Hello again, Friends fandom! I had originally set out to write a Halloween themed story for our Central Perk gang, but somehow this Thanksgiving tale popped out. An alternative take on Chandler and Monica's conversation in the Geller's kitchen in TOW all the Thanksgivings. A few weeks early but I hope you still enjoy it!
"Are you okay?" He asks eyeing her with caution, concern evident in his voice.
"What? I'm fine," Monica deflects throwing out a snort of laughter. It's meant to emphasize just how alright she is but sounds admittedly manic even to her own ears.
He merely raises an eyebrow at this and gestures to the assortment of kitchen items in her arms.
"Well maybe not totally fine," she admits looking down helplessly at her bizarre collection.
"Why don't you sit down for a minute", he says, gently relieving her of the carrots, boxes of pasta and various other sundries she's managed to accumulate, pointedly setting the kitchen knife far from reach at the other end of the table.
"What about your mac n' cheese?" She asks weakly, inwardly kicking herself for how terribly her seduction is playing out.
"Well, I can make it", he assures her with a smile. She overhears the uncertain, "probably" not meant for her ears as he looks helplessly around the kitchen.
"Where do you keep the boxes?"
"Oh we don't have any. I make it from scratch," she tells him.
"Really?" He answers sounding impressed. "Cool. I've never known anyone to do that before. No wonder it's so good. "
She's angry with him and this is meant to be a take down but she can't entirely squash the rush of pleasure his compliment gives her.
He stands for a moment uncertain before exclaiming suddenly, "I could make grilled cheese!" He grins at her proudly before recollecting himself and adding tentatively, "Can I make grilled cheese?"
"Um, sure," she replies, rattled by his friendliness and good manners. This would be a lot easier if he were acting more like the jerk she remembers from last year. "There should be everything you need in the fridge."
"This is really my go to anyhow," Chandler explains conversationally whilst busying himself gathering ingredients. "Well grilled cheese and Funions," he elaborates.
"Funions?" Monica asks, crinkling her nose.
"What? They're delicious!" He defends.
"They're gross!" Monica insists, her face still wrinkled in distaste. "Do you even know what's in them?"
"Of course," he tells her affronted. "Onions and…and fun," he finishes lamely.
Monica laughs despite herself. "Try about 100 different chemicals," she corrects.
"Yeah, I guess that's true," he agrees causing Monica to beam happily. She loves having people agree with her and is more than a little pleased with how quickly she's managed to convince Chandler of her point of view. Maybe he wasn't entirely terrible after all.
"They aren't exactly health food," he continues. "But then neither is most of the traditional Thanksgiving fare either. Besides if there was ever a day of the year appropriate to poison myself it would be Thanksgiving," he finishes dramatically transferring his now toasted sandwich onto a plate and plopping into the chair opposite her at the kitchen table.
"Why do you hate it so much exactly?" She asks, curious. She knows plenty of people who were indifferent to the holiday but none that were so adamantly against it.
"Oh well, my parents split up on Thanksgiving when I was a kid," he tells her with a shrug meant to convey an indifference he clearly doesn't feel. "It was a big scene," he continues. "My dad ran off with his…" here he trails off looking quickly up at her in embarrassment before supplying, "Well he ran off. And my mom had had a lot to drink- again" he emphasizes, "and ended up getting sick all over the carpet. Thanksgiving dinner looks a whole lot better going in than it does coming out, believe me."
At her disgusted face he adds, "Sorry that was probably too much information." They sit quietly together for a moment, Monica studying his face. His eyes are studiously on his sandwich and it's only the faint hint of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears that give away his embarrassment. She's about to apologize, feeling guilty for having pried when he surprises her by adding brightly, "I like the parade though."
"Me too," Monica agrees, happy that he's happy once more and forgetting her intention to humiliate him entirely.
"Oh yeah?" He smiles. "What's your favorite balloon?"
"I like Kermit," she answers immediately before feeling embarrassed. Probably not a good idea to give him more ammunition against me, she thinks.
"It's not that easy being green…"
His Kermit impersonation leaves much to be desired, but he's being so goofy and not at all judgmental so that she can't help but sing back, "But green's the color of Spring..."
And okay, her voice isn't that great either but neither of them seem to mind as they conclude together, "And green can be cool and friendly-like."
"You like Kermit?" She asks smiling from ear to ear.
"Are you kidding? I love the Muppets," he tell her with enthusiasm, before recollecting himself and adding, "But maybe just don't tell Ross that okay?"
"Yeah, okay," she assures him. Then a moment later she asks, curious, "What's your favorite balloon?"
