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 shirayuki55 who consistently leaves the nicest reviews. And is further inspired by the fact that Matthew has admitted he makes a mean grilled cheese, giving rise to this little headcanon that it's all him, despite his misgivings about the holiday, making sure of the group's Thanksgiving meal in season one.


Merecedor: worthy and deserving.


Chandler honestly couldn't believe how bad the holiday was turning out to be. He hadn't expected any less on his front, given that Thanksgiving always felt like a tsunami. He wasn't sure if it was him pulling away from everybody or the world receding from him, but he was always alone. And then life would come crashing back full force, slapping him in the face with the announcement of divorce and kicking his feet out from under him, knocking the wind out of him with a severed toe or the fact his parents hadn't written him. Again. It was him pulling away, curling into the foetal position and locking himself away for a day so that nobody could hurt him. But every year it was life pulling back its arm in preparation for a particularly brutal punch to the gut.

This year was no different.

Only he wasn't the only victim.

Monica had been mentally preparing herself all week for a meal with her mother. But she was quite looking forward to it. For once, someone else would be doting on her, feeding her. Better yet, with news of Ross' baby, the focus would be off her. And when it did shift back inevitably to discussions of biological clocks and for someone who wants to be a mother, you really should be focusing on finding the right man before time runs out, Monica had prepared an arsenal of my career is more important to me, mother and twenty-five-year-old men aren't always the most responsible or eager to get married. She was going in prepared for her mother's onslaught but also for her father's warm hug and whispered jokes as Ross went on and on about his life at the University. Deep down, she was looking forward to the weekend. She'd said so. Much to Ross' chagrin, given that he hadn't been aware the table was so divided and that his father still didn't understand his love of dinosaurs.

Now Jack and Judy weren't even having the kids over. Puerto Rico with their friends being somehow more appealing than an evening with their family.

For him, that line of thinking made a lot of sense. For Phoebe too. Joey might even subscribe to that sort of thinking, given how crowded his house got when all his sisters were sitting around the table. Then again, he did go every Thursday to visit his family and get his mother to do his laundry, so it probably wouldn't even be that much of a spurn that he didn't attend one meal with the family out of the fifty he normally attended.

But the Gellers? Their family was Ross and Monica. Who would abandon Ross and Monica for some holiday that would be overpriced this time of year?

At least they hadn't told Ross. If anyone knew how much Monica's mother left her daughter to fend for herself, it would be him. And Rachel. And Phoebe. Everyone got the gist of it, it was really quite obvious, actually. But there was something very satisfying that not only had Ross been left out of the loop, he'd been abandoned, too.

For a moment, Chandler had indulged in the thought that the holiday would be just another day. Rachel was going away. Joey would be with his family. Ross might go share a meal with his pregnant ex-wife and the night would just be him and Monica eating a normal meal and slumping in front of the television listlessly. They'd watch the parade and eat too much, but it wouldn't be Thanksgiving, per se. It'd just be another night in apartment 20 with his best friend.

That little fantasy didn't last for long.

Chandler wasn't at all surprised when Ross started whining that his parents weren't hosting the holiday. Or that Monica jumped in and offered her services.

Naturally, that wasn't good enough for Ross. He couldn't just accept that Monica was making him a meal on a night he would otherwise be alone. He had to specify the menu, too.

She went around the group, clarifying that it was only going to be her brother and Phoebe she was cooking for because Rachel and Joey would be with their families. Monica had never cooked for so few people, even back when Phoebe was her roommate, Ross, and he would stop by for dinner if they weren't going out. What a treat for her.

Then she turned her attention to him. "And I assume, Chandler, you are still boycotting all the pilgrim holidays?"

He was fairly certain his cheeks turned red. Did she really remember? Of course, avoiding Thanksgiving was a foundational part of his psyche, and he was fairly loud about it this time of year. "Every single one of them."

Then, quite rudely, Phoebe suggested Carol and Susan be invited as well. That was a bit rich. Chandler was sure she meant well. Those women were family. But Monica was already going out of her way for them.

