Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
Tingo: Slowly and gradually taking someone's things until you've built up a collection of all their things, usually a neighbour or friend's things.
Chandler could feel Ross' eyes boring into the back of his head from where he stood behind him in Monica's doorway. Chandler was a few steps in, holding his key out for Monica to take.
"I don't need to be woken up, or for dorm checks to make sure I'm home." Chandler scrunched his nose. He had a tendency to over-analyse what he wanted to say. He wanted to ask his friend a favour and had prefaced it by telling her he didn't expect her to do anything for him but hold the key. But he had a tendency to add adjectives and academia, attempting to present himself as a professional. It was a leftover from temping where his boss had recognised those qualities as valuable and hired him permanently. Instead, it made him sound like he was sarcastically detailing every misogynistic thing he wanted Monica to do for him.
Chandler wanted to ask Monica a favour now that all his boxes were across the hall. He wanted to ask her to keep his spare key because he was likely to lose it amongst all those loose scrunched up short stories he'd used as packing material. He'd probably get her to keep it for good, like all those sitcoms he desperately wishes to be part of as a kid suggested when you were an adult and you had friends, the logical step was to give yourself to someone trustworthy in case you lost yours. Someone you could count on. Someone you knew the phone number of or where they lived.
Key still in hand, Chandler passed his hand between himself and Monica as though to wipe the slate clean and start fresh.
She grinned at him from her kitchen table. Monica waited patiently while Chandler gathered his thoughts. She might be waiting a while, he lamented. Even though he'd spent a lot of time with Monica, and Phoebe too, he still wasn't used to talking to pretty girls. Moreover, Chandler's tongue went thick when it came to important things like this. He had very little hope of managing the sentence like an adult. He was well aware of that. But then his gaze fell on Monica's patient blue eyes and a small, concerned smile.
"Will you hold on to my spare key for me?" he asked her.
She was the most responsible person he knew. It made sense for him to ask this favour if Monica. Not out of any hope for reciprocation from his new neighbour. Or a sense of obligation. Even though he definitely owed her an expensive dinner and something else for offering him the apartment opposite hers when it became available. He'd spent a lot of time with her, and Phoebe by extension, over the last couple of months at dinner and the local pub. All five of them got along great. What was better was that when Ross and Carol couldn't make it or left early, the conversation didn't lull. In fact, he loved their company and be was looking forward to living so close to his two closest friends. But surely Ross and Carol could have used the apartment, Chandler was sure the rent was better than their current dingy apartment.
Instead, Monica had offered him an interview with the landlord with her as a reference. She'd barged into his office just before his lunch break and gripped his forearm excitedly before she yanked him down to be level with her, the tips of their noses whispering against each other. No one had ever done anything like that for him before.
They stood almost that close again now. Smiling happily up at him, Monica took the key from Chandler, her fingers scratching against his palm softly, telling him she'd love to, and then moving into the kitchen.
Chandler watched as Monica pulled open the kitchen drawer, the third one down, and pulled out a tub. She moved over to the kitchen island and opened the lucite container. Chandler moved to press his palm against the island and peered, fascinated, into the box.
Inside were neat rows of stationary in organised sections. A rainbow of sticky notes was stacked in the corner. There was a tape dispenser and a pair of scissors. Plus, an elastic band looped around a handful of highlighters along the side of the container.
She'd also pulled her address book from her purse that was sitting on the bench. Opening the black leather with nimble fingers, Chandler watched as Monica flipped it open to the 'B' tab.
Chandler took a step forwards and twisted his body so that he was facing her and reading over her shoulder, his chest almost touching her shoulder to watch what Monica was doing.
At the top of the A5 page was Bing, Chandler. Beneath his name were the typical phone number, address, birth date. But then Monica had compiled dot points running all the way down the page, filling it with information about him in her tidy script. Details like his mother's phone number with a space beneath it for his father's. Beneath that, sharp points and curlicues detailed he was allergic to dogs, that he liked Mac 'n' Cheese and anything Cajun. Monica had written down that he preferred champagne and beer but didn't like red wine at all. Chandler wanted to know when she had learnt this stuff? He certainly hadn't told her. He had no idea why she bothered paying so much attention to plain old Chandler Bing. Why had she bothered to write it down? How did she get her writing so neat and curly?
