Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
Madrugada: To get up early in the morning at twilight, the time between midnight and the crack of dawn.
"Ow."
"God. Sorry. Sh, go back to sleep."
Chandler couldn't help himself. He beamed. He was hovering halfway over Monica, having decided that it was safer to crawl over her than deal with that unfixable creaky bit of floor by the chair in her corner that they'd discovered woke Rachel up one horrific night.
"Go back to sleep, Mon," he told her. Exercise was the opposite of Chandler's favourite thing to do, but he couldn't help himself from wanting to press his elbows outwards and lower himself down in a push up.
No. He couldn't do that. As familiar as they were now, he couldn't kiss her right between the eyes and whisper that she should get some sleep. She could take it the wrong way, like some sort of insult about the purple under her eyes and her lack of makeup covering her freckles and her dishevelled hair. Because of course, Monica would think her best friend Chandler was teasing her. Of course, she would be completely unaware of how her skin glowed and she seemed to always be smiling, her eyes glittering whenever she looked at him. She never seemed to know that she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Or Monica might think he meant they were falling in to some tender, domesticated pattern.
She was stretched out languidly in the middle of her bed, Chandler having spent fifteen minutes trying not to wake her as he pulled his arm and twisted chest from beneath her head only to have, what he can only assume is, put all of his weight on either her fingers or her ankle as he attempted to manoeuvre across the bed. What followed was a feat of gymnastics that not even these last few days with Monica had shown him he could do.
Chandler juggled himself between his hands and toes and knees, his own body weight, for the first time, not his enemy. In fact, if his ego wasn't playing tricks on him, that might have been a moan from Monica when he fell a little against her.
The game they were playing was a dangerous one. Chandler knew it. And, lo as he was to admit it, he was fairly certain he had far more to lose than Monica did. He was on tenterhooks as it was, leaving for work conferences and working earlier and later than anyone else in their little group; he was already just the guy they saw on the weekend. He was Ross' ex-roommate and Joey's current one, but in the face of everyone crowding around Monica to protect her from heartbreak, Chandler didn't think those things would account for much. It would be very easy for the group to push him away. Except, terrible as it was, they might not if Ross' marriage did fall through and they needed to band around him for support.
But none of that meant anything, he could come back from losing Rachel and probably wouldn't lose touch with Joey and maybe not even Ross unless he stopped talking to him for being with his sister. He'd still have his job and they wouldn't kick him out of his apartment. But none of it compared to the shell of a man he'd become if he lost Monica.
And that was the dangerous part.
Monica Geller was integral to Chafndler Bing. She celebrated every high; promotions, graduations, lease agreements, break ups with Janice. And she held him and baked him mac and cheese just the way he liked it without him even needing to tell her his mother had cancelled lunch again, pulling him into the warm circle of her arms at the first word of Chandler losing the furniture he owned.
But for the moment, she thought he was fun. He could live with that; encourage it even. He could be fun. Funny was always his thing. And he could perform in the sack the way she wanted him to.
Blessedly, they'd had sunlit afternoons and chilly mornings for almost an entire week; with apartment 20 all to themselves when they first stepped back into the city. Monica would snuggle against his chest or he'd lay his head against her breast while their sweat cooled, their heartbeats slowing in synchronicity, and the city outside, the one that never slept, would slow.
Now, Chandler was desperately fighting sleep while Monica dozed off in his arms and picking his clothes off the floor, praying he got them on with the buttons through the right holes in the pitch black of Monica's room. Then he threw his robe over the top of his day-old work clothes - if anyone asked, he was grabbing fresh milk from Monica's new groceries that he'd paid for. And if Chandler was caught by Joey in their apartment without milk in his hands, or a glass - he'd have to remember to pull one out and put it in the sink just in case Rachel had woken up and asked about his presence in the apartment in the morning - then he could shuck his robe onto the kitchen floor and tell Joe he was getting ready for work.
"Night," Monica whispered, her voice hoarse.
Chandler tried not to feel smug about how satiated she sounded, or that the rasp was a direct result of the sounds she'd made because of him.
He couldn't help himself, it bubbled up through his chest and had him leaning onto his elbow and stretching on his toes before Chandler even realised what he was doing. He pressed his lips to Monica's. "I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well."
"Put your socks on," she mumbled. "You'll get cold feet."