"Only a hundred and two dollars to go," Rachel announced as she walked past.

Chandler squinted at her. "I thought you were at ninety-eight fifty?"

"I broke a cup," Rachel sighed.

Chandler glanced over at Monica. She nodded at him. Her blue eyes were wide and warm and he got the distinct feeling she understood exactly what he was trying to communicate with her. Rachel was not going to make a hundred dollars in tips. Not in a single shift. Not her. And she wasn't going to accept them all tipping her hugely again. But a hundred divided by five wasn't too steep, only twenty dollars each. Of course, it'd be forty for him because Joey didn't have that sort of cash. But still doable. He expected Phoebe would have the money as well. She seemed to like Rachel, and she had picked up a lot of shifts over the summer, plus her grandmother was adamant about saving.

Chandler expected Ross would chip in too, given that he had a crush on Rachel Green - either a new one or the same one from years ago brought back to life by being in her life again. Chandler didn't understand the appeal, in all honesty. Rachel was pretty sure, but she was not his type at all. He liked his women strong-willed and opinionated and needlessly kind. Rachel reminded Chandler very much of himself, the lap of luxury familiar to both of them but a place that Rachel very much leant into whereas he ran away from it. He was probably being too harsh. He barely knew her. But she seemed selfish and narcissistic and like money was something very important to her. That was very off-putting as far as Chandler was concerned. Nevermind the way she had behaved a little over a year ago when she'd dismissed him and thrown her wealth in Monica's face unprompted. Maybe Ross saw something Chandler didn't. He'd known her for longer, after all.

Then again, Ross was spending a lot of money on baby-proofing his apartment and buying cribs and toys and clothes. Perhaps he couldn't swing it. He didn't have a roommate. And wasn't splitting the bill with Carol, who had to buy all her own versions of the same things.

They left the cafe not long after with Monica needing to get a load of groceries for tomorrow. To plan a menu and make a shopping list and organise her schedule so that everything was timed perfectly.

"We should chip in and help Rachel out?" Monica whispered to him as they walked up the stairs.

Chandler hummed. So she had been thinking the same thing as him. "Twenty bucks each isn't too bad."

"Are you going to pay for Joey?" she asked.

Chandler nodded. Joey had lost that job recently in the Al Pacino movie and hadn't gone back to the theatre after Freud! it being the off-season, as it was. He scraped together rent each month, late or a little less than expected, but consistently and Chandler didn't think it was right to ask his best friend for more money in the same week he asked for rent. And what was twenty bucks, anyway?

"You going to ask him to reimburse you this time?" she nudged him with her elbow.

"Probably not," he shrugged.

Beside him, Monica frowned. Chandler heard it. The little hum of displeasure that emanated from her. "Mind if I ask him to pay you back?"

Chandler shrugged again. "I'd rather we didn't stress him out. It's only twenty bucks, and he's going for that new modelling gig. When he gets it, and the gigs that follow it, he'll be good for it. But we'll leave it for now."

"What if I told him it was me who paid for him?"

"If Joey pays you back, I'll be having some strong words with him," Chandler growled, hoping he sounded threatening but knowing it probably didn't land. Especially not when he was wearing this big woollen coat that bundled him up all nice and cozy.

"No, you won't," Monica laughed.

"No," he admitted. "Probably not. But I will be very offended. Just because you're pretty shouldn't mean he likes you more."

She giggled and blew him a sarcastic kiss. Of course, the pretty girl thing made Joey more likely to respond and respect her.

They parted ways at their apartment doors, Monica planning to go out and get groceries, Chandler planning on reading on the couch until Baywatch started. Anything to avoid collating the files he'd brought home in his briefcase. He wondered when Treeger was going to get their apartment numbers back. The old nineteen and twenty had rusted over time and the landlord had replaced the ones on their floor with corresponding numbers. Monica was four and Chandler and Joey were five and had been for a few months now, numbers that showed how many units there were on each floor. For a little while, everyone had expected that these numbers would stick around for a bit, every floor having apartments one to five. But Treeger sent out a flier that he'd bought brass replacements that wouldn't tarnish and their original addresses would be returned gradually. But everyone's apartment doors should be fixed by Christmas.

