Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I make a profit from writing about them except for a little bit of dialogue practice.
"What are you still doing here?" Monica heard Rachel ask. Monica was standing in her bedroom, changing into a pair of Chandler's boxers and an old camisole. She refrained from exiting and listened.
"Remember when I tried to kick Ross out?" started Chandler's rich baritone.
Monica remained standing by her closed bedroom door, listening. A few weeks ago, her and Chandler had discovered that it was better if they lied about their relationship when they weren't in the same room together. They had a habit of sending each other knowing looks and amused smirks when one of them mentioned laundry and their friends didn't catch on. Chandler was a terrible liar and would always look to her for support in the lies he was telling, even when they were about having to stay late at work to finish the monthly reports. And it was worse when they worked together, they tended to build on each other's sentences until their stories were wild and untethered from any semblance of reality. Besides, when they told lies to keep their secret separately it gave them yet another excuse to catch up during their lunch breaks and in the early hours. Each of those meetings ending in the same manner, without much talking taking place.
Monica leant against the door frame to steady herself. There was something about the low vibrations of Chandler's voice. She hadn't given it a second thought before London, but after . . . After London, Monica couldn't stop herself from considering him from all the new angles of her perspective. His voice was rich and silky when he was talking to her in public spaces and where their friends could overhear them. She constantly found herself watching the way his lips would move as he spoke, how his tongue would curl around the words and the sounds he would exhale and Monica would catch herself thinking about the sounds he would make when she moved her tongue over him. His voice dropped huskily when he leant close to her ear and whispered sweet, filthy things to her and could send tingles down the back of her thighs and up the side of her neck at the mere promise of catching up with her later. Four months ago she could have heard his voice in a crowded room and known where a safe place to congregate was but she might not have flocked to the sound, she would look up when he greeted her but she wouldn't have blushed or stopped to think about the way the inside of his mouth tasted when he said them. But there was something even more intense about not being able to see his lips form the words, even when he was innocently talking to Rachel in another room. His intonations were low and smooth and it made her toes curl just hearing it, reminded of another time his voice had been distorted by distance.
Monica licked her lips. It had been absolutely delicious when he detailed his fantasies through the phone lines that night when he had been stuck in his room with Ross working on a paper in the living room. She hadn't reached for herself like that since before that night in London. Despite being almost giddy to hear his breath hitch at the way she explained what she was feeling and arching at the authority of his instructions, Monica was glad Chandler hadn't been able to see her. He had this way of looking at her when she was naked that knocked the wind out of her, reverent and desirous, and sometimes it was too much for her to handle with her eyes open.
"Well, as punishment," Chandler explained. Monica strained to hear more of his timbre, curious as to what his cover for staying in the apartment would be, wondering how he would get Rachel out of the apartment. She hadn't thought they would have a chance to be together tonight but Chandler had this persuasive way with words that convinced people to do things. It probably helped that his voice resonated softly when he was being serious. "I have to help her clean up tonight."
"Good luck getting this place Monica clean," Rachel snorted. "That's going to take you forever."
"Hours and hours," Monica could practically hear his smirk through the wall. She could envision in her mind's eye the exact way his blue eyes would seek her out and he would wiggle his eyebrows at her if she was standing anywhere in the room.
"You should tell her you're tired. She likes you." Monica held her breath, waiting for Chandler to freak out and deny any closeness between them in an awkward attempt to hide their relationship but Rachel continued. "Monica would do it herself if you told her how you felt."
Was that a recent observation of her friend's? Or had Rachel always thought that Monica would do anything for him if he asked, Monica wanted to know. Then again, if she asked Rachel what she meant it might cause Rachel to pay more attention to her and Chandler. And how would Rachel know anyway, it wasn't as if Chandler ever asked for anything.
"Nah," she heard him breathe. "I agreed I would help her out. But you should go catch up with Phoebe, see if you can stay with her tonight. Save yourself,"
Almost immediately, Monica heard the front door pull open and slam shut. She should have been offended, except it meant the coast was clear and they had the whole apartment to work with.
