flung her purse against the wall. "Arrrrgh!!" Irate, she threw herself down onto the bed, then immediately jumped up again and began to pace, grumbling to herself angrily. She had just settled into a verbose tirade against the intellectual inferiority of the male species when the banging started. She toyed with the idea of ignoring it, but found her feet moving stubbornly towards the door. She wrenched it open and spat, "What!?"
Chandler stood on the other side, frowning savagely. He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at her. "Can I come in? Or are you gonna make me argue with you from out here in the hall?"
Fuming, she stepped back to allow him entrance. "Look, Chandler, I already told you, I refuse
to discuss this with you if you can't trust me. What's the point?!"
He stood in the middle of the room and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Listen, I'm willing to admit that – maybe
– I was a little presumptuous. But
come on – what the hell did you expect me to think, the way you ran out of
there today?"
"What did I expect you to think? Oh, I don't know, maybe that I didn't particularly want to face Ross' parents after what had happened? Or - or that maybe, just maybe, I was unbelievably embarrassed? Huh!? Why would you automatically assume that I ran out – what? – to avoid you? Because I'm still in love with Ross? Why?!"
Chandler threw his hands into the air in frustration. "Well, why not?? It's what everyone else assumed!!"
Rachel paused, forced herself to breathe. "What?!?" she bit.
Chandler exhaled harshly. "Yeah! In the cab, on the way back here, all Monica could talk about was how you and Ross are 'meant to be together', and how she 'knew it all along'! She's your best friend! If anyone would know how you feel, it's Monica!!"
"So, just because Monica decided that she knows how my life is going to turn out, you decided to take that as the indisputable truth? You decided to just forget about that amazing thing that happened between us last night? You just threw that out the window, because stupid Ross said my name during his wedding vows, and I didn't stick around to see what his family would have to say to me about it?!? Jesus, Chandler!! Couldn't you have just checked with me first, before you went fucking ballistic and condemned our – whatever this is – to the electric chair??"
Chandler didn't seem to have any immediate response to her argument; he clenched his jaw and stared at the floor. After a long moment, he mumbled, "It wasn't just because of what Monica said."
At his defeated tone, Rachel's temper began to ebb. Sighing, she turned towards the coffee pot and methodically measured out several cups, filled the tank with water. Flipping the switch, she turned back to face him. "Well, then, what else?"
Chandler combed his fingers through his hair, rumpling it. "You and Ross have – you know…all this, this history. He says your name instead of his fiancé's, and stops his wedding – how can I compete with that?"
Rachel felt the last chunk of her anger dissolve, drift away. "Chandler, sweetie, you just answered your own question. What Ross and I had, it's just that – history. We tried it. It didn't work. It was a nightmare, in fact. Don't you remember? Singing bugs, imaginary affairs, copy girls? Ringing a bell? Am I supposed to carry the ghost of that relationship around my neck for the rest of my life?"
Chandler sighed and sank down onto one of the two small club chairs. "No. Of course not. It's just, the rest of us, well, we've kind of spent the past year waiting for a Ross and Rachel Reunion Special. You know? It just seemed unavoidable."
She smiled faintly. "You didn't seem to feel that way last night."
Chandler closed his eyes and leaned his head back, rested it against the wall. "Last night, Ross was getting married. This afternoon, not so much."
Grudgingly, reluctantly, Rachel conceded his point. She put herself in his shoes, imagined how she would have felt, had the situation been reversed. "All right, I'll grant you that. Still, you could have come to me, waited to pass judgment until you'd heard what I had to say." She turned back to the coffeepot, filled two mugs. After adding the appropriate amount of sugar and cream, she carried both cups over to the room's one tiny table. Sliding one cup towards Chandler, she settled down into the chair opposite him and tucked her bare feet up under herself.
Chandler laced his fingers through the handle on the mug and raised it to his lips, blowing lightly over the surface in a habitual attempt to speed the cooling process. He raised his eyes to hers apologetically. "Truce?"
"Truce." She cautiously sipped her own steaming beverage. "Wanna start over?"
For the first time since he'd seated her before the ceremony, Chandler grinned. "I think that's a great idea." He looked down into his coffee, then back up at her, feigned surprise at the fact that she was sitting there. "Rachel! Hi! Jeez, can you believe what happened this afternoon??"