He was looking forward to living in apartment nineteen again.

Chandler almost expected Monica to knock on his door once she'd got her menu all written up and her ingredients listed by the market aisle for maximum efficiency. But she didn't, even though Chandler was sure there would be a lot that she had to carry home. Unless she did it in shifts. She did have a day to organise it all. Then again, Monica was only making food for three people. Maybe there wasn't all that much.

She didn't ask anyone to chip in, either. Which Chandler figured she had every right to do. But, he suspected, Monica thought she was doing something for her family. To her, this was a show of love and genuine thanksgiving for these people, cooking for them the way she expressed her appreciation for their friendship. But for Phoebe and Ross, it was just Monica making another meal for them because she liked cooking and happened to be good at it.

It wasn't until that night after Monica came back from her shop that Chandler realised just how much Monica used food to express herself. She'd handed him a bag of junk food, the exact meal he had every Thanksgiving. Chandler couldn't even remember telling her about that meal, but Monica had remembered it. She'd taken note of the things he liked and had ensured that he wouldn't be without while everyone else was celebrating. He got a lump in his throat when she handed him the bag of groceries just for him. Monica Geller really was something else.

The real problem would be not giving into the temptation of the clamouring voices across the hall. But Chandler had a secret weapon.

He'd just skip the meal.

He was mostly immune to the smell of turkey these days. Years of smelling it being cooked through boarding school kitchens made him less likely to gag at the stench. In fact, as long as it wasn't November, he quite liked the poultry. Maybe not liked, but tolerated.

He would stand in the doorway and chat to his friends as Monica cooked and Ross bothered her, likening her to her mother. And once they were done, signalled by a collective groan as everyone moved to the couch but was too full to sit comfortably, he'd come over again. He simply couldn't give in to the sound of laughter wafting across the hallway. Especially now that it turned out Joey was staying for Thanksgiving, too. Everybody he knew and liked would be only a few steps away, and Joey's laugh was almost as loud as Phoebe's.

Of course, when the time came for him to shoulder the doorway and keep his distance, Phoebe kept waving traditional Thanksgiving foods in his face. It was thoroughly amusing, seeing the stuffing wobble. But when she picked up the pumpkin pie, it hit a little too close to home. After all, a huge part of his Thanksgiving story was puking up the dessert, and Phoebe knew that.

Chandler trudged back to his lonely apartment, leaving all the merriment behind him, and flicked the television on to catch the parade.

He may have hated Thanksgiving, but Chandler watched the parade religiously. He doesn't quite remember when it started, if it was something he used to watch with his father, because he definitely remembers watching it with his dad on the other side of the couch in the casual living room. But he also remembers watching it alone in his dorm room at school, everyone else having gone home for the holidays. There was something thoroughly comforting about the parade and he tuned in every year to give him a little taste of homey comfort.

It was a fairly mundane parade, as it always was. But the marching band reminded him of his own school band days, playing the clarinet with a bunch of other boys in the music room when he wasn't training for his next swim meet. Of course, he thoroughly enjoyed the faux pas of dropping batons, high heel stumbles and costume rips. They always warmed his heart, too. No such events had happened this year, but it was early in the event.

Oh, my god! He leant forward in his chair. What? Did that really just happen?

Chandler chuckled as a group of full-grown adults jumped for a rogue rope. Their momentum surprised the group of marchers beside them, startling them. It looked like the surprise and the movement, maybe even the thrust of the wind, gathered up the other rope and pulled it from their grasp. The other two groups didn't stand a chance after that, jumping and dragging their heels across the road before relinquishing their hold to the elements.

Then the camera panned upwards. The balloon was Underdog, and it was flying above the city, cape billowing. Oh, my god!

The others had to see this!

Chandler ripped open his door and ran to Monica's apartment. "The most unbelievable thing has happened! Underdog has just gotten away!"

