Scene Two: Just Friends
Her second awakening came slowly, pushing upwards through the thick black morass of deep sleep. Her own bed, definitely her own bed this time, in her own room with those walls that were an indeterminate shade of greige. For a few moments it was possible to imagine that the night before, that a few hours before, had been imagined, a dream on a flood of alcohol.
Except that her skin, her hair, smelt of Chandler; she could still feel him on her; she was ingrained with him.
Chandler. She shied away from that thought and the unfamiliar maelstrom of emotions that name suddenly conjured. It had been easier before, simple; he was someone she trusted, confided in, relied on, someone she- She pulled away again. What would Ross say if he knew? Ross. That was something known, a hurt she knew how to deal with; she nursed that, thought about Ross and Emily and willed herself into the familiar space of pain and confusion and slammed the shutters against memories of blue eyes burning into hers and a voice murmuring her name still with a whisper of laughter.
Rachel peeled herself out of bed, found the small apartment empty and headed for the shower.
ooOoo
The remnants of her hangover still clung, muddy threads that blocked out parts of her mind and left her with a vague sense of nausea and exhaustion. Water, coffee, more water. She sat at the breakfast bar, holding her mug between her hands, watching the steam cloud the surface. Noises from the apartment below drifted up through the hole in the floor: a radio or television; a bird twittering; Mrs Chatracus talking volubly to (one would guess) her husband, who grunted in reply occasionally.
Rachel bent down, idly massaging the bruise that had appeared just above her ankle. How had she managed it? she wondered. Not playing pool, surely. Clambering up onto a barstool? Or possibly while slithering off one. Or while walking home; or maybe when she had been stumbling across-
No. No, she wasn't thinking about that.
She had left the coffee black, adding extra sugar and relishing the deep bitterness kicking against the sweetness. In all her time at Central Perk she had never actually learnt to make a decent cup of coffee - that was a skill she had acquired since, out of necessity and because she wanted to. She concentrated on the steaming black liquid until her attention was caught by the faint scratching against the front door. It stopped when she started to listen, started up again when she relaxed.
Rachel slid off the stool, took the few steps to the door cautiously. The noise was getting louder, more insistent, scraping and knocking. She stood behind the door, feeling her skin prickling; her hand hovered over the knob, pulled back, reached for it again with determination. She pulled open the door and was met by an indignant quack and a beating of wings.
'Shoo! Shoo!' Rachel flapped her hands at the duck, trying to bar its entrance into the apartment; she closed the door firmly and danced around it, trying to herd it back across the hall and through the already open door.
'...I haven't finished talking to you, mis- Oh. Hey, hi, hey.' Chandler stopped just beyond the door, Yasmine in his arms.
'Hi.'
'Hi.'
They smiled at each other uncertainly. Rachel dropped her eyes back to the duck.
'Playing hide-and-seek again?'
'No.' He looked down at the duck. 'No! No hide-and-seek for you! That is a bad duck!' He settled Yasmine under one arm, stooped, collected the duck in the other, took them both back into his apartment. 'And I want the two of you to make up.' He closed the door on them, rolled his eyes at her. She laughed despite herself and he smiled again. 'Speaking of birds, let me tell you about this hot chick I scored with last night.'
Heat flooded her cheeks and her gaze dropped again. 'Yeah... Yeah, I really-' She shook her head. 'I've been thinking about that, sort of, a lot and I don't think- We probably shouldn't- We should talk about-'
'Rach, it's okay,' he said pleasantly.
She looked up. 'Wh-what's okay?'
He shrugged, hands slipping into his jeans' pockets; he looked like he was smiling. 'Us, you and me, it's okay. We... We had a lot to drink.'
'Yes. Yes! God, yes, a lot to drink.' She laughed, the sound oddly jarring.
'And, well, you know me: friendly when drunk.' He looked at her. 'And apparently, so are you.'
She caught her breath, released it. 'Looks that way. I don't-I don't want you to think it didn't- I mean-' She gazed at him helplessly, all the little speeches she'd been rehearsing in her head erasing themselves. He was making it so easy for her, for both of them and now that it had come to it she wished he wouldn't; now it had come to it she wanted the fight.