She chuckled in spite of herself. "I know!"
He set his mug down on the table, reached across to pat her arm, overemphasizing his concern for her. "Are you okay? That must have been really embarrassing for you."
She sighed heavily. "You know, it really was. But then I got a little exercise, a bit of jogging, a lot of limping, and after that, I felt a little bit better. Thanks for asking!"
"Hey, no problem. That's just the kind of guy I am."
A comfortable silence settled over the two of them, the only sound that of the occasional noise from the room above. After several quiet moments, Rachel found herself yawning, despite the caffeine. Chandler appraised her with genuine sympathy. "It's been a long day, huh, Rach?"
She smiled sleepily. "It really has. Early flight tomorrow."
"Yeah, it's almost 10:00…Monica should be back any minute, hassling us to hurry up and get our stuff together for the airport." They shared a smile.
"Actually," Rachel looked around the room. "Monica took her stuff with her to Ross'".
Chandler raised one eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Really. And, before I went downstairs to look for you, Joey was getting ready for bed."
A slow smile spread across Chandler's face. "He probably wouldn't miss me, if I didn't go back to the room right away."
"You think?"
"I do think."
"Well, then."
"Indeed."
Without a word, Rachel stood slowly and crossed to the door, locking it securely. Walking over to the bed, she silently unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down to the floor. At Chandler's stunned expression, a surge of feminine power crept through her.
"Chandler Bing, I think you and I are due for our first make-up session."
Chandler raised his eyebrows, affecting a look of extreme contrition. "Well, in that case, I am very, very sorry." He stood and stuck his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet.
"Come on, Bing, are you gonna sit over there all night or what?" Rachel put her hands on her hips, then laughed out loud as Chandler practically sprinted across the room to stand beside her. Her lips curled into a smile as she slid her hands up over his shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm sorry, too."
"Oh, you are soooo forgiven." And then they were kissing, hungrily, breathlessly - the complete
opposite of the night before, but it was everything Chandler remembered:
intoxicating, electric, chemical…except that none of those words seemed
remotely sufficient for the eruption of feelings Rachel's kiss awoke in him,
feelings he wasn't aware even existed.
Her hands were at his waistband, fumbling clumsily with the button,
relieving him of his pants, and then back up to his shoulders, pushing him back
onto the bed, pressing her thighs into either side of his hips and rendering
him incapable of logical thought. She
moved against him, moaning into his neck, pushing him to the extreme outer
limits of his restraint, and he took control of the situation, rolling her over
until she was on her back beneath him, never taking his hands or his mouth off
of her.
His hands went under her t-shirt, stroking, teasing, reveling in the silky feel
of her skin against his fingertips, enjoying her quick intake of breath as he
skimmed her body. Suddenly it wasn't
enough to touch her, he wanted to see her, all of her; he moved to her side and
tugged the t-shirt up and over her head.
As he stared down at her, some sort of primal instinct took hold of
him. He felt the unmistakable need to possess
her, to somehow brand her as his own.
"You are so, so, so beautiful, Rach.
I – "
She silenced him with another kiss, pulling him down, down, deep into the fog of Rachel-ness. He was drowning, engulfed in her eyes, her smell, her taste – everything about her - and still it wasn't enough; he wanted more, he wanted it all. She wriggled up onto her side, tugged at the buttons of his shirt, peeled it away from his chest, and then they were pressed together again, the only barrier between them their underwear - the soft silk of hers; the thin, flimsy cotton of his.
He felt drunk, the world around them seeming to fade away, the only sound the tattoo of his own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in his head that he was certain she could hear it as well. She was smothering him in kisses, on his face, his neck, across his chest; he buried his face in the top of her head and just inhaled, closing his eyes with pleasure as he took in the heady bouquet of her tropical-scented shampoo. "Rachel…Rachel…Rachel…" he murmured, over and over, into her hair, relishing the familiar but newly exotic feel of her name as it rolled off of his tongue, the strong surge of closeness he felt to her, in sharing something secret with her, something no one else was privy to.
Except Ross.