Everyone was standing around the table, but Joey piped up first. "The balloon?"

There wasn't time for this. They had to come see his television. Or better yet, they had a view of the whole city from the roof. They could head upstairs and see the whole thing play out for themselves, the giant flying dog floating above New York.

"No, no," he said slowly. "The actual cartoon character." Then he shook his head. "Of course, the balloon. It's all over the news. Right before he reached Macy's, he broke free and was spotted flying over Washington Square Park. I'm going to the roof. Who's with me?"

None of them picked up on his urgency, but Chandler's knees were bent, ready to run upstairs.

"I can't," Rachel said. "I gotta go."

"Come on," he encouraged. "An eighty-foot inflatable dog let loose over the city. How often does that happen?"

That turned out to be the worst thing he could have said.

Everyone had raced up the stairs to witness this moment in history. If they hadn't, none of what happened next would have, and the whole day wouldn't have gone terribly wrong.

They spent half an hour upstairs laughing at that balloon. It was cold, and it was windy but the five of them huddled together and he pulled his sleeves from his elbows to cover his wrists.

Chandler expected Joey was pretty pleased with the whole situation, given that Rachel stood in front of him to protect her hair from the wind. Meanwhile, Monica had curled into him for warmth. But Chandler expected there was a little more to Monica's side hug. She seemed quite upset, shrinking every time Joey rubbed his hands together and reminded everyone how much he was looking forward to his Thanksgiving tater tots.

Chandler looked down at Monica the third time it happened, quirking his eyebrows up in question.

"We're having three types of potato," she responded glumly.

Chandler didn't understand what that meant. Monica was making Ross the anti-chef's version of mash potato. And tots were being served, too. Had she even bought that many potatoes?

"You baking them with rosemary and salt with the skin on the way you like?" he asked. His entire worldview changed when Monica introduced him to eating whole baby white potatoes roasted in the oven and rolled in herbs. At first, he'd been wary of eating the hot potato, but the pair of them had ended up using their fingers and eating them straight from the tray since they were so good. He'd never eaten such a tasty vegetable. It didn't surprise him that she loved her potatoes that way. And when she did it with a little garlic as well. Perfection.

Monica shook her head against his side.

Oh.

After all the effort she put in to making food for her friends, something she didn't want to do in the first place, it seemed cruel that everybody had pushed her into cooking things exactly to their tastes, not to hers.

She was too nice for her own good, always trying to please everybody. It wasn't fair. Monica deserved to have exactly what she wanted. She deserved for people to recognise her worth without her needing to shove her achievements in their faces as proof. She deserved someone to say "thank you." Just once.

At least, she was on the right track to learning that she was worth someone else's effort and that it shouldn't always be her going out of her way for everyone else. Of course, it all came to a head at the wrong moment, but at least Monica was getting there.

"I loved the moment when you first saw the giant dog shadow all over the park," Rachel reminisced as they descended down the stairs. It had been just long enough that Rachel would be cutting it fine, but if the traffic was good, she'd be early for her flight.

According to Monica, they'd spent just enough time watching them shoot down the balloon, which Joey thought was hilarious as it whizzed away, and Phoebe thought was cruel, for the "turkey to be crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside."

Only to find out that they'd been locked out of the apartment.

It wasn't even surprising that Monica and Rachel started yelling at each other almost immediately. Everyone had been waiting for their relationship to come to a head. They were so different and expected each other to be the sweet and innocent friend they remembered from childhood. But things had changed over the years. There were a lot of things that Chandler had heard from Monica during their late night chats on the balcony about why he hadn't seen the girl from Thanksgiving around in a while but he wasn't sure if Monica had the stomach to confront Rachel about it. Or about her barging in and insisting Monica give her a place to stay indefinitely. He imagined they had, and really it was none of his business, but everyone could see that the novelty of their reconnection was wearing off.

It all manifested in an ugly shouting match, blaming each other for not being able to communicate with the other, neither taking responsibility nor talking at a regular decibel.