Chandler chuckled at the ominous warning but did as he was told. That was the best thing about being with Monica like this; she hadn't changed. She was still overprotective and passionate, and mean, and bossy, so wonderfully bossy. But she was still the Monica he'd always...Well, nothing had changed between them.
They'd just added a little more to whatever it was that had already been between them.
It was just a shame they were relegated to the midnight hours.
"Or you could stay," Chandler whispered against Monica's temple. They'd been lying in the darkness of his bedroom until midnight turned into dawn, neither willing to waste their preciously brief time by falling asleep.
He probably shouldn't have kissed her eyebrow like that, it was too tender for their current condition. They'd barely talked about their arrangement but Chandler had a feeling that the normal levels of affection he gave to Monica might be misconstrued as too domestic and the way he touched other girlfriends, not that Monica was his girlfriend, might give his best friend the wrong idea about his feelings for her. He didn't have any. Nope. None.
Monica raked her nails down his chest, torturously slowly.
Chandler shivered.
"You'd like that wouldn't you?" she teased her fingertips in a quick circle around his belly button and then kneaded her fingers around his navel languidly.
She was a cruel woman, his best friend. Beautiful, but , he would like that - very much - and Chandler knew Monica was fully aware of just how she turned his insides to molten liquid pulsing through his veins. It was pressing into her thigh, half ready for her, hot and needy and aching to be touched with every pass of her knuckles. Was she inching lower?
"But I have to get up and across the hall to make breakfast," Monica withdrew her hand as quick as lightning and kissed his cheek. She stretched sideways, away from him and into the frigid morning air - alone. "And Ross has been coming over early to use our landline.
Chandler frowned. "He's footing the bill, isn't he?"
Monica, lithe and porcelain, turned back to face him, resting on her shoulder so she could press kiss against his. "You're sweet. He is. Our plan is cheaper than his, that's all."
"Good."
He nodded, sneaking his arm beneath her until his hand fit in the divot of Monica's waist. He pulled her back against him and Monica made no protest, relaxing against him for another minute. He could tell she was close to falling back to sleep by the soft puffs of air against his collar. She had always breathed loudly through her nose when she was falling asleep - enough afternoon naps and late night slumber parties turned actual slumber on her couch had taught him that - whistling in that adorable, dorky way that was somehow aggravating when it was Ross or Phoebe or himself but endlessly charming when it was Monica.
There was something about the mornings with Monica that Chandler couldn't quite replicate when he was in his bed alone. It was serene. She smelt like that floral soap she used and baked goods; pastry or brown sugar, he wasn't sure. She was warm too, and a comfortable weight against his body until she tried to burrow into him, when he'd abruptly sprout pins and needles for the next half hour and happily ignore it because she was Monica and she'd always been invading his space; his apartment, his couch seat. His bed was just the next space she had left to take over.
Chandler was about to doze off himself when Monica slapped his chest.
"Hey," her voice was husky in that delicious, early morning manner that Chandler was only just starting to discover.
He wished he had more mornings with her, later mornings, just so that he could learn more about how quickly or slowly Monica woke up, if she curled up into a ball or arched her back, if she lay awake for half an hour enjoying the warm cocoon of her blankets or shot up straight away. Was she horny at sunrise like he was? What did she look like with sheet creases on her skin?
"I really do have to go."
"What if I just-?" Chandler rolled over, trapping Monica beneath his body.
"Chandler!" she giggled, his name hushed in the soft grey light that filtered through his open curtains while they lay awake before the sun came up. "We can't!"
"We don't have ti-yuh" her words were drowned out by his lips, his tongue caressing hers mid-sentence and curling the sound into a moan.
It wasn't even about the sex. He was probably too tired for a full round, anyway. Simply, neither of them had had enough sleep in the last few weeks and he rested peacefully when her heart was beating to the same rhythm as hers. Plus, the quarterly numbers were coming out this morning at work, and waking up with Monica in his arms would put him in such a good mood that he wouldn't end the day in such a funk he ground his teeth in his sleep like they normally did.
Chandler woke early, a benefit of constantly being on an early schedule so he and Monica could avoid being caught in compromising positions by their friends.
Last night must have worn him out. They didn't use to fall asleep together, it was too dangerous. Stay awake until sunrise broke through their windows, yes, but they never stayed so late as to actually rest sufficiently.
It seemed all that had changed last night.
He pressed his lips to her temple, extricating his arm out from beneath her slowly.