"What colour do you want to be?" She offered out a handful of highlighters for him to choose from.
"Are these the colours that are left to choose from? Or am I going to pick yellow and you tell me it's been taken?" he asked in good humour.
"Blue it is," Monica announced, dropping the highlighters into the empty side of the tub with the thin blue pen in her hand.
Chandler glared at her, a playful growl vibrating between his lips.
She beamed up at him. Chandler watched as she turned her attention to her address book and her painted a line of blue ink across his name at the top of the page.
She lifted a neon blue slip of paper from the stack of blue sticky notes. Not the kind his office stocked, the thin ones he used to mark paragraphs in his college textbooks. Monica picked up his spare key from the bench and folded the paper around the grip at the top. Then she pinched the tape and pulled a measure of it from the dispenser, securing the blue around the top of his key.
"Smart," he commented as she fished her keys from her purse and attached his key to her ring of others, the blue standing out brightly against the others.
"I know."
He chuckled as she looked up at him proudly. Her eyes were bright and shining happily, a light dusting of makeup covering her freckles. He'd never seen anybody smile like that. And definitely never directed at him.
Chandler couldn't help but grin back at her.
"Chandler?" Monica asked. "Can I grab your waffle iron?"
"Knock yourself out," he nodded, gesturing vaguely to the shelves where he kept the machine.
Monica pulled out the little machine, the cord snaking against the floor from where Chandler hadn't tied it correctly. She gathered it against her chest and returned to her own apartment.
"Hey Mon," Chandler came barging into her apartment. He didn't even knock.
Monica clutched her towel around her body tighter, crossing her legs to make her body smaller and hunching a little. So anything he might see through the white towel was definitely hidden from view. She stood in the living room, having just left the bathroom. When she realised, this was Chandler. If anyone was going to be squeamish with a half-naked body in the room, it was going to be him. He was the type of man who would turn around or cover his eyes, blushing profusely if he caught someone naked accidentally. There was no reason for her to be uncomfortable around him.
"Can I use your shower?" He lifted his toiletry bag as if showing her proof of what he wanted and then lifted his other hand to show her his grey suit. "Kip's great and all, but I have a date tonight too, and I need to get ready for it."
"Chandler, what are you doing here?!" Phoebe screeched, coming out of her bedroom. "You can't see your date before the date. Get out!"
"Isn't that the bride and groom on their wedding day?" Chandler gave the blonde a wide-eyed look.
Monica met Chandler's gaze with an amused expression that he returned, the pair of them furrowing their brows at each other, communicating their confusion.
"Phoebe," Monica said patiently. "I'm not going on a date with Chandler."
The woman never liked to admit she was wrong. She was exceptionally stubborn that way. It was something Monica had learnt to ignore, finding it was better to leave her be rather than fight her or she would just ram her horns harder until you were too exhausted to prove yourself right.
"Why not?" Phoebe studied the pair of them. Her eyes were more interrogative than her tone as she sized the pair of them up.
Monica knew exactly what the woman was doing, wondering why they hadn't dated, measuring their heights to judge just how well Monica would fit under Chandler's chin, a couple of other things they usually did when they were gossiping about celebrities or couples they saw down at the bar.
Chandler grinned at Monica in that insufferable way he did, his head tilted to one side, smirking as though he was asking her yeah, why not, Monica?
She hoped his next move would be to saunter away haughtily. It usually was. That smirk that showed he was clearly questioning her stance on their potential was always followed by him walking away first. Sometimes Monica wondered if that was his way of never letting the conversation go any further so that they would never have to hurt each other. She shoved his arm playfully when he didn't.
"Because I'm dating Kip."
"For now," Phoebe said ominously.
"Do you know where he's taking me?" Monica swayed closer to Chandler, trying to ignore Phoebe. "He wouldn't say?"
