Scene Three: Hands-Free

They zig-zagged across the pavement, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist.

'This street is really really long. Has it always been this long?'

'I dunno, maybe it just takes twice as long to walk it when you have twice as many feet.'

'Nah.' Rachel shook her head. 'Nah, that's not it, 'cos if there are twice as many foots ... feet ... it should take half the time.'

'Yeah, but you're feet keep standing on my feet and that's really slowing down my feet slowly.'

'No, you're standing on mine.'

'No, you are standing on mine.'

Rachel stopped abruptly, yanking Chandler back when he continued walking. 'Hey, haven't we already walked this bit of street? But, like, the other way?'

'Uh...' He looked at it, hard, then laughed. 'Hey, you know what we did? We turned right around, yes we did, and we're walking backwards.'

'No, we were walking forwards; this is walking backwards.' She stumbled, clung onto Chandler's arm and hauled herself up again. 'You're strong.'

'Yeah, I work out.'

'No, you don't.'

'No, I don't.' He grinned at her. 'Okay, we're going this way.'

She groaned. 'But this street is long.'

'Do you want me to carry you?'

'Uh...'

His shoulders slumped. 'Oh my God! Fine, hop on.'

Her arms around his neck, knees gripping his hips, Chandler started down the street, walking carefully while he balanced his new burden. Rachel hiccuped gently down his ear, her breath tickling the back of his neck.

'This is nice.'

'Well, as long as you're happy.'

He shifted her weight, gripping her behind the knees and hoisting her up a little. Her skin was so soft, the awareness of that fact slicing through his mind, her skin so soft and her legs firm, the muscles taut under his hands. And she giggled again, and again her breath was against his neck. And he concentrated very hard on putting one foot in front of the other.

ooOoo

Each step he took rocked her slightly; the motion was soporific. Rachel rested her cheek against Chandler's shoulder and found her eyes dragging shut. She opened them, held them wide. He didn't seem much hampered by the additional weight, still walking steadily. His body was surprisingly solid despite his rather lean frame. She became very aware of the breadth of his shoulders, of the feeling of strength running through them. The baggy bowling shirts and sweater vests hid a lot, she thought vaguely; even more vaguely thought that it would be fun to dress him up, show off all the things he let so few others ever see. The thought became less vague.

His hands moved against her thighs again, sliding slightly higher, then settling back in the hollows behind her knees, his fingers pressing into the tender skin. She bit down on her lip, holding it between her teeth, breathed in his aftershave - a warm, homely, rather old-fashioned scent. The scent of gallantry. Her knight in knitted sweater-vest. She laughed to herself.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

She nestled into his neck, surrendered the fight against keeping her eyes open and gave into the sole sensation of his body against hers.

ooOoo

He refused to carry her up the stairs. Considering the circumstances, Rachel could hardly object, but when she slithered down his back, and stood away from him, she felt cold after the loss of his comforting contact and she resented that.

He searched his pockets for his keys, turned wondering eyes on her. 'Do you have your keys?'

'Uh...' She peered into the shallow depths of her purse. They seemed to be lacking any key-shaped objects. She turned her gaze, wide-eyed and apologetic, up to his.

'Excellent.'

'You really can't find yours?'

'Maybe they fell out somewhere en route.'

She stared at him in distress. 'How? How could they fall out? And how could you not notice?'

He blinked. 'Kinda had my hands full at the time.'

'Oh. Yeah.' She felt a flush spread through her body. She looked away from him and his still startlingly blue gaze. 'Ooh, we should look over here!' She wandered over to the area illumined by the street-lamp.

'Uh, why?'

'Because this is where the light is.'

He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. 'Yeah, okay.'

Heads close together, they examined the circle of light.

'Hey, don't you think that piece of gum looks like Elvis?'

'Nah, I'd say more Johnny Cash.'

'Huh... Yeah, actually, from that angle you're right.' A pause. 'I still can't see the keys, though.'

'Stupid keys.'

'Did you look in this pocket?'

'Which- Hey, Rach!'

He squirmed, trying to evade her slender, grasping fingers. They slid out of his pocket and she beamed at him triumphantly, silver keys dancing in the lamp-light.

'See? I told you we'd find them if we looked over here.'