"Alright, Mon," she heard him clap. "Where do we start?"
She barged out her bedroom door to find Chandler standing in the living room already looking at her, his arms spread wide. He was smiling at her, showing the top row of his teeth. Monica found her lips quirking up in a matching smile. It didn't take much for the muscles in her face to move that way anymore. Often, all it took was for Chandler to send a glance her way and she'd find herself smiling at him.
Monica tilted her head at him and stuck her thumb over her shoulder.
Chandler strode across the room towards her, his warm hands landing on the slip of skin between her shorts and her singlet. He pressed his nose against her cheek, his warm, minty breath pooling against her skin, his lips just caressing hers as he spoke, "You won't be able to concentrate with this mess."
Monica breathed out a short laugh as she twined her arms around his broad shoulders, the fabric of his sweater vest scratching against her inner arms. She couldn't actually recall the last time she had obsessively cleaned the apartment the way she used to. The bathroom, which she typically cleaned twice a month, hadn't been scrubbed since she worried that Chandler was going to out them with his smug dancing on her table-top. She'd found him almost insufferable that day and had bent over the bathtub trying to scrub her frustration away until he'd barged in to breathlessly explain his actions had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the fact they were on the same page about how good their relationship was. Vague tidying to keep the place neat, Monica had managed, but proper, finicky grunt work hadn't been on her radar at all since London. She wiped the kitchen down before and after every meal and never let the dishes pile up, but Monica couldn't remember the last time she'd dusted the skirting boards and polished the glass of the windows. She knew she hadn't been rearranging the desk ornaments every few days and had instead been reorganising Chandler's work desk after missing it up on their lunch break. Lately, Monica had found she rather enjoyed making a mess with Chandler, particularly when they were mussing up the bedsheets and throwing her clothes on his bedroom floor.
Chandler pressed his hips against her and Monica fell back against the television cabinet, gasping, grinning. He planted an open-mouthed kiss on her lips, his tongue tracing against the roof of her mouth. Monica felt tingles travel down her sternum as Chandler lowered his hands, pulling her body tighter to his as he cupped her behind.
And then he pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. "So, what do we clean first?"
Monica twined her arms together, gripping his hair in one hand and her own elbow in the other and tugged her body tighter to him, rising on her toes so that their bodies were pressed flush together. She could feel the corners of her eyes crinkle as she grinned up at him. "Surely you don't want to spend New Year's Eve cleaning someone else's apartment."
Chandler sent her one of those smiles where he didn't open his mouth and hummed in the back of his throat instead. He shook his head, his forehead rolling back and forth along hers. When he spoke, he pulled his head and shoulders slightly out of her proximity, a wicked glint in his blue eyes, "What I want is to clean your apartment as quickly as we can so that you can be completely un-preoccupied when we celebrate New Year's Day together."
Monica gripped the hair at the back of Chandler's head, hard. She licked his top lip. "Pretty sure I'm distracted."
Blood rushed from her brain at what her boyfriend said next.
"Hon."
It might have been 'Mon,' she might have been hearing things but the way he was looking down at her, so patient and knowing. She could barely hear his lilting explanation over the thumping of her heart in her chest and her ears. He'd called her 'babe' a few times since Thanksgiving so it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility.
His hands stroked up her back, the heat of their moment tempered by his crooked smile and the thumb that pushed her curls behind her ear. "I bet that you aren't going to clean this place tonight.
She curled her lips at him, scowling playfully, aware he was goading her.
"And I bet it's going to take us longer than an hour to do it." He grinned sinfully, "You don't want to start the year with a loss, do you?"
At that, she dropped from around his neck and stepped sideways. "Okay, you start with the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, and I'll grab the vacuum."
Chandler threw his head backwards, exposing the column of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he chuckled. "It's a little early to be making that much noise, isn't it? Use the carpet broom."