He shook his head as he looked down at her. She always forgot how tall her best friend was. She felt tiny beside him. In a good way. He seemed to have to tilt his chin so far to meet her eyes, but he didn't make her feel small. Just sort of petite and those blue eyes of his were always kind and happy and somehow it made her feel important when he looked at her.
"No idea," he shook his head. "I said, Monica Geller doesn't like surprises, at least give her a little detail on the dress code or the type of shoe she should wear. But nothing."
"I do so like surprises!" She touched his arm again, pushing him a little, one hand still clutching her towel.
Chandler hunched down, his face coming closer to hers. "Not the ones where you end up having an awful evening because if you had known you were going there, you would have said, 'no, they have a terrible menu or chef or hygiene.'"
"True," she relented.
Chandler was quick to recognise her sullen demeanour as it shifted from happy to anxious and corrected the situation. "But it won't be like that. Kip knows you and what you like. It'll be great."
"Promise?"
Chandler had a way of making things better, of finding the exact right words to ruin, but also to improve, a moment. Monica made her voice small and soft just to kick her friend into high gear so that he'd make her feel better.
"I gave him a list of restaurants you like," Chandler told her. "I think he picked from one of them."
Monica beamed. She could have kissed his cheek. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he grinned right back, swaying towards her. "Can I shower now?"
"Go ahead," she agreed. "Wait. Where are you taking your date?"
"I'm taking Janice to Marcella's."
"Pricey," Monica hummed, impressed.
"First date," Chandler supplied, by way of explanation. "Gotta make a good impression."
And with that, Chandler turned around, almost skipping with excitement, and headed for her bathroom.
"Uh, Mon," Chandler's head popped out from the closed bathroom door. "Can I borrow a towel? All ours are in the locked bathroom with Kip."
"Yeah," she nodded. "In the cupboard by the bath."
"Thank you," he sang back, his head ducking back into the room. "I'll wash it and get it back to you."
When she heard his voice next, it was slightly muffled and laudatory. "Oh my god, it's so soft!"
Monica chuckled, shaking her head. She never did get that towel back.
It was about time. Monica couldn't believe she hadn't done it sooner. Chandler was always around, morning, night. It didn't matter how tired he was or what his flimsy excuses were, Monica loved his company.
She had her reasons. Ross had her spare key. He'd been the first person Monica had given the key to. And then she'd met Phoebe, and Phoebe had always had a key on her. Both were always less than ten minutes away if Monica forgot hers. Not that it ever happened.
But Phoebe had just moved out and Monica wasn't planning on looking for another roommate. She didn't think she could deal with that sort of stress or heartbreak when they inevitably left again. Someone needed to have her spare key. Who better than her best friend who just happened to be her neighbour?
She could have easily handed off a copy of her key to Chandler years ago. She trusted him enough. But he'd been the roommate of her boyfriend, Kip, who she hadn't dated for long. But he'd been part of the group as a friend, and it didn't feel right to give her key to one of the boys and not the other. Even if Kip would understand that Chandler was her brother's best friend and her oldest friend, not just her neighbour. And then, when she'd dated Kip, it would definitely not have been right to give Chandler the key, but not Kip. Or vice versa.
Kip had vacated the apartment not long ago and Chandler had just found a replacement roommate. Thankfully, the new guy would never know Chandler only got the key recently. As far as he'd be concerned, Chandler had always had a key to apartment twenty. Like her, Chandler didn't actually need a roommate. Of course, his rent was much higher than hers. Much higher. And she made a pitiful amount of small change at the restaurant, but was looking forward to being promoted and was fairly good at budgeting. So what if she had nothing left to put into a savings account? But Chandler had that office job that he'd maintained for a couple of years now and Monica knew he could sustain himself. She imagined that his roommate search was more about him being able to take care of someone, to take someone in and to give something back, like her with Phoebe. Less about charity or needing a money buffer, and more about giving someone who seemed interesting and safe and in need, a roof and a friend.
Plus, it'd be nice to have a new face around. Joey seemed nice enough. Forward and presumptuous and promiscuous, and she hoped she never saw him naked again, but nice. Chandler seemed to like him, anyway, and Monica trusted Chandler's judgement more than her own.