With Batman-esque reflexes, Monica lashed out. Monica gripped his bicep, always so much stronger than he expected her to be, especially when she pulled him back to her.
"Where are you going?"
Chandler smiled down at her. Monica had crust in the corner of one eye. He'd never seen her with sleep in her eyes like that, always too put together for such a public faux pas. He was kind of astounded that this side of her even existed, that she'd ever wind down enough to let anyone see her like this and felt something ancient and noble that he couldn't quite name that she let him be the one who did.
Chandler explained, "The alarm's going to go off any second."
Monica's nails dug into his arm as she squeezed him tighter. He wasn't sure she was even aware of it. It didn't hurt, or anything. It was just one of those quintessential symbols of Monica Geller - she was overly competitive and weirdly strong and those things, plus the fact she was insanely sexy, meant she always got what she wanted. "Just stay."
He couldn't say no to her and he didn't even feel bad about it. He didn't even feel like that sort of thing was a bad thing.
"What about the others?" he asked, worried but not overly concerned.
"They'll believe you came over to read the paper," she told him, "You always do."
Chandler slipped his thigh back between Monica's, rolling his body until he got into that perfect, comfortable position between the mattress springs.
The pair of them stayed that way, not quite awake enough to talk, not quite tired enough to sleep and wonderfully warm and content in each other's arms for another two hours, soaking in the soft sunlight as the day began.
Easily the best part of marriage, Monica discovered, was the blissful silence. She was probably going to jinx herself by counting herself lucky aloud. They'd just come home from their honeymoon; sand and sun and couples massages followed by lazy sex, and then rough sex followed by amateur massages in the privacy of their hotel suite and that spiced honey that poor Chandler realised did not pair well with the sunscreen he'd helped lather her in and forgotten about.
They'd not been back for long, and Monica didn't think the peace would last, especially not with Rachel's shock announcement and the not-so-shock about who the father was. Maybe it had something to do with that too, Ross and Rachel avoiding each other or putting their new conditional relationship together in the privacy of their own homes not a public forum. Or perhaps it was as Chandler expected and partly to do with Phoebe unsure how to treat them now that they were an official pair or a weirdly invasive (somehow) way for their friends to give them a little second honeymoon, or wind down from their honeymoon, by giving them a little privacy.
Either way, this was the third day straight that Monica had found herself and Chandler sans anybody in their apartment.
Chandler hadn't even put the chain on the door. But no one was bothering them, or asking for advice, or even dropping in for leftovers.
It was closing in on one in the afternoon and they hadn't even left their bed yet - tangled the sheets a little and kicked them off completely before pulling them back over each other, yes, but they'd spent most of the night doing all that, the crisp morning air and the warm afternoon sun had been for curling up together in various positions - him with his feet hanging off the side of the bed and his head on her stomach while they talked about nothing, wrapped in the compact muscle of her husband behind her, hooking her thigh over his hip from behind Chandler, and snoozing until the jet lag wore off, and then cuddling a little more.
She'd had eight days straight of no one but Chandler and still Monica wanted more of him. She'd dusted the day they'd returned and let Chandler be in charge of unpacking, and today was for inhaling her husband's homey scent and familiar aftershave gone stale from the day before.
If she left it long enough, she might even get his five o'clock shadow beneath her fingers when they made out like randy teenagers a little later, or stubble between her thighs for dinner, and then they could share a bath for dessert.
For now, she was blissfully dreamy while Chandler finished his book beside her, holding the novel against his chest with one hand and absentmindedly stroking her hair while she curled against his chest with the other.
She could very happily spend the rest of her life like this.
"Who needs an alarm?" Monica laughed at her groaning husband.
"Not us," his smile was present but the words were noticeably strange. From the look on his face, one of the twins had jumped in the wrong spot as they bounded into the bedroom and leapt onto their parent's bed. "Not when we have these cheeky monkeys in desperate need of a tickle. Argh!"
The room erupted into the echoing sounds of toddler giggles, igniting with the simple joy of Monica and Chandler and the family they had fought so hard to finally have.
"Did you turn the alarm off last night?" Chandler asked.
Monica blinked away the haze of the climax her body had just peaked over, her mind still abuzz with pleasure. "No," she told him. "I don't think so."
