Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
This one is dedicated to mondler2001, who is very sweet and entirely too kind, and requested this one.
She awoke to an empty bed and cold sheets wrapped around her naked frame. It had only been three days, but Monica had completely forgotten what it was like to wake up alone.
Chandler, in the three nights he'd spent in her bed, always woke up before she did - a remnant of years of having to get up early for work. But not once in those three days had he gotten out of the bed once he was up. Of a morning, Chandler's long, warm body would curl behind her with his nose in her hair and his lips on her shoulder.
It wasn't just the solid body and the emotional warmth and the half-ready sex drive Monica would wake up to that she liked. It was the way Chandler would so simply caress his lips over her bare skin not looking for anything more than just touching her skin. Of course, once she was cognizant enough to wish him 'morning,' their actions often turned to more. She missed that this morning, the tingling feeling in the pit of her stomach when she realised that her best friend's blue eyes were enraptured by her. Never before had she had that feeling of not being ashamed of her faint stretch marks, not needing to wrap herself back up in her robe to hide the freckles on her chest. Not only did Chandler already know those facts about her, but he seemed to like them, seemed to think they made her more attractive, not less.
It was the electric thrum in her veins that Monica had never felt before that made her wonder how far they could ride the euphoria they were feeling. How long it would take to wear off. They hadn't discussed it yet, but there was a glint in Chandler's eye when they fell asleep beside each other, a little quirk at his lips, and of course, that inexplicable connectedness when their eyes were locked and their bodies embracing, that indicated he was feeling the same way as her. Feeling like being together was Right.
There was an unspoken agreement between them that Chandler would stay the night until Monica arose and he could kiss her goodbye. That way, while there were still open-ended questions and dangling participles in the clauses of their union, both of them knew they were respected and valued and friends above all else. They'd also discussed that that would need to change once Rachel returned and she or Chandler would probably sneak in and out of each other's rooms under the cover of darkness, but as long as they were awake to say goodbye and not just slipping out like their relationship was meaningless, Monica wouldn't mind.
Monica rolled to her side and stumbled to her feet, throwing on a clean shirt and trousers, trying to bite down the anxiety that was blooming in her chest. Only when she got to the closed bedroom door did she remember they'd tossed their clothes across the room in their desperation the night before, uncaring as to where shirts and underwear landed. At the end of the week, things would have to change and they would have to be quiet and careful and fold their clothes out of view or sneak across the hall without them, just in case someone walked in in the morning. Monica glanced across the room to her wicker hamper and sure enough, the leg of yesterday's jeans were sticking out beneath the lid. Something warm and calming melted through her body and almost defeated her rising stress.
Monica reached for the handle of her bedroom door, slightly worried about what she'd say to Chandler. It probably wasn't something he was reading into, she told herself. He probably meant nothing by it. Maybe he was just in the bathroom, or was trying to get himself used to leaving in the morning, she thought.
And then she stepped into the living room.
A sweet scent hung in the air, crisp and warm, and she could hear something sizzling. Monica stepped to the left so the kitchen wasn't blocked by the corner of the bathroom wall, stepping down off the landing and leaning her thighs against the arm of the couch chair.
It was another moment of stress dripping from her psyche, her muscles turning to liquid, her brain feeling like a gooey puddle at her feet, her heart the only organ left in her body.
Chandler hadn't left wordlessly. He hadn't even left with the intention of coming back. He was standing in her kitchen in his boxers and an overly large sweater - yesterday's outfit except for his missing pants. His back was to her but Monica could see that his sleeves were pushed up from the way the fabric at the tops of his arms bulged. He'd been in her kitchen in his boxers before, and he'd cooked at her stove once or twice (always with supervision), but there was something different about seeing Chandler Bing cooking in his boxers the morning after. Something heady.
Rachel wasn't around and Phoebe and Ross were fairly punctual arriving at 7:30 if at all, so Joey would be the only one to question why she let Chandler into her kitchen, Monica never let anyone in her kitchen. She did, however, trust Chandler with her utensils and buying her groceries from a list, so maybe it wasn't too much of a stretch. And Chandler in his underwear? While not a consistent look he sported, wasn't so uncommon that Joey would question it if he walked in before 8 AM by some miracle.
Chandler's legs carried him from sink to stove, almost humorously thin as they peaked out of his boxers and impossibly tan for a man who spent his days in his office, it must have been from playing tennis with his boss, she decided. Monica could hear him humming over the sound of him pouring something into a hot pan and she wondered if he was smiling too. Chandler had been smiling a lot lately, much more than she was used to. Not always showing his teeth or even stretching his lips that wide, but his eyes were constantly twinkling with mirth and excitement and lust, especially when their oblivious friends were in the room, and Monica loved it.