When Monica had handed off her key to Chandler that morning a week ago, he'd treated it like a precious gift. But he was a terrible liar. Monica got the distinct impression that he already had a copy of her key. Probably a spare Phoebe had made the second time she'd lost hers that month, a year or so ago.
Since she'd given her friend a copy of her key, Monica had noticed a key difference in her apartment. At first, she thought she was going a little out of her mind, getting forgetful.
She woke up and her door was locked, but Monica couldn't remember locking it when she got home. She almost never locked it, a habit from Phoebe always misplacing her key and the odd hours she kept. She'd had to turn the deadbolt to get out of her apartment, but she couldn't remember setting it.
It happened every day that week. And Monica had actually taken note on the third day that she hadn't locked it, only to find she was locked inside, and the world was barred from entrance to her apartment.
On Saturday, Monica had gone to her parents' for brunch. She'd woken up late after a late night playing snooker and drinking with Phoebe, Joey and Chandler, that she'd totally forgotten about the dishes she'd been in the middle of washing up when they'd insisted she joined them. She'd only remembered the stack of dirty china when her parents had wanted to drive her home to make sure she got back safely. Monica knew that was code for double checking her living conditions. But when she'd gotten home, the dishes were clean and put away.
Monica would have thought that she was sleep cleaning again. Or that she was misremembering not doing them.
But the mugs weren't in order.
She cornered Chandler on Sunday when they did their groceries together and he very easily fished her key from his pocket to open the door for her.
"It wasn't locked," he said after turning the key and finding he couldn't open the door.
"I forgot," she shrugged around her brown paper bag of vegetables.
"Monica, you have to lock your door."
"It's not like this building's ever been robbed. And there are a lot of stairs to get up here."
"That's not the point." His blue eyes were wide and his skin had gone pale with disbelief. "And what happens when someone puts up a sign that they want a new roommate or that they're selling a tv unit or something? That just invites criminals."
"I know," she flushed at how adamant her friend was, so concerned for her wellbeing. But she knew the risks. And she was genuinely trying to remember to lock up when she left. "I've just got to get back into the habit."
"Especially when you're inside," he continued. "You have to lock it at night."
"It's you!" The pieces fell neatly into place. "What do you wait for me to finish work and then lock me in?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Why was she yelling? That was kind of sweet. Kind of creepy, too. What if something went wrong like a fire? She did have a key inside. Not that she even needed it. She just had to turn the deadbolt, and she'd be free.
"You're a young, beautiful woman living alone. You don't know what sort of people live in this city," Chandler was gesturing wildly with his grocery bags in one hand and it caused her to laugh. Which, of course, made her older friend think she was laughing at his words, not his actions, and that she wasn't taking him seriously. "Or in this building, for that matter. Why are you laughing?"
Because she never expected this sort of shouting from her laid-back friend. Because she'd never seen him go red before and Monica wasn't certain if it was from the embarrassment of being caught or from frustration.
"Your bag broke." A thing of rice was lying on the floor, still intact. She'd watched it flop onto the ground in slow motion. It was heavy. How hadn't Chandler noticed it?
He ran out of steam then, bending down to pick up the rice and gripping what was left in the bag close to his chest so it didn't fall too.
"You know what I mean though, right, Mon?" His voice had gone much softer, kinder as Chandler stood back up with all the groceries in one hand and her brass key in the other.
Stomping footsteps ascended the stairs beside them, and Joey revealed himself for the first time that weekend. "You guys alright?"
"Fine, Joey," they said in unison as though they were a couple trying to hide their squabble from the public eye.
"Okay," he nodded. "Here, let me take that from you."
"Thanks," Chandler said, holding out the groceries for Joey to take. But he didn't. He plucked the key from Chandler's other hand while Chandler made a surprised clucking sound.
"I'll put this in the drawer with the key to the basement and a few others," Joey explained. "It'll be safer if they're all together."
"Uh, Joe?"
But the man was already in the apartment.
Chandler turned back to Monica. "Maybe he's as organised as you are. Maybe this is a good thing."