No. Definitely not. They'd finished wrapping all the presents weeks ago but Chandler had bought a handful of new things, always spoiling the twins, much to Monica's chagrin. She'd been absolutely rageful that all her organisation and lists and planning was for nought but couldn't fault his choices - Derwent pencils for Erica and a solar system set of collectable marble paperweights that would never be used and only collect dust but would look pretty and foster her astronomy phase, and an equally expensive new bike for Jack because the boy absolutely refused to play soccer like his sister did.
As a result, of the argument and the charm of how much thought had gone into those presents, despite how angry Monica knew she was meant to be that Chandler had blown their budget, Monica was now naked and slayed out across the bed, hot summer sun beating in through the window.
Sun?!
"Shit."
"Quick," Chandler hissed. "Quick. Get the alarm. Don't let it wake the kids.
"I hate Mondays," Chandler groaned as he rolled out of bed. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular. Monica wasn't awake and he wouldn't wake her until he was done dressing. Their goodbyes were difficult enough as it was. It wouldn't do to prolong them.
This happened every week. He hadn't had to dress himself in the dark since he'd been sneaking around with his wife after they got together in London. Even then, they'd evolved into sleeping late and snuggling for as long as they could push it until they were caught and quite happily lazed in bed all day.
They were back to three A.M. sneaking and long, reluctant goodbyes.
"Me too," Monica moaned into the space he'd just vacated. It always fascinated Chandler to see the way she rolled onto his side of the bed and buried her face into his pillow the moment he left it. "I'll see you Thursday."
She was telling herself more than anything.
"We'll talk in a few hours when I land." He couldn't sit on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks or else he'd reach back and kiss her and stay. He couldn't kiss her until the last possible moment or else Chandler would throw all caution to the wind and quit his job without a second thought. Anything that took him away from his mornings with Monica was evil and depraved and not worth the paycheck, surely. Except a child was expensive and would be for eighteen years minimum of education and diapers and Disneyland vacations once every five years and one good cross-country road trip, plus a house and inevitable accompanying mortgage would involve an intense price tag that their current savings didn't really allow.
"I'll miss you."
"It's just nights," he tried to placate her. That was how they got through the days. A full day of work didn't allow for thought outside of the task at hand, unti the only part of the day they had spare to miss their spouse was the three hours it took Chandler to fall asleep while he stared at the ceilings in the dark motel room and felt the ghost of Monica's arms around him, and the mornings when Monica felt cold and alone in the bed she used to happily sprawl across and now couldn't feel comfortable in unless Chandler shared the mattress with her.
"And mornings."
"We'll manage," he promised. "We always have." It was then that he kissed her; something languid and lasting. "I love you."
"I know," Monica told him. "I love you."
Chandler chuckled despite the deep and unyielding ache in his chest. "I know," he let his words caress Monica's lips, not giving them their own space until he absolutely had to. "I'll see you Thursday."
"I can't believe it," Monica lamented from the other side of the bed, folding Erica's jeans and leaving them in a pile of pants on the mattress. "You know you don't have to live on campus. You can stay at home for as long as you like."
"Just because Jack is," Erica was at the foot of the bed, making sure she'd labelled the last box.
"My boy's got his trip all planned," Chandler called from the other side of the room. "He's not really staying at home. All that travel's going to inspire his first best seller."
"Dad," Jack whined from his spot on the floor.
"Yeah, Dad, he hasn't even written a book yet. And you're the only one who's ever read any of his stuff. You're not exactly objective."
"I beg to differ," Chandler scoffed. "You used to read all his stories when you were younger. And your mother and I spent hundreds of monopoly dollars on the books the two of you put together."
Jack rolled his eyes. "I don't think that counts."
"Hey," their mother interrupted, a sad smile on her face as she looked around the dwindling furniture of Erica's bedroom. "You know what we should do?"
Across the room, Chandler smirked. "Like old times?"
Erica curled up beside her mother and Jack lay down with his head at the foot of the bed, feet near Chandler's chest.
Monica stroked her daughter's dark hair and Chandler watched, fascinated as Jack crossed his wrists and ankles the same way Monica did when she was laying across a picnic blanket.
"We haven't done this since you kids were, what, six or seven?" She was met with silence. "I can't remember the last time."
"Seven sounds right," Jack agreed.
"Nah," Erica's ankle came far too close to Jack's hip in a swift kick but Chandler caught his daughter's leg before it connected. "I think we were like nine."
"No," their mother disagreed, prepared to point out the facts she'd catalogued.
Across the