Another shrug, still pleasant. 'I know, it happened. It didn't mean nothing because, you know, it's you.' A fleeting smile. 'But it ... it probably...'
'Shouldn't happen again,' she said quietly.
'Yes, that's ... that's what I was going to say.'
She stared at the patch of floor near her feet again; Chandler appeared to be memorising the wall just behind her head. 'So, we're okay?'
'Of course we are.'
'Oh. Good. I'm- That's good.' She wrapped her arms around herself, stared at him. Chandler returned the gaze, unrelenting, then one corner of his mouth turned up.
'Come here.'
He caught her in an embrace.
'See? Still friends,' he told her softly down her ear.
She nodded silently. It was good, she thought, nice that they were both fine with it, that they were still friends, just friends. They kept their arms around each other. She could feel his cheek against the top of her head; she closed her eyes, turning her head into the curve of his shoulder. He smelt of soap and clean clothes and Chandler.
She pulled away.
'Okay.' She forced a smile. 'Okay, that's- We're good. Great! Yay!'
'Yeah. Uh, I was heading down for coffee - you coming?'
'I...' She pulled her robe closer around her body. 'Y'know, I was actually going to go lie down, my head's still kind of fuzzy. All that tequila.'
'It's a killer.'
'It is.'
They smiled at each other again.
'Okay, well, I... I guess I'll see you later.'
'I guess.'
'Feel better,' he said, starting for the stairs.
'Thanks.'
He didn't look back at her. Rachel turned back into the apartment. It had gone well, she thought; so well that she felt like weeping.
ooOoo
At the convenience store, Mr Andrescu handed over the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, sucking his breath in through his teeth and shaking his head.
For someone whose livelihood partly depended on the smokers of the city, Chandler thought while pocketing his change, Mr Andrescu seemed ridiculously judgemental of people who smoked.
Out on the street, in the New York sunshine, he ran his fingers over the pack, savouring the the familiar lines and edges, the crinkle of the cellophane. He peeled it off slowly, flipped open the lid, eased back the folds of silver foil; he breathed in the dry deep fruity scent. And he put the pack and the lighter in the pocket in the front of his sweatshirt. He was aware of their weight, their siren call, with each step he took. This was his test of strength. If he could get through the day - just the one day, a half day by now - without a cigarette, then he wasn't hung up on her, he didn't crave her, she had not become another of his deep desperate wonderful addictions.
In Central Perk Phoebe was setting up at the microphone; she waved to him cheerfully when he entered. He'd always thought that people were joking, or just being kind, when they said that pregnant women were glowing but Phoebe really was. She looked astonishingly beautiful - the fecund goddess of the coffee house.
'Hey, it's Lawrence of Arabia!' Monica, curled on the sofa.
He sank beside her gratefully and she snuggled up against him the way she so often did; his arm went around her shoulders automatically.
'How was the trip?'
He grunted; Monica smiled.
'Phoebe's written a song about it.'
He winced. 'Excellent.'
A moment. Monica raised her head, peered at him. 'Are you okay?'
'Me? I'm good, great, couldn't be better. How are you?'
She frowned. 'Are you sure you're okay?'
Chandler closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. 'I'm fine - just jet-lagged.'
'Ah.' She nodded, sympathetic, and lowered her head again.
It was nice, he thought, with her dark hair spilling across his shoulder. Nice, but not quite right. Not the right fit in the curve of his arm, not the right face smiling up into his, not the right voice talking to him, laughing with him, teasing him.
Phoebe started her set, telling his life in a mangle of clashing chords and banshee-wailed lyrics.
The wrong girl in his arms and Phoebe turning the event into a crime against music. That, Chandler thought, was just perfection.
He made his excuses to Monica, smiled in Phoebe's direction, got to the corner beyond Central Perk, tapped one of the cigarettes out of its home, lit it, and pulled the sweet smoke down deep.