Monica hummed disbelievingly. She liked Joey well enough, even with the rocky start, and didn't think he'd do anything untoward with her key. "And maybe we'll never see that key again."
Chandler's eyebrows rose up his forehead. "Maybe we won't need to. Maybe you'll learn to lock the door while you're inside."
Monica blinked at her best friend. He was right. Of course, he was right. "I'll try to be better."
"Thank you." His nod was as soft as his voice, like he recognised Monica was making an effort and that's what really mattered to him.
"And I'll unlock it as soon as I start making breakfast so you can come over and read the paper with me. Just in case you never get that key back."
"Thank you," he said in that silly little way he said things sometimes, cute and babbling with a relenting tilt to his head like he didn't expect to get the key back either but still wanted to spend the mornings with her like they always did.
"Alright then," Chandler continued. He could see the frustration on Monica's face, but there was something else there too. She seemed to be enjoying that he was asking questions about cooking. She always loved talking about her recipes and giving people instructions, teaching people things. But she very clearly did not like how naïve he was to everything she held dear. "What's the difference between a normal pan and a wok?"
"Chandler," she was definitely exasperated. "You need to use a wok to make stir-fry."
"Define need." His fingers made a pinched circle, his smallest finger standing erect like he was holding on to a fancy teacup. And then he clapped, one fist fitting into the other like a ball in a baseball glove. "Because, in a pinch, things in recipes can always be substituted, right?"
"You don't own a wok?" she asked, surprised. "You own a hibachi, but not a wok?"
"Pizza, barbeque and snacks have always been my forte, and you do the fancy stuff. We had a deal."
"Why the sudden need to make a stir-fry?" she asked, bending to find the item Chandler was talking about in the space under the sink and standing back up with the wok in her hand.
"I have all the ingredients. Why waste them?" That's what watching cooking shows got him, all excited about being able to cook quick and easy meals and straight out in a rush to buy those ingredients. Most of the time, it worked out okay. And when it didn't, he went to Monica for help.
After the allotted period of well-meant teasing, she'd give in and teach him.
"But you don't own a wok," she grinned.
Chandler rolled his eyes. "Are you done?"
"Almost." All her teeth were on full display, a menacing smile on her face as Monica walked toward the door with the wok in hand. "Can I watch you try to use the wok?"
"No," Chandler moved towards the door and held it open for her. Monica ducked beneath his arm and started walking backwards towards his apartment. "But I'll bring over the finished product for dinner."
"I think I'm going to watch," she disagreed.
Much to Chandler's chagrin, Monica sat at his kitchen counter and spent the next hour talking to him while he prepared the meal. He plated their food with space for Joey and a bowl of more in case anyone wanted seconds. In all the laughter at the kitchen and then at the table, and the ensuing food coma, Chandler totally forgot about washing up. By the time he got around to it, Chandler put the wok in with his own appliances and just never got around to giving it back. He figured he would one day, prompted by Monica asking for it back. But how often did a person use a wok, anyway?
Chandler left his razor in her bathroom yesterday morning. Joey's lady friend for the evening had been in their shower and Chandler had been running late - according to his personal schedule, not his actual shift. Monica had thrown out her razor the day before and hadn't replaced it yet, hadn't even thought about replacing it and hopped into the bath without thinking. Realising she needed a razor to shave her legs, Monica had reached over to the sink and grabbed Chandler's.
He wouldn't mind, she was sure.
Plus, there was something about men's razors, Monica thought shamelessly, as she passed the razor over her ankle. They were smoother and gave a cleaner cut; she found out as she used his. Manufactured to touch the sensitive skin of a face, and to work over the vulnerable lumps of a throat, of course, men's razors were kinder to the skin.
When she was done, Monica put the grey-handled blade in with her toiletries.
Chandler walked over to Monica's apartment. He was exhausted after the week he'd had. It was the end of the financial year, which meant all the typical end of month craziness, added to the rush of every department getting their paperwork in order, which inevitably wasn't collated yet. There had been two weeks straight of late nights and early mornings because of Doug's disorganisation and Chandler needed a nap.