Monica couldn't help herself. She fisted both her hands in his knitted sweater and pulled him to her, melding their open mouths together. Her tongue pushed against his and she had half a mind to unbutton his shirt where they stood and let the rest of his body push into her the way his tongue was. But then she'd lose the silly little bet and, not that she really believed Phoebe when she warned them about New Year's Eve and starting the year the way you wanted to end it, she wasn't going to tempt fate. She hoped Chandler wouldn't think she was too forward by suggesting they needed to have sex for good luck too, but then again, he'd been the one who claimed his need to kiss her at midnight, so he would probably understand what she meant even if she didn't word it quite right, he had a knack for knowing what she intended to say.
Letting go of him, Monica rushed to the kitchen to get some cleaning products from under the sink. Chandler walked slowly to the kitchen. As he moved, he unthreaded the black buttons of his vest and shimmied the article of clothing from his shoulders, folding it over the dining room chair. She watched as he unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and flipped up the hem, folding it up his forearm three times and exposing that lovely, tanned skin of his, and then pushing the fabric up past his elbow. She bit her bottom lip as he did the same with the other sleeve exposing his watch and the little red bruise on the inside of his elbow that she'd left the night before.
She'd seen him roll his sleeves a hundred times before but there was something so erotic about the way he moved, about the way he wasn't aware of how desirable he was in those quiet moments when he thought no one was looking. Chandler didn't think anybody saw him in those soft moments he fixed his clothes or pushed back his hair, but ever since London, Monica had flicked her eyes to him every time he moved, eager to soak in every detail about the man. Just watching the way he would roll his sleeves, insist on wearing long cuffs and then push his sweaters up past his elbows could brighten her day, make her shiver, make her dial his office number in the middle of the afternoon while Ben was taking his nap just so she could hear that tenor.
Monica paused to watch him fill both sinks with hot water, one with detergent and left the other plain. She never paid much attention to the way he washed the dishes after they had breakfast or when they were finished with the popcorn on movie night. Monica could have kicked herself for not paying attention to him earlier. The muscles in his forearms rippled under his skin and even though his shirt wasn't tight to his skin, she knew how his shoulder blades pinched and dimpled whenever he moved, his skin tight and soft. She wanted to press her chest against his back, her cheek to his spine and hold him. She wanted to grab him by the shoulder and turn him around.
"Hop to it," he ordered without turning around. The man had this propensity for knowing what she was doing, what she was thinking, and it would have been unnerving if it didn't affect luscious results.
She lifted the carpet broom from the side of the fridge and ran it over the rug in the living room quickly, crummies everywhere. It was effective enough, picking up the worst of it, but Monica knew she'd have to go over it with the stick vacuum in the morning.
"You know what you should do next?" Monica asked when she put the broom back where it belonged. She moved to the kitchen table to the bucket of cleaning products she had pulled out.
Chandler looked at her over his shoulder as he rinsed off the last of the platters in the basin of clean water. He twisted his neck to watch her and wore a completely open expression on his face. She loved how ready he was to do whatever she asked in any given situation, even something as mundane as cleaning. She wanted to suggest they dirty-up their chores like they had that time at the beach, perhaps play some twisted game of strip-washing-up. All Monica knew was that Chandler needed to remove his good slacks anyway if he was going to spray any of her homemade surface cleaners. She wasn't certain of the logistics of how they would manage it, maybe after each surface had been cleaned, they could remove a piece of clothing. Whatever she suggested, she knew he'd be happy to participate. And Chandler had this imaginative streak she'd always admired, he could turn anything into a fun game, turn her worst day into an opportunity to joke and laugh and play like children on the swings in the park. And that hadn't mollified when she'd been introduced to his sexual world. In fact, his propensity for saying the exact right words and his ability to play, to bet, to wager, to perform, heightened her every sense and improved everything they experienced in their passionate moments.