Quietly, she sidled up behind him as he moved to shuffle the pan on the stove. She beamed as his shoulders rolled as he flipped something out of the pan with a spatula and ladled batter from a bowl beside the sink into the empty cookware. His shoulders were broad and sharp, he'd filled out a lot, in all the right ways, since that terrifying period when he'd slimmed down beyond recognition, his depression about being alone and their friend's breakup, insomnia and work stress swirling in a perfect storm. She was ashamed to say she hadn't even noticed it was happening and by the time she spoke to Ross and Joey about telling Chandler she was worried and not just giving him extra helpings when he wasn't looking, he was already on the mend. His shoulders were square under the sweater that made him look soft, his chest dappled with just the right amount of hair, his arms stronger than anyone expected, and only Monica knew it.
For years, Monica had thrilled every time she thought about her and Chandler and their secret inside jokes that not even Joey was privy to. From that period of their friendship when Ross was desperate to make his first marriage work and Phoebe was busy being anywhere but apartment 20 before she moved out, and later when Joey had a date and it was just the two of them, their nights were spent together and they never got bored. But it was something entirely different about the secrets she knew about him now. As a group, Chandler was the last one they expected to be sexy, simply from the way he acted like sex was the last thing on his mind when he was talking to a woman. She'd already known that was just him being polite and respectful but what she hadn't was that Chandler had every reason to be just as confident as Joey, that his bright blue eyes and simple, self-conscious smile hid a passionate lust and could twist into a smirk or turn so serious that he could make her quiver from the other side of a room.
Part of her was a little disappointed they'd wasted those nights when she didn't have a roommate and Joey was guaranteed to be out talking and laughing. How had they not crossed the line from friendship to sex back then? Especially when she knew how magic it was between them.
Monica folded her arms over her chest as she reached the dining table. "What are you doing?"
He flinched and she laughed as he turned around to face her, grinning. "Making breakfast."
Chandler waved the utensil in his hand in the vague direction of the kitchen bench, and Monica caught a glimpse of a stack of pancakes on a plate just behind him. She nodded.
Chandler took a step forward, grinning happily, salaciously, as he stalked closer. It was just an expression but the implication was so lascivious and excited simultaneously, she could already feel his hands in her, her back already arching, her chest pushing toward him like their bodies were magnetised.
He stopped, just out of arms reach, his blown pupils flicking downward to take in her stance. Chandler stepped backward. His hands were at his sides, his fingers splayed, but he wasn't gesturing. His smile disappeared and his tongue was touching his top lip like he was afraid of something.
"Is that okay?" he asked "I know the kitchen is your domain, but..."
Monica watched him backtrack and flap his hands about. He was constantly moving and his limbs seemed to have a mind of their own once he started talking, waving around to articulate his point but not actually signalling anything. It was so different to how he was in the bedroom, with every action pointed, his hands massaging messages into her skin that she could easily understand. She found herself blocking out his words and letting the sound of his voice wash over her. Maybe it was the three days that she had known he wasn't half as gangly and all-over-the-place as his racing mind and waving hands made him seem, but Monica was endeared by the way he acted out his internal feelings with his hands. Because that's what the gesturing was, she had discovered, a physical manifestation of how he was feeling - confused, excited, afraid - in his flexible wrists and nimble fingers. She loved his hands, long and thick and she never would have let herself think of him in that way before, but really quite sinfully skilled at kneading and rubbing and tracing goosebumps into her skin.
And the fact that he was still gripping a spatula in his right hand sent shockwaves through her system. Not the ones that went straight to her core the last time Chandler had held a spatula, although . . . now that she thought about it. Yep, those too. Monica pressed her lips together, teething at the inside of her lip in an attempt to control herself.
It wasn't just that he was cooking, she'd seen Chandler Bing cook a handful of times before. It was that he was cooking for her. Nobody had ever done that before. Definitely not a man she had been sleeping with.
It hadn't mattered to Monica; she loved cooking, it made her feel like she was putting all her emotions for a person or group into a meal and she could present a plate like a love letter, a gift, so the people she was serving knew she cherished them. It was the entire reason she was always happy to cook for her friends. She only ever cooked for Pete when she was at the diner and he was hitting on her. When she'd been with Pete, the billionaire had people preparing meals for him. At most, he would heat up a pre-cooked meal for them, but mostly someone else did the cooking. Either they went to a restaurant or his kitchen staff followed the strict instructions of his dietitian. And Richard, well he'd grown up in a different period and was used to having a wife complete domestic tasks for him. Monica certainly hadn't minded always cooking for Richard, especially when she'd discovered that he'd never even learnt basic skills like a bolognese or bechamel.
