Scene Three: The Fallout

Unable to sleep, Rachel got up, got a glass of water, kept going before she was aware of it, crossed the hall, stood for a moment in the patch of moonlight on the floor behind the Barcaloungers. They were facing different corners of the room, a bird in each one, heads burrowed down under their wings, eyes black and glassy and unseeing. She crept past them, pushed open the top half of his door, stepped over the bottom half and stood in his room.

The silence was broken by the rising and falling notes of his breathing.

The bedrooms they had shared, albeit separately, held the same mingling of scents: her perfume, his aftershave. It was a strangely comforting smell and she breathed it in, holding onto it.

Oblivious, Chandler slept - on his side, face mashed into his pillow, hair falling across his forehead. She studied the shape of his head, the fine lines of his skull, the elegant curve of his arm - even in sleep - across the duvet. She caught a breath, released it, peeled back one corner of the bedclothes, slid in beneath them. She felt the bed dip under her weight, the springs giving as she edged herself across, feeling the warmth from his body spread to hers. He felt solid, reassuring, when she was against him. Rachel wrapped one arm around him, felt him stir. She pressed her lips against the back of his neck, the rough ends of his hair catching her cheek.

'Rachel?' His voice rough, still thickened from sleep.

Strange, she thought, that he should know it was her; stranger still that she should be so pleased that he knew.

She tightened her hold on him, marked a trail of kisses along his hairline to his ear.

'Hey.'

'What are you doing?'

The T-shirt he wore was so soft from wear it felt as though it would come apart under her hands. And one hand explored, sliding down the plane of his stomach, then lower, finding the waistband of his shorts. He stopped its progress, imprisoning it in his.

'Rach, this is a really bad idea.'

She sighed against his ear, leaning over him. 'You said if there was anything I needed.'

'Yeah, but-'

'Anything.'

Her hand slipped from his grasp, continued the path it had found.

He moved suddenly, rolling over, holding her down. She stared up at him, his face half in shadow and his eyes blazing through the dim light.

'What is it you want, Rachel?'

Her breath was shaking. 'Right now I want this.' This to blot out the hurt; this, one more time, to get him out of her head for good.

'And then what?'

'I don't- I don't know. I don't want to think beyond now.'

He studied her. 'Fine.'

His lips bruised hers, their force unexpected but welcome. Her mouth opened, taking him in, their tongues sliding together. She grasped at his shoulders, felt the tremors running through them. His thigh slid between hers, pressure bringing only a little relief. Her hands moved to his face, cupping it, her thumbs caressing his cheeks. He pulled back from her then, his eyes wandering over her, hungry, and she shivered, memories colliding with present reality.

His fingertips danced across her skin, so light she could barely feel it. And she wanted to feel it. She arched up into the touch but it still wasn't enough, he still stayed just beyond the place she needed him most. He was finding different ways of torturing her. His nails grazed across her ribcage, her stomach, down lower, his touch delicate, frustratingly tantalising.

She was not wearing the clothes for this, she thought: an old pair of sleep-shorts, an even older T-shirt and very definitely not sex-worthy underwear. Not that Chandler seemed to mind that, not from the way he was looking at her, not from the way he was easing the faded cotton down her legs, slowly, drawing it out.

His hand strong around her ankle, fingers pressing into the hollows, then he followed the lines up, tracing the contours of muscle along her legs, working out the tension - increasing it with each touch - moving higher; he drew patterns along the curve of her thighs, parted them, his long fingers certain and strong, still moving upward, then-

She gasped, hands grasping the sheets, pulling them taut.

His fingers, then his mouth - oh God, his mouth - on her, in her, relentless pressure building. She gasped for air, grinding herself against him. She broke under him, his hands still holding her firm, her body in spasm then limp.

Not enough, still not enough. She attacked the clothes he wore, clawing at them, needing to feel skin on skin, needing to feel him with her in the closest possible way. He pulled her T-shirt up over her head, knuckles grazing against her breasts and she pressed herself against that touch. She ached for it. He lowered his head, his mouth - God, still his mouth - finding lines and contours and planes and enveloping tender flesh in its warmth.

She ran her hands over him, his arms, his chest, his back, her fingers raking through his hair.

Not enough, still not enough, but she wouldn't beg; she bit down down on her lip; she wouldn't plead for what she needed from him the most.

His hands slid over her body, under her hips, lifting her without resistance and... And he was inside her. Her eyes flickered closed, her breath catching. She released it, shaking, and opened her eyes and he was watching her, his forehead against hers, his breath sweet against her face. His skin damp, like hers, and warm. He barely moved, making the moment unending, making her feel him.

Her body rose against his, her hands pressing into the hollow at the base of his spine. She wouldn't beg; she would not. She murmured his name and he slammed into her.

It pounded through her, dragging a cry of satisfaction from her lips; she caught his lips between her teeth, tasting him again.

A faster rhythm, harder, and their bodies moved together, aching for release; she rocked herself against him, legs tight around him, holding him with her, feeling his heart thundering against hers. And the release came, waves of it, and she was blinded by it, her body shaking.

She still held onto him, holding him against her. His skin felt slippery under her hands, warm and coated in sweat. Breath slowing, he caught her lips with his - a strangely chaste exchange.

He rolled away from her. They lay side-by-side, staring upwards.

'Well. Was that what you wanted?'

She blinked hard against the sudden sting behind her eyes, tried to swallow the tightness in her throat.

'Rachel?'

She turned away, covering her face with her hands.

'Oh, God, Rach...' His voice, suddenly so gentle. She choked back the sounds. 'Don't, please ... please don't do that. I-I'm sorry.'

'It isn't-' She couldn't catch her breath. 'It isn't-isn't y-' Her voice broke helplessly.

'Come here.'

He held her and she wept softly against his shoulder. He stroked her hair, then his fingers found her face, tilting her chin back, wiping her tears away clumsily.

'It's okay,' he told her earnestly. 'It's going to be okay, I promise. Everything will be okay.'

She tried to nod, hiccuped back the tears. He still cupped her face in his hand, brushed his lips lightly against the damp tracks along her cheeks. She let him comfort her, allowed herself to enjoy the warmth from him. Their fingers laced together; and when he sank into her again she was smiling.