He'd brought a cushion with him, the brown one that normally sat on his yellow couch, because he knew Monica didn't like her cushions to be mussed and that she didn't have enough of them for him to be completely relaxed.
He didn't say anything as he came in. He probably didn't need to. Monica knew how stressed he'd been. He threw the pillow onto one end of the couch and then followed it down, nuzzling into it as he settled.
He dozed off fairly quickly, relaxing into a restful slumber on the couch with Monica and Ross talking in the kitchen, putting him to sleep. Their voices quietened in a way Chandler didn't think the Gellers were capable of, and he wondered if they were trying to be considerate and let him rest a little.
He hummed and rolled over onto his side and he was asleep.
Chandler woke up an hour or so later to the basil and garlic scent of Monica's lasagne. He blinked and sat up and joined the group, bleary-eyed, at the table.
He totally forgot about the pillow he'd brought with him when he got up. Monica found it the following morning and decided to leave it on her couch. Chandler looked like he needed all the sleep he could get, and if her couch gave him the rest he needed, she'd leave his pillow there as an open invitation for him.
Chandler Bing was a giver. He'd give a stranger the shirt off his back if given the chance. Monica had never known anyone like that before.
He'd invited her to a game over the weekend, an extra ticket or a last-minute cancellation, Monica wasn't sure. But she happily agreed to go with him. They always had a lot of fun together. He was her best friend for a reason, after all. And as much as she was disinterested in watching sports on television, the atmosphere was so different when you were sitting in the stadium with fifty thousand other people.
Plus, with Chandler, she could be loud and aggressive and shout competitive slurs at the teams without fear of being judged or mocked. She could be herself.
It was because of that, the company very much the reason, that Monica had thoroughly enjoyed herself. Her voice was hoarse from shouting and her cheeks were ruddy from excitement and exertion.
If only the damn train wasn't so uncomfortable.
She'd had such a lovely day, a long one, sure, with coffee to go on the morning train and a danish leaving her fingers sticky until they got off. They'd had a light lunch in the sunlight and enjoyed the outdoors that seemed somehow far removed from the city as they strolled, despite being an undeniable tourist attraction as part of New York.
They'd got lost looking for the entrance to the stadium, and laughed about it after the confusion wore off. How had they missed the fairly obvious signs? Or the sea of patrons all waking in the same direction?
She'd spilt lemonade on her sneakers and the guy behind them had a mean bout of gas for the pregame show. The game had gone way in to overtime and after all that their team had lost, despite which, Monica had never had so much fun.
There'd been a mad crush of people to get to the train station on their way out, too. But Chandler had scooped up her hand and held on tightly. Even if she couldn't see where their hands were joined, his grip was warm and familiar and she could still see his head, turning back to look at her every so often to make sure she was alright.
When they finally made it on to the train, Monica had to relent that Chandler had been right. It was better that they wait another few minutes for the next train, so they actually got a seat.
She'd piled in first, her long sleeve shirt not protecting her from the icy shock of touching the cold wall. And Chandler after her, bunching up tight to warm her left side with his arm.
It really had been a lovely day. There had been so many minor annoyances that could have turned the whole experience sour, but Chandler had found a way, with a smile, or a wise anecdote, to correct her mood to be more open to the adventure. But Monica wasn't sure he'd be able to fix this. She was freezing. And it was all Monica could think about. Being cold now. And frozen completely over by the time they got to their station and had to walk in the open air to their apartment. Where they'd have to stand for five minutes while looking for the building key. and then walk up the stairs, either briskly or running, which would inevitably cause chilly air to swirl around her. And then again, stand still to unlock the apartment doors.
It was going to be a nightmare.
"I told you to bring a jumper," Chandler chided kindly. He had said it a couple of times that even while the stadium might be hot from the crowd or from her exaggerated cheering, the train on the way home would be icy.
"I didn't want to ruin anything with mustard or leave it behind." Monica explained. It wasn't like her to not prepare for every eventuality and she wasn't about to admit defeat, even if it was only Chandler. "Good thing too. That lemonade went everywhere."