"I make pancakes all the time for Joey and his..."
Monica blinked her attention away from Chandler's hands. He'd left that sentence hanging between them. Monica watched as Chandler pressed his lips together. She wanted to ask him to finish it and why he felt the need to refrain from likening her to one of Joey's one-night conquests. She wanted to ask why he wanted to cook for her, if she cooked to get people liked her and to express her love for her friends, why was he doing it for her?
His hands passed in front of his body in a cross, like he was wiping the slate clean. "I just thought it'd be nice to make you breakfast. I'm sorry if I crossed a line."
Monica shook her head adamantly, stepping forward and bringing her arms around his shoulders, her hands clasping behind Chandler's neck. Her nose brushed against his and Monica briefly worried that she hadn't brushed her teeth yet but she kissed him anyway. His lips were warm and soft against hers. He kissed her slowly like he had all the time in the world to do it, his lips moving as though kissing her was so familiar, nipping and sipping exactly the way she liked and then deepening the kiss by pushing her lips open and devouring her mouth like he was enacting her dirtiest dream. Chandler's hands roved her hips, settling his wrists against her lower back, utensil still in one of his hands, cradling her whole body to his and lifting her to her toes.
"Don't be," Monica mumbled against his mouth. "It's lovely, and it smells great."
Chandler hummed a grin and pecked her lips once before he let go of her, turning back to the stove so the pancake didn't burn. "It's not much but I figured I should do it while I have the chance," he explained. "Before Rachel comes back from Greece."
She was glad his back was turned so he wouldn't see her conflicting expression; the way her cheeks flushed at the sentiment that he wanted to cook breakfast for her, the way her smile fell when she remembered whatever this was might be over soon.
While she wasn't ready to talk, wasn't even ready to think, about what Rachel coming back would mean for her and Chandler, Monica did feel it was best that she be honest with him. Above all else, he was her best friend, her only confidant who never judged her, her favourite person. If she couldn't tell him her feelings, who was she going to tell? The truth could help them decipher what their next step was.
"I thought you'd left."
Chandler turned back around, his smile gone, expression grave. He nodded like that was enough thread of information to gather her clues and weave the correct tapestry.
"I'll leave the door open, or a note, next time. How does that sound?"
If seeing that he'd cared enough to tidy up made her heart stop and drop, and having him cook for her made her melt, those words, that easy way he presumed they'd still be together once they didn't have leisurely access to alone time built her back up. They gave her a jolt of bravery. Her fears assuaged for the time being, Monica felt herself stand straighter, her spine lengthening as her contentedness corrected her posture.
She didn't have time to respond more than a smile before he continued excitedly. "Yes, you can put a notepad and a pen all tied up together on the nightstand and we can leave each other coded messages."
"Coded messages?" She stepped forward and reached for Chandler's hips, her hands winding beneath his jumper to touch his bare skin.
"Yeah, you know;" his hips rolled against her hands as he leant down, his grin wolfish. "'Doing laundry at six' and 'the others are going for coffee at two'. So it looks like one of your to-do lists."
"Laundry, huh?" She might have been the one who touched him first, who was sliding her hands up under his shirt, but Monica leant backwards as Chandler readied for a kiss.
He hummed. "It normally takes you, what? An hour and a half? Three?"
It wasn't a bad idea. Everyone generally understood that Monica had an obsessive streak they would never be able to comprehend but this might be the first time it ever worked to her advantage. She could leave her clothes down at the laundromat while the cycle spun itself, filling that period of idleness between filling a machine with a load and taking it out to spin-dry with something far more active. She liked that.
"Think you'll be making me a lot of breakfast, do you?" Her nails scraped down his waist and she watched Chandler's Adam's apple bob as a moan rumbled in his throat.
"I'm not great in the kitchen, but I can make you breakfast," he told her, his lips softly brushing hers as he spoke, whispering like it was a secret; like it was a promise. "I don't know when or how, I haven't figured it out yet. I might have to cook across the hall and bring it over, but I will do it."