Monica had every intention of suggesting he strip as he cleaned when she started walking over to him, wanting to posit the idea and let him run away with it until it was something sensual they would both enjoy. And then she pressed her chest to the hard plane of his back and caught a whiff of beer and lemon detergent and his sandalwood shampoo and she found she really didn't care that much about the cleaning anymore.
They stayed like that for a minute with her nose pressed against his spine, her arms wrapped around his middle. She felt his abdomen rumble as he flicked his wrist to read his watch and reminded her, "You've got forty minutes until I win the bet."
Monica hummed against his back and lifted her hands to his chest. She worked at the buttons of his shirt until it was completely undone, Chandler's head lolling backwards. She pulled his shirt from the waistband of his pants, rubbing her palms up and down the cotton of his tight undershirt. Monica pressed up on her toes and pressed her lips against the side of his neck, manoeuvring her hands lower, down to his belt. Monica flipped open the buckle of his belt, her insides quivering at the metallic sound of the clasp slapping against the kitchen bench. She sucked on the tendon that connected his neck to his collarbone, nibbling at his racing pulse.
She could practically hear him promise he would be quick so that she wouldn't lose the little bet he had made. She would have let him get away with it too. On any other day.
Shaking, Monica took two steps backwards and gripped the back of one of her wooden kitchen chairs until her knuckles turned white.
Chandler swivelled to face her, his face flushed pink with desire, his white undershirt pulled tight over his chest. Her eyes followed his chest rising as he inhaled and dropped lower to stare at where his flaccid belt hung over his black slacks, framing the bulge he sported.
"You should clean the benches next," she couldn't stop her voice from quavering. Monica licked her lips, trying to present a calm front to him despite her blood simmering in her veins. She lifted a hand from the back of the chair and gripped the rim of the blue bucket she'd put on the table. "This stuff will stain your clothes. You're going to need to take them off."
She watched him lean backwards against the sink and swallowed, hard. His pupils were blown wide and that sweet, small smile he wore whenever they were in a room together had disappeared from his features. He watched her wolfishly from his perch by the sink, his eyes raking over her petite frame. He nodded.
There was almost a full two meters between their bodies and yet she could feel his desire for her on her hot skin. She knew him well enough now to know he'd reach for her hips first, his hands soft and relinquishing on her waist, letting her slip away if she wanted to. His hands would travel up, pulling her shirt as they cupped her ribs but not purposefully. Chandler would bend his head to hers, his long nose almost touching her top lip as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. He would open his mouth slowly, reverently, and run his tongue along the sensitive corner of her lip, his hands moving along her back up and up and up until she was pressing her chest to his and cradling the back of her head, dipping her body against his and bending into their kiss. She'd have lost control of her limbs well before then, her fingers finding his hair or his ear or the hint of his stubble. She liked the feel of his pulse against her palm and would leave the heel of her hand against his collarbone so she could follow the beat with her fingers up and down his neck.
Chandler pushed himself off the bench with his hips and stalked towards her. Her body already ignited simply by the idea of him kissing her the way she wanted him to, his fingers wrinkled from the water, his hands smelling like lemon detergent because he hadn't used the yellow gloves. He stood right in front of her, the edge of his shirt brushing along the back of her hand, and she tilted her head back to look up at him, breathing hard.
"Nope," he popped the consonant between his lips. "Need my pants to take the rubbish out. You clean the table and when I come back I'll get the streamers down so you don't have to get the ladder out."
Monica stood still, surprised by his quick peck to her lips and watched him saunter back to get the rubbish from the party. She watched him strut out of the apartment, swinging the two garbage bags in his hand.