"Here," he leant into her side, pushing her into the window and fidgeted for a bit at his waist. Monica squirmed on the hard seat and watched as he lifted his jumper over his head, offering it to her. "Swap you."
He was referring to the cap he'd bought her earlier. At halftime he'd walked up to the concession stand, claiming he wanted to buy them both a memento of their day out. Monica didn't have any money with her except the small change for their hot dogs and train fare, and had balked at the prices of even a hat. But Chandler had insisted and bought a cap for her and a jumper for himself.
Only now that she was pulling her hat from her head and watching Chandler tuck it over his head backwards and pulling his toasty warm jumper over her head, she couldn't help wondering if he had known this was coming. Normally, the jumpers he wore were four sizes too big. Cosy but huge and lumpy.
But not this time.
He'd purchased a bright blue Giants jumper that fit him just right, cinched tight around his waist and wrists and not drowning him in excess was just slightly too big for her, but only just, falling a little over her hands if she let it but otherwise casing her arms in its warmth.
"Thanks, Chandler." She leant away from the window so that the cold didn't sleep into her shoulder, instead soaking up his body heat by pressing closer to her friend.
He shuffled a little and Monica found that he was the perfect height to rest her cheek against the meat of his upper arm. "Thanks for coming with me today, Mon. I had a lot of fun."
She hummed, rubbing her cheek against his arm, cat-like. She hugged his arm to her chest, letting his hand rub her thigh for extra warmth. "Me too."
"How have you never seen Annie?" Chandler asked.
"I've seen the movie," Monica retorted.
"On Broadway," Chandler corrected, aghast. "Off Broadway. On a college stage. How have you never seen it on stage as it was intended?"
"I don't know," she shrugged.
Chandler claimed to distance himself as much as possible from his parents. But he certainly couldn't escape the showmanship or love of theatre that he shared with his father, something they'd bonded over before the man had become too busy seducing the houseboy to talk to his son. Chandler could run all he liked, but he was his parents' son and it thoroughly amused her. Incidentally, Monica also loved that innocent wonder that passed over Chandler's face whenever he got to talking about the simple pleasures of enjoying a play or a song, his musical roots on full display, even if he didn't mean for them to be.
"I just never have."
"I've got the CD in my room. I'm going to get it. You have to listen to it."
"Are they Chandler's sweatpants?" Rachel asked when she walked in to the apartment.
Thankfully, she had called saying she was coming home early with the hopes of everyone being free so they could have dinner together. Monica and Chandler had decided that sitting on opposite ends of the couch in their lounging outfits wouldn't be too suspicious. Well, they tried to sit on opposite ends of the sofa but sat as close as they could while being on two separate cushions. And they'd managed that for about two minutes before falling in to a heady embrace as Chandler ran his hands up her back to cradle her head and bring her mouth to his. Thankfully, Rachel wasn't as nimble-footed as she would have liked to be, and they'd heard her at the door, giving them just enough time to spring apart.
"Yes."
"Why?" Rachel asked.
Why? Monica's eyes became as wide as saucers and she shared a look with Chandler. He looked just as freaked out as she felt. Monica figured it was probably best if she played this as dumb as possible. That was the method that was working best for them so far. "They're comfy."
She'd found out his track pants fit her nicely if she tugged the cord a little, and they really were comfortable, fluffy on the inside and warm. She'd taken them from the edge of his bed a few months ago, in the hopes of staying warm on her walk back to her apartment, and just hadn't stopped wearing them.
Rachel smirked, smacking Chandler's shoulder.
Monica knew that look. When the group decided they wanted to tease Chandler for wanting serious relationships, not half-hearted flings, they always pulled a smirk like that, preparing to joke about his lack of sex life because of it. Monica hated that that was such a staple in their group.
"Don't start," Monica rolled her eyes, hoping to be both teasing and to stop the whole conversation in its tracks. There was something intensely satisfying about living their relationship unabashedly in the open, making innuendoes and double entendres that no one understood but the two of them. Particularly because Monica knew that Chandler hated talking about sex in a public forum and would never stand for it once their relationship was out. "All I've heard all morning is 'there's a girl in my pants,' and 'I can't believe Monica begged to get until my pants.'"