"Do either of you have the keys?" he asked. Wasn't that the real issue? That there wasn't a key. Plus, a little comment to distract them from fighting would remind the two women that blaming each other wasn't helpful.

Rachel pounced at him, gripping him by the collar. He deserved that. "If it wasn't for you and your stupid balloon, I would be on a plane."

Chandler couldn't be certain, but he suspected Monica was trying to defend him when she brought up the keys again. Why else would she poke Rachel when she was shouting at him? Especially with something they had put to rest. It felt a little bit like she disagreed and was trying not to blame him for what was going on. He sent her a thankful smile.

And then the girls were back to fighting.

"Why?" Monica had a point. Everyone had this expectation that Monica would fix everything no matter what. Most of the time, she was happy to help or would offer her services without being prompted. But sometimes it came off like they were taking advantage of her, expecting her to do things for them because she had done it in the past. He was sure she liked it sometimes, her maternal side on full display, the challenge exciting and everyone looking to her making her feel valuable. But it was a whole different ballgame when she wasn't offering in the first place. "Because everything is my responsibility? Isn't it enough that I'm making Thanksgiving dinner for everyone?"

Chandler watched, the heavy drawer of Joey's keys in his hands. He really wished that when Joey had taken Chandler's key to Monica's that he'd at least labelled it. He was fascinated by Monica standing on the step of the landing, just a little bit taller than everyone and standing up for herself. She was amazing. And so strong.

And then she stopped fighting her tears and began crying and Chandler could feel her losing her audience. Behind him, he heard Rachel sigh and watched Joey wince when Monica started over enunciating and drawing out her vowels.

Monica had been doing so well. Chandler didn't want the fact that she was hyperventilating and barely audible now to detract from her message.

So he spoke up, hoping she would listen to his advice and that his words would give her a chance to catch her breath and calm down before she continued ripping in to their friends. Or even decide that she'd said her piece and everything else should be discussed in the privacy of a one-on-one conversation. "Monica, only dogs can hear you now."

But his timing was all off and Joey got the door open at just that moment. Chandler figured that should be announced so that they could salvage dinner and make sure a fire hadn't started.

Turns out, it was all unsalvageable.

Then Ross walked in and made it worse with one thoughtless complaint.

Monica thrust a burnt pot at him. "You wanted lumps, Ross? Well, here you go, buddy, ya got one."

Naturally, Ross' complaint opened the floodgates, giving everyone the impression they could also chime in.

Chandler pressed his lips together. Monica had been on such a roll earlier. She'd been so assertive. She'd taken a breath to collect herself. But the sight of her messy kitchen had knocked the wind out of her. And the group took that moment as a chink in her armour and aimed for it remorselessly.

"I'm stuck here with you guys."

"This was nobody's first choice."

Were they kidding?

Chandler took a couple of steps backward to avoid the fray. He hoped Monica gathered that same courage that she had summoned before to smack some sense into the people around her. She shouted, but everybody was shouting so it went unnoticed. He felt as helpless as he had that first Thanksgiving, unable to slow the train of his family as it derailed. There was nothing he could say. He couldn't shout over the lot of them. He couldn't whistle to get their attention. He wanted to defend Monica, but his voice would be lost. So he didn't add it to the argument.

This group never fought like this. It was why he preferred spending his time with them over everybody else. It felt like Thanksgiving with the Bings, and Chandler hated it.

Thankfully, Phoebe knew how to distract everyone from an argument. She had as many bad memories associated with shouting as he did, probably more. All she had to do was pull their attention over to the window and point out their across the road neighbour. "Oh, my god. He's not alone! ugly Naked Guy's having Thanksgiving dinner with Ugly Naked Gal."

Which was a sweet sentiment. They'd been observing the man for years and he'd almost always been alone. It was nice that he had someone.

Chandler squished in last, his arm resting against Monica's. "I've got bread and cheese at my place. It's a Chandler Bing Thanksgiving staple."

Monica blinked up at him.