"Hmm," he deliberates a minute, stroking an imaginary beard and looking for all the world like a great philosopher before answering. "Maybe Snoopy?"
"Yeah, Snoopy and Woodstock are great," Monica agrees earnestly. She's a great fan of Charles Schulz and makes sure to race downstairs every Sunday morning to grab the comics page from the paper before anyone else in the family can get to it.
Though Rachel insists comics and cartoons are no longer cool, Chandler doesn't make any attempt to laugh at her, only contributing, "They make weird friends though, don't you think?"
"What do you mean?" Monica asks.
"Oh I don't know," Chandler continues, "Like, Woodstock's always sitting on Snoopy while he sleeps. What if I did that to Ross? Oh hey Ross. Mornin' Don't mind me, just having a sit."
Monica snorts at Chandler's rambling and it is getting harder and harder for her to keep her hatred up. Chandler seems much less intimidating and mean sitting here in her kitchen babbling about Peanuts than he did an hour ago.
The two fall into a companionable silence, Monica sneaking peeks at the boy sitting across from her. It may be her imagination she but thinks he may be peeking at her from time to time too. She's just deciding that he's even cuter than she remembered now that he's changed his hair forgetting her plan for revenge entirely when he suddenly blurts out, "So you look really different from last year."
And like a flash her dislike returns, stronger, if that were even possible, than before. So he does still think of me as Ross' fat little sister! Well she'd show him.
"That's right, Chandler. I do," she purrs stretching herself across the crowded kitchen table and thrusting her not unimpressive chest forward. How's that for seduction? She preens happily fully committed to her original intention to embarrass him once more.
But rather than swoon with desire, he seems to recoil a bit in his seat, his face taking on a comical look of terror.
"Well that's great," he stumbles nervously, all the camaraderie of their conversation from early completely evaporated. "Good for you," he congratulates her with a look to the door.
Dammit, Monica thinks desperately. Why isn't this working? Was she missing a step or something? She was thin now; why was it so hard to seduce this boy?
Desperate times call for desperate measures, she reasons, steeling her will and rising from her seat to stand before his chair across the table. Placing her hands on his shoulders she looks down at him barely registering the shock she sees there.
"Um Monica?" He asks shakily as she leans towards him positioning herself over him as she does so.
"Shut up, Chandler," she whispers leaning in even further and kissing him forcefully on the lips.
For an instant he is completely still, and she freezes herself waiting to see what he'll do. But rather than toss her away like she fears he might, she finds after a moment that he begins tentatively kissing her back.
For a moment she lets herself revel in her victory and begins planning the humiliation phase of her plan. However, a second later Chandler's hand has moved to her hair and she can feel his tongue in her mouth as he deepens their kiss and her entire mind sets on fire.
Monica has kissed a boy before. One night visiting her brother at NYU she'd shared a mysterious kiss that she'd told herself was hot. But boy had she been wrong! That kiss was nowhere near what she's experiencing now. She may have well have been kissing her brother that night in the dorms!
Her whole body is humming with some kind of new and exciting energy and she feels warm all over, heat spiking and simmering in the places where their bodies make contact. All thoughts of seducing him to eventually humiliate him fly out the window as her entire world boils down to simply prolonging this sweet sensation flooding through her for as long as possible. Like a cat and completely without design she arches her body against him, experimenting with the shivers that radiate from their points of contact.
This move elicits a moan of pleasure from Chandler even as he breaks their contact and holds her at arms length. "Monica. Monica," he repeats more forcefully as she attempts to ignore him, pushing herself against him once more.
"What's going on?" He asks sounding baffled. "Not that I'm complaining, but where's all this coming from?"
Monica has no idea. Does it matter? If making out with him feels this good, who cares? They should just keep going. Having no idea of how to make sense of the sensations and emotions bubbling up inside her and impatient to be kissing him again, she merely replies, "You're a really good kisser." She rests a forearm against the table beside them trying to better position herself upon his lap, so intent upon resuming their make out session that she fails to even notice the hodgepodge of items he'd relieved her of earlier in their conversation clattering to the floor.
As she stares into his eyes, leaning in to kiss him once more, Monica revels in her effect on him. She, Monica Geller, is causing a boy to moan with desire, to throw his head back in passion, to writhe in pain. Wait, what?
"Chandler?" Monica asks in concern. "What's wrong?"
Wincing in agony he manages to spit out the words. "My toe."
"What?" What was he talking about? Is this some new kind of foreplay? Rachel hadn't mentioned anything about toes before.
"My toe, my toe!" Chandler repeats with growing urgency. Looking down to where he's gesturing Monica notices for the first time the small pool of blood oozing from his shoes, a noticeable gap where his toe should be.