Monica grinned up at him. There was an implication there that her mind drifted to, unbidden, about him making breakfast and her specialty being the dinner menu. But that wasn't the only thing that was making her smile. Chandler had a way of fulfilling his promises no matter what it took, something she recently discovered had marvellously pleasurable consequences. She wouldn't put past him, would not be surprised at all if he waltzed in with a plate of bacon and a box of cereal. That would be quite him and almost typical enough to fly under the radar.
"How is that even going to work?" She laughed, kissing him three times in quick succession. But it was a serious question concerning a lot more than just breakfast plans and she wanted an answer to it.
If she thought she struggled waking up alone, how was she going to cope with going to sleep alone? Staring at the ceiling waiting for hours for dreams to come despite lavender oils and hot milk as opposed to exhaustion and the safe feeling of being wrapped in his arms lulling her to sleep. It sounded horrible. And then what was she supposed to do, half-smile at him from across the room until everybody left and she could finally kiss Chandler good morning? That sounded horrible.
"I do have a kitchen at my place."
Monica rolled her eyes and let herself focus on his hands slipping under her shirt, hot against her spine as he pulled her to him in a tight embrace - hips first, his body covering hers as she arched up to him. There was no denying his explicit train of thought and Monica smiled in victory. A few years ago, she had pegged him for the kind of man who would blossom, charges with sexuality, into a passionate lothario. She was right. Only with the stability of a single partner did Chandler shed his prim airs descend beautifully into sin. It did wonders for her ego that she unleashed his animalistic side. What was better was that when he was with their other friends he reverted back to the sweet, unthreatening Chandler she was used to, so this growling, almost-dominating, lusty side of him was all for her.
"So, I'm just going to sneak over and sneak back before anyone wakes up, and then you're going to bring me pancakes?"
He pressed a kiss to her lips, and then a second, sucking at her slightly open mouth hard and leaving her breathless. He stood up straight and shrugged, audibly pulling oxygen into his lungs through his nose. "We'll take turns. Joey's a heavy sleeper and he stays out late most nights, which would make it easier. And Rachel still works late on Thursdays, doesn't she?"
Monica nodded. Her insides curled and her throat closed up at the realisation that their time together would be cut mercilessly short when their group returned and went back to normal. She'd give anything to delay it, just so she could continue to have early nights and late mornings with Chandler and not trade them in for early mornings and late nights instead. And it sounded like Chandler did too, already thinking about how they could best continue what they were doing even after their world reset.
"We'll just have to be smart about how we do things, utilise lunch breaks and whatever excuses we can to meet up during the day without everyone else."
His fingers traced the dip of her waist, ghosting over her skin as he slid his fingertips back down over the swell over her hips, stroking back up to her ribs just as softly. She shivered.
"It's going to be hard, but we might have to keep conversation and sex separate, not staying up late just to talk like last night when we can do that during the day instead."
He was right, there was a big change coming their way and they'd have to be smart about how they rationed their time together. They were getting used to being alone in apartment 20, with Phoebe too exhausted to move about and Joey constantly checking in on her at her apartment, and Ross mostly in his own home and with their parents trying to get in touch with Emily, they had quite the run of the place and no need to worry about their friends finding out that their friendship had expanded to include something more.
Monica had thought she wanted to talk about it, decide how they would manage whatever it was that was growing between them and how they would nurture it when their friends were watching, but the whole idea of giving up their nights together and relinquishing him to the group during the day saddened her. It sounded like he had a plan but Monica was smart enough to know that plans change and life could get in the way of relationships. She didn't want that, didn't want to even think about that happening.
They had three days before Rachel returned, three days where they could bask in the sunlight as they cuddled in the living room. Three days that Monica Geller was going to enjoy, not worrying about the questions of the future, just living in the moment in the arms of her best friend.
"If these are any good, and you like them," Chandler swore to her, his expression serious. "I'll make you breakfast whenever you want. They'll be the first of many."
She stroked the back of his neck with her fingertips, spreading her digits into Chandler's soft hair and pulling him back down to capture his lips with hers. She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth and then pecked at the bite, kissing it better. When she leant back in his arms with the intention of agreeing with him, Chandler's eyes were still closed, his mouth still open, pink tongue poking vainly between his teeth like she'd ended the kiss too soon for his liking.
"Let's worry about that later. We'll make an action plan and everything," she promised, knowing how much Chandler liked structure and routine. His hair was tangled in her fingers and she tugged it so that his eyes would open and look at her. "We have time, though. Days to enjoy this before reality hits. Let's just live in the moment for the minute, live on London Time for a while."
He grinned sweetly as she referenced the line that he'd used to let her know he wanted her for more than just a romantic fling in a foreign country. He put the spatula down on the kitchen bench and grinned at her. "Monica Geller living in the moment?"