"I make a mean grilled cheese," he explained. "You can set the table all fancy and we'll all eat together."

In fact, he realised, that would be quite nice. It wouldn't be all that different from any other day of the week, but it would be his first nice Thanksgiving. He'd never had one of those before.

"That'd be nice," she whispered back.

"I'll go grab some stuff," he said before leaving to his apartment and grabbing a loaf, a block of cheese, and a skillet. He wasn't sure how many of Monica's pots had been ruined with burnt food, but he suspected it was quite a few, given the three types of potatoes she had cooked, let alone everything else.

he walked back in to find Monica in the kitchen, swirling detergent into the bottom of the pots she'd burnt.

"They're going to need to soak for a couple of hours, Mon," he told her, putting his things on the stove. "You've got butter in your fridge, yeah?"

Monica nodded, filling the next pot with detergent. Chandler really hoped she heeded his advice and left them to soak for as long as necessary instead of exhausting herself trying to scrub the things like some unnecessary form of self-flagellation she didn't deserve.

Chandler moved across the kitchen and over to the fridge, pulling out a tub of butter. The kitchen was so small, but he walked sideways behind Monica to get back to the stove. He reached up to grab a plate and then moved over to grab a steak knife from the drawer, setting up his implements against the bench. He flicked the stove on, preheating it.

"Do you need a hand?" Monica asked, sidling up beside him.

Part of Chandler wanted to agree. He loved cooking with Monica. Sure, they only did it at breakfast sometimes, him making pancakes for Joey's lady friends and her cooking toast over in his apartment. Or him doing the mixing of the batter for the cake she wanted to bake. They always had a lot of fun standing shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, even if Monica was a hard taskmaster and could get pretty antsy if he wasn't keeping things clean enough as he went along.

But she'd been on her feet all day. She'd been cooking for other people all day, all of them bothering her and pestering her and asking too much of her.

"Pretty sure I can butter bread by myself," he quipped, hoping she wouldn't take offence. "Go sit on the couch with the others."

"Don't put too many in at once."

Chandler grinned as Monica leant over his forearm to instruct him. She couldn't help herself. And even though the apartment still smelt sickeningly like burnt turkey, he could smell the shampoo she wore as she got very close to him.

"You lose all the heat in the pan that way."

"Thank you." It was nicer than letting her know he already knew that. He slipped the knife into the plastic that covered the cheese and sliced it open. It wasn't fancy or expensive, but it melted nicely. He turned the block on its side on the plate and cut rectangular slices for their meal. "Now go sit down."

But Monica didn't move. "I said some pretty mean things."

"You said some correct things," he told her candidly.

Sometimes he felt bad about it, but he almost exclusively sided with Monica on things. Chandler wasn't certain as to why. Most of the time, everyone in the group had a different opinion, which meant they had interesting debates and discussions, but there was no power imbalance, so it worked. Except for him. Often he'd happily shift the balance of power so that Monica had someone who could articulate her ideas a little better than she could, if he did say so himself. She always bounced on her toes and smiled at him excitedly whenever she realised she had someone on her team. He liked those moments.

"I don't think anyone heard you over everybody's yelling anyway," he reminded her.

Chandler counted the cheese slices in front of him. Calculating that two for each sandwich would be sufficient, he deduced that he hadn't cut enough. He also wasn't sure if he should make one per person or two, except for Joey, for whom he'd make three. He asked Monica.

"You've got half a loaf of bread," she told him. "Just do it all."

"Sounds good." He looked at her then. "You had some good points and everyone's over the fighting. Go rest your feet."

No one was going to hold anything against Monica. She'd made wonderful points about the others taking advantage of her and Chandler was sure that over in the living room the four of them were reflecting on their behaviour and wishing she'd come over so they could apologise for it.

"I've got to get the table set," she countered.

Chandler bit his lips together. He really hoped that wasn't because she was afraid of how her friends would talk to her. "Get Joe and Rachel to help you."

"Why them?"

Chandler shook his head, untying the tag from the bread bag. "Or get Phoebe and Ross to help you."