He studied her, frowning. 'Y'know, I'm pretty sure there's a logic problem here, I mean, logically speaking, but I just can't think what it is.'

They bolstered one another up the stairs, making it a game, playing tag and losing to each other at every landing. At number twenty Chandler unlocked the door, flicked on the lights and Rachel followed him in.

'This is my apartment,' he reminded her.

'But it's so pretty... It's so purple. This-this is a girls' apartment. I miss this apartment; I miss these walls. Hello, walls.' She pressed her cheek against one.

'Yeah, no Spackle there,' Chandler said approvingly. He tripped over one of Joey's shoes left strategically in the middle of the apartment, staggered, sank to the floor and stayed there. He rolled over heavily, stared up at the ceiling.

Rachel wandered across. He looked ridiculously young lying there, she thought; the bones of his face finely drawn under the pale gold of his tan. She nudged him with her toe, got an incoherent groan in reply.

'You,' she stated, 'are so drunk.'

'Uh-uh. The man said you're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without having to hold on, and look!' He waved his arms at her. 'No hands.'

Rachel caught hold of one, tugged at it. 'C'mon, we should get you to bed.'

'Oh yeah?' He smirked, sly.

'Yeah...' She frowned. 'No...'

'That's just mean.'

'Come on, up!' She pulled harder; for a moment their weights counterbalanced and they held each other, poised and still. Then Chandler leaned back and she fell, colliding with the soft, solid warmth of his body and his arms wrapped around her.

'That's not funny,' she said, gasping.

'Then why are you laughing?'

'I'm not laughing, you're laughing.'

He made a face at her. She giggled again and rolled off him. They lay side-by-side, both examining the ceiling.

'Wow, that's a big crack.'

'Uh-huh.' Chandler moved his head slightly, followed the line. 'It looks like denial.'

'Huh?'

'Denial. A river in Egypt.'

She stared at him for a moment. 'Your jokes make less sense when you're drunk.'

'I'm not drunk.'

'Are too.'

'Am not.'

'Are not. No, I mean-'

'Ha!' He waved his finger in her face. 'See, even you say I'm not drunk. That's a conses- cosn- We agree.'

'Okay,' she said after a moment. She closed her eyes. 'But you are kinda weird, though.'

'Oh, yeah.'

She smiled at the air.

It was nice just lying there, she thought. It was a nice, comfortable floor and it only rocked a very little bit. She didn't need to hold on at all.

'Hey, Rach.'

She opened her eyes. Chandler had propped himself up on one elbow; he looked down at her, serious. 'Thanks for picking me up from Yemen.'

'Anytime. Thanks for going out with me tonight.'

He smiled. 'Anytime. It was nice.'

'It was.'

He still looked down at her, like he was trying to work something out. 'You really are sweet.'

'Thanks, sweetie. Hey!' She pointed at him. 'You're sweet, too.'

'Thanks.'

'You said thanks.'

'This is a different thanks.'

'Oh.'

He smiled again, lips curving enough the dimples appeared either side of his mouth. His eyes really were that blue, she decided. He still watched her for a moment, then placed a heavy, slightly clumsy kiss on her forehead. When his face was still close to hers his eyes seemed softer, everything starting to blur a little at the edges. She should stop him, she thought, somewhere in that vague place, she should stop him before- Because when he was drunk he got friendly and-

She should stop him, she thought again, when his mouth pressed against hers. She should not part her lips under his; she should not taste him, explore him; she should not allow the sensation to drive everything else from her mind.

This couldn't happen; there were reasons why it couldn't happen. She was fairly certain that there were reasons and if she could think of what they were she would tell him so. But reasons, and reason, quietly gave in to the assault on her mouth.

He tasted sweet and smoky, edged with something bitter. He tasted like something she'd been missing; he tasted like coming home.

His hand followed the curve of her waist, upwards and-

Chandler Bing was touching her, she thought solemnly, the warm weight of his hand on her breast.

She should make him stop; she should not press herself up into his caress. She should not slip her arms around him, feel the slide and the bunching of the muscles in his back under her hands. She should not shift under him until she could cradle his body between her legs.

And when he stood, took her hand, pulled her up, and then, still holding her hand, pulled her towards his bedroom, she should not follow him.

But she did all of it anyway.