His heart jumped up into his throat and his stomach did a nasty cartwheel. Yeah, you heard me! What are you doing? Ross is your friend! He wanted to stifle the little voice – which sounded strangely like Joey's – he wanted to destroy it, make it go away forever, but even as he despised it, he knew they had to slow down, before they did something that at least one of them would feel guilty about later. Regardless of Rachel's feelings toward Ross, or lack thereof, they had to consider how Ross would feel. He hated it, abhorred the thought, but even still, he knew it was true. Rachel, sensing the sudden change in his reaction to her, slowed her caresses and tilted her head towards his face, her eyes a question mark. "Chandler? What's wrong?"
He stared down into the azure pools of her eyes, tempted to forget about Ross and lose himself in her, but shook himself out of it before he had the chance to do so. "We – " His voice sounded hoarse, gravelly, and he cleared his throat. "We have to stop, we have to slow down…I don't want to, God, Rach, I want to finish this, more than anything, but…"
She retreated from him, and, suddenly very aware of her nakedness, wrapped her arms around her chest, curled into a tiny ball at his feet, staring at him with the resignation of a child that had been caught with her hand inside the cookie jar. "Ross."
As the sound of utter disappointment rang in her voice, he wanted to take it back, wanted to go back to that place they had been, mere seconds before, that place that was theirs alone, where no one could disturb them, no one could intrude. He steeled himself against his own feelings, curled his fists into tight balls, resisting the urge to touch her, to comfort her, to make her understand everything he was feeling, the insane, unbelievable intensity of it, a feeling even he could not yet wrap his mind around.
Chandler sat up, crossing his legs Indian-style, tucked one of the pillows across his lap. Resting his elbows on his knees, he ran his fingers through his hair and hated himself; hated his conscience, hated his loyalty, hated Ross, hated the pillow, hated everything that was keeping him from being with her right that second. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished with all of his heart that they were somewhere else, somewhere far away from this hotel room, this stupid foreign city, teeming with the harsh reality of the situation. But when he reopened his eyes, Rachel was still staring at him with that same detached expression, her face still brimming with frustration and stark disillusionment. He could see it though, could read in her eyes that she knew what he was thinking, that she understood, even if she didn't want to consider it, even if she loathed it as much as he. So he did the only thing he could think of: he handed her her previously discarded shirt and began reluctantly buttoning his own.
Rachel clutched the wrinkled garment to her chest, hesitating. "Stay."
His head snapped up, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but her pleading look silenced him. Before he could regain his thoughts, she continued. "Just stay. We – we don't have to do anything, but I – I want you here with me, tonight. I don't want to be alone. It's silly…we're two mature, disciplined adults. We can be together without…being together." Her eyes searched his face, cajoling. "Stay."
He knew he should disagree, reason with her. He knew he should get up, right then, before he could change his mind, before his assaulted, abused senses allowed him to consider his own desires. He knew he should leave, slink across the hall, sleep – or at least lie – in his own, cold, empty bed.
But he didn't.
Instead, he turned to the nightstand and tapped the buttons on the alarm clock, clicking through the numbers until he found the ungodly hour he was looking for. Then he unbuttoned his shirt once more, dropped it onto the floor beside the bed. He pushed the rumpled covers down, slid his legs underneath the warm sheets, and opened his arms – and, he realized with a jolt, his heart - to Rachel.
She tossed her shirt over onto the other bed and crawled right into his embrace. Tucking the blanket around her protectively, he clicked off the bedside lamp, nuzzled his cheek against her forehead and sighed with a mixture of contentment and pure, undiluted torture.
She rested her hand against his chest, her very touch seeming to burn right into his flesh. "Good night, Chandler."
He swallowed, several times, searching for his voice. When he found it, it was just a shadow of its former self, raspy, strained. "'Night, Rach." He pressed a kiss into her hair and relaxed against the nest of pillows, pulling her warm, satiny body closer to his own. She sighed softly against his chest, and he listened for a long while, until her breath became deep and even, her back rising and falling rhythmically under his arm. He willed his brain to stop working, to shut down for the night. He counted sheep, he tensed and contracted his muscles, he tried to list all fifty states in his mind. No matter what he did, his eyes stubbornly refused to stay shut, popping back open every time he closed them. Defeated, he stared into the darkness of the room, wondering what morning would bring, until the first pink rays of Sunday's dawn began seeping through the curtains.
***
A/N: Are you annoyed with me yet? Am I dragging it out enough? I swear, there is a method to my madness; Stay with me.