Rachel laughed, indicating to her purse in a way that suggested she wanted to put her things down in her room and then join them in front of the television
Chandler leant over to Monica, pressing his lips against her temple. "Those were good, babe."
Rachel came back out of her room and Monica continued teasing Chandler, now that she had his approval. "He thought he was on such a roll, too," she beamed. "And then he said, 'I can't wait for her to get out of my pants.' it was hilarious."
Chandler glared at her.
Monica blew him a kiss while Rachel wasn't looking.
"I was looking at giving you a drawer, to help us hide a little better," she told him.
Without waiting for him to speak, Monica continued. "So you have a change of clothes here and it doesn't look like you came over for breakfast in last night's clothes."
"That's sweet." Chandler brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed her fingers. Monica melted.
"It's not," Monica told him. "I couldn't find any space to put your stuff."
"That's okay. I'm right across the hall."
"No, I mean. You already have a draw of stuff here," she'd been completely bamboozled when she realised she couldn't gift him the typical rom-com present of a drawer, quite miffed that somehow they'd already moved past that step without her knowledge, without it being acknowledged. "It wouldn't be a gift. And it's not the little underwear half drawer either, you've got the whole bottom one."
"I do?"
Monica beamed and kissed his fingers the way he had hers.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
"Most of its stuff I've stolen over the years," Monica admitted. "Is that okay?"
He chuckled lowly. "I kind of like it, actually."
"Me too."
"So, now that I'm officially bringing stuff over ..."
"Slowly." Monica chided, reminding him of their deal. "You can move as much of your stuff as you'd like over here, but you're the big stuff that's going to stay in the living room or Rachel's room isn't coming across until she decides who she's living in with."
"Now that all of my clothes are here, then. Want to help me organise the closet?" He wiggled his eyebrows salaciously and opened up the bottom drawer. "Hey, my Giants jumper."
"My Giants jumper, I think you mean."
Monica sat on her bed - their bed. Her whole body tingled. Their bed.
This was very weird. And yet, it wasn't.
Moving in with someone was meant to be a weird transition, a time of confusion and change. She'd never done anything like this with a boyfriend, never even come close. But it felt so natural to do this with Chandler. Watching him fold his clothes and put them in her dresser, hang his suits beside her dresses in her closet. It was so exciting and novel and somehow normal. Right. He was gorgeous, always had been. But there was something about him now, pottering about domestically, cleaning up their shared space.
Chandler laughed sarcastically, standing up to face her.
Monica knew exactly how to win this argument. "When I wear it, I don't wear anything else."
He touched her knees with his, and placed his hands on either side of her, bending to level his eyes with hers, smirking. "Prove it and it's yours."
"We are so meant to be together," Chandler announced. He was always finding little things that proved them soulmates. Not in the way Phoebe defined them, but as two people uniquely suited to each other, who were so similar at their core that there was no way they wouldn't find each other. A potential in their interests and values that caused them to be on the same page almost at all times and resulted in forgiving teenage attempts to belong and exact vengeance and London time and every blessed thing that came after.
Monica loved that. That the two of them were redefining the love they had never experienced as something attainable and uniquely theirs.
"Look, we both have the Annie soundtrack," he beamed at her, another little token for the both of them of how well this worked.
Her next words were meant to tease him a little, both for the recent resurgence of sentimentality in him and his love of musicals. Even though Chandler knew how much she loved him sifting through their things and finding bits and bobs that connected them on a universal level like this. Besides, it didn't matter either way. What was his was hers and vice versa.
"Both of them are yours, babe," Monica smiled at her husband.
They had such a rich shared history that sometimes Monica genuinely couldn't remember if the Wonder Broom had been hers of Chandler's first, and who had stolen it from whom.
They'd been stealing from each other for years. Now that they were almost a year married, she expected it might stop. But it hadn't. Chandler still stole kisses every chance he got and Monica pocketed that secret smile he shot her when no one else was looking. The theft of his jumper when she got cold or her recipes when he wanted to surprise her worked well for them and Monica was looking forward to having a front-row seat to how their future panned out.