He watched her lips pull into a smile, pearly white teeth showing as she prepared to tease him. "Why them?"

Chandler shrugged, pulling out a slice of bread. "Punishment."

Monica sighed. "They didn't really do anything wrong."

Chandler sighed, flipping open the lid of the butter and smearing it across the bread. "Get them to help, anyway."

Monica remained silent.

Chandler put the buttered slice on the plate and picked up another for the same treatment. "Look, Monica. I know you're not going to talk to them about it. I know you think that what they did isn't too bad. It probably isn't, but it made you feel bad. Even if you're not going to talk about it, get them involved. Let them see how much effort you put in. Get them to see how difficult it is."

"That's not a bad idea," she conceded, reaching up to grab some wine glasses.

Chandler put two slices of bread in the skillet, butter side down, and layered the cheese across them. Then he put two unbuttered slices over the top. "You got a pancake spatula anywhere?"

"You know," Monica walked over to the drawers and pulled one out, handing it to him. "If you squish them down with a plate, they'll get flatter quicker."

Chandler nodded at the new information, pulling a plate down from the shelf.

"And you know you haven't buttered the top slice, right?"

"Yes," he told her. "I didn't want to get butter everywhere. I'll do it right before I flip them."

"Smart," Monica rummaged around a different drawer, pulling out a couple of candles and calling the girls over to help her set the table.

"Chandler's cooking?" Rachel asked. "That's nice that he's not letting you do it. You must be exhausted after today."

Chandler bit down his smile. Yes, a little empathy was exactly what Monica needed in her life. A little understanding from her friends that she put in a lot of time and effort for them and she was worth so much more in return.

Monica didn't respond. She may have nodded, but she didn't say anything. Chandler expected emotions were still running hot and wild and she didn't want to burst into tears again.

"You making your grilled cheese?" Phoebe asked, appearing suddenly by his side and pulling more plates from the shelf.

Chandler affirmed that yes he was.

"Pancakes and grilled cheese," Rachel said. "You are going to make a wonderful husband."

He suspected she meant to tease him with that comment, intending it sarcastically. But her argument was weak. "I am pretty great at breakfast in bed."

"In bed?" Monica piped in. Chandler should have expected as much. The image probably horrified her need for routine and organised places and schedules for meals and events. "But all the crummies."

"Well, it's not like he'd be marrying you," Phoebe reminded Monica.

"Or at all," Chandler added. "But you're only against breakfast in bed because you've never had it, Monica."

"I cannot imagine anything worse," she said.

Chandler shook his head. That was so sad. There was nothing better than waking up to the smell of bacon. Or a little vase with a smiley daisy presented to you on a tray with waffles. Or chicken soup and crusty bread all snuggled up when you were sick. How had Monica Geller never experienced how comforting it was to eat in the safest place you knew? Someone really should change that. Then again, she seemed totally against the idea. It'd take years and tiny baby steps to get there, but Monica should experience eating breakfast in bed it at least once.

"Do I need to tell my Thanksgiving story again?" he asked seriously. Because there were definitely things worse than a few crumbs in the sheets.

"No!" All three chimed in hurtful synchronicity. Chandler grinned, happy that they were all getting along again. Even if only for the moment. They really were a great group, even if he was the butt of the teasing.

"Is he any good at cooking, though?" he heard Rachel ask, punctuated with the whoosh of the tablecloth being spread out across the table.

"Hey!" He turned his head to look over his shoulder in indignation as he scraped the toastie from the skillet and deposited it on the plate. Replacing it with another in the pan.

Monica smirked at him. "As long as he doesn't burn it."

He squinted at her evilly, and Monica laughed.

Maybe Thanksgiving wasn't so bad, Chandler found himself thinking. He was surrounded by a group of friends, they were all laughing. He'd seen a flying dog fade over the horizon and fizzle as it was shot down. He was about to eat cheesy comfort food and drink mildly expensive wine. And he wasn't going to be alone this year.

Not bad at all.