She'd never met a man who could display as much restraint as Chandler could, and he did it in the most frustrating of ways. Monica wasn't even sure if he knew he was doing it as often as he did, revving her up and then letting her idle. She expected it when they were sitting together in the bath, him delaying gratification for as long as he could, his eyes twinkling wickedly, his smile pressed into her slick skin. But other times, when they were sitting together and she could smell the spice of his shampoo and feel the press of his shoulder against her, completely innocent situations, and then he would lean in and his lips would brush against the tip of her ear as he whispered teasing comments about Ross to her, Monica's knees would buckle and her skin would flush and she'd have to wait for a private moment to even admit how he made her feel let alone act on it. Their secret relationship was torturous in a delicious, undulating sort of way and it was all because of this man with the soft, rich voice and the fact he couldn't believe she found him as attractive as she did. It was in the environments their friendship used to occupy, where their sexual relationship spilled into, that he was seemingly unaware she couldn't stop herself from remembering that he was more than just a friend and his hands had massaged every inch of her skin and that his seemingly sinless mouth was capable of graphic obscenities.
Aware that he was delaying the inevitable now, ramping up the anticipation, Monica busied herself with a rag and a squeeze bottle. It was a quick job, most of the surfaces having been covered by table runners she could throw in a basket as another excuse to sneak away from her friends with Chandler. She had run the rag over everything visibly grimy and was whipping clean the bathroom basin when she heard Chandler rip open the front door.
She left the confines of the bathroom, standing on the landing with the intention of looking on as her boyfriend's shirt rode up his stomach and back when reached up to yank the streamers of crepe paper down.
What she hadn't counted on was that her boyfriend was Chandler Bing. Chandler her best friend who turned everything into an opportunity for laughter and fun, who was unceremonious and silly. Cynical Chandler with the boyish laugh and the childlike wonder in his eyes. The neighbour who only ever wanted her to smile. The man she had learnt almost always wanted her.
He raced into the apartment, barely even stopping to see if the door closed behind him. He skipped up the step, wearing a wide grin, and picked up her right hand in his left, pulling her along with him. Monica giggled, her palm pressed against his as she cycled her legs to match his speed, moving toward her bedroom. They only managed a few steps when he jumped up like a fish upriver and capturing the streamers above the desk right hand and letting the lines of pink and silver and yellow flutter to the floor.
Chandler may have managed to slow his momentum with his graceless movement, landing in front of her with a smile. But Monica was still accelerating and crashed into his chest.
Chandler's rich laughter echoed around the empty apartment.
Monica's laugh burst out of her in slow motion. It started by pulling her lips apart in a wide smile and her whole body had angled up and forwards, her eyes, her chin, her chest, all pressing towards the source of her joy.
They were still holding hands, her right in his left, pressing her knuckles into his navel. His thumb had connected painfully with her soft waist as he'd tried to catch her the row of blue buttons on his shirt connecting with her eye at the movement. Her left hand gripped his bicep, and she was fairly certain she was standing on his toes.
She couldn't remember ever being happier.
Chandler pressed a kiss to her hair as she lay her head against his chest trying to contain her smile. She could practically hear the salacious wiggle of his brows, "Is this because I was cleaning or because we beat the clock by half an hour?"
Monica shook her head, looking up at him. "You know, cleaning is something I do when I'm stressed. It's something I enjoy doing,"
For the first time since Christmas night, Chandler looked scared. "Did I cross a line? This being your domain and-?"
She dropped his hand, pressed her hands on his shoulders and rose up on her toes, "No." She kissed him. "You are wonderful." Another soft kiss. "I just want you to know I don't expect it. You don't have to do these things for me, I'm with you anyway."
He grinned softly like he couldn't find the words he wanted to say so he just looked at her and hoped she would understand. She did.
"I'm glad I got to kiss you at midnight," she told him. She wasn't too certain of what their relationship would allow her to say out loud, it was all well and good to think the things she did about him and how he might just be someone she could have more with, but Monica was still worried about the fragility of their situation, even though it had proved to be far less delicate and far more precious than she thought it was at every obstacle they faced. "I'm looking forward to what happens next."
Chandler quirked an eyebrow up and down knowingly, "It's gonna be great."
Monica couldn't be sure if Chandler meant this year or was only thinking as far as their next few hours together, but she trusted he was right.