He didn't sound astonished or condescending the way it could have sounded from any other man's lips. His tone suggested Chandler was excited by the prospect of taking each day one by one, that he expected that certain things made Monica pause, wanting life to move slowly, like the simple pleasure of the smell of roses, a summer breeze or a snowflake, but that he couldn't believe that his presence was one of those things.
"That's very sexy." His voice was so low it was barely audible and he was smiling that way he did, awestruck and suggestive. Chandler stepped forward as though he wasn't close enough to her as it was, pushing her body with his hips against hers, his lips threatening to kiss her.
"Oh really," her own voice had dropped an octave. He brought something out in her, a side Monica hadn't even realised lay dormant within her, teasing and coy and sarcastic.
She chuckled coquettishly as he crushed her body to his and his lips descended on hers.
"Hey, Mon is something burning?" Joey's voice caused the pair of them to spring apart like the threat of their friend finding out was an explosion and they were taking cover.
They were getting pretty good and jumping apart, no longer biting lips and bumping noses. Chandler spun around and plopped into the chair at the table with his back to the living room and Monica moved to the stove where two pancakes were in fact, black and stuck to the pan. She picked up the spatula where he'd left it and tossed the burnt scraps in the bin, just as Joey shut the door behind him.
"Morning, Joe," Chandler greeted cheerily. Monica smiled from her spot in the kitchen and presented the plate of Chandler's pancakes on the table between the boys. There was half a mixing bowl of batter left but Monica turned the heat of the burner off so she could sit beside Chandler and eat some of the food he'd made her.
Chandler had chopped peaches and kiwi and piled berries in a bowl, and set up a decanter of lemon juice to offset the sweetness, a jug of orange juice on the table too. He'd put a lot of effort into breakfast, clearly, and it was a bit disappointing that Joey was joining them. Worse when she saw that he'd pulled out the tray from beside the fridge and lay the twin cups and plates and utensils for two on it, as though he'd planned to bring her breakfast in bed. She would have let him, too, crummies be damned.
Monica's knee bumped against Chandler's in an attempt to thank him. His eyes flicked to hers and his smile grew, his nose scrunching in that way he did.
Joey shoved pancake in his mouth, his knife and fork barely utilised, drawing Monica's attention away from how golden Chandler's hair appeared in the morning light.
Joey squinted at his food, his mouth full of half-chewed food when he spoke. "Hey, Mon, you put maple syrup in the batter like Chandler does. Good, huh?"
Monica quirked her eyebrow at her best friend. It was one thing that he had memorised a recipe and could execute it well, it was a whole other story if he was adding fancy ingredients, completely overwhelming in a warm and fuzzy sort of way.
She cut up a triangle of fluffy pancake, her knife sliding through easily and popped it into her mouth. Buttery and hot, with a hint of syrupy sweetness, Chandler's pancakes were delicious. Monica speared another triangle of the breakfast food and paired it with a strawberry. Her eyes closed in bliss.
Beside her, she could feel Chandler watching her and smirking proudly. She wanted to let him know his cooking was divine, compliment his effort, preferably with a kiss, but that would draw Joey's attention.
"It is good," Monica replied to Joey. Then she turned to Chandler, "Better, even."
He nodded like he understood her hidden meaning and she felt his hand touch her thigh, squeezing. Chandler pulled a plate from the tray to his left and added two pancakes to the dish, slicing it with the side of his fork and eating a piece while his other hand was still touching her leg. He winked, "Told you, Mon."
"It is a good recipe," Monica played along to Joey's story, it was an easy cover and fairly unsubtle, but Joey wasn't paying attention, too busy with his food. "Maybe I should let Chandler cook sometimes."
Joey snorted. "Like you would ever let anyone in the kitchen."
Chandler made a smug sound in the back of his throat. "I bet I could convince her. Right, Mon?"
Monica took another bite of the breakfast Chandler had prepared. She pinched the back of his hand at the thinly-veiled innuendo in his voice. But it definitely wouldn't take much convincing at all, especially if this is what his cooking tasted like and doubly so if making breakfast was something Chandler wanted to do for her. Monica threaded her fingers through Chandler's under the table and he squeezed her hand. She didn't know how they would manage it without raising suspicion, but Monica was certain they would. She might not get to hear him humming as he stirred batter or wake up to cold sheets and the sound of crackling bacon, knowing he'd only left to bring her a tray of food, but Monica had a feeling they would work a way around any obstacles if it meant they could be together.
She was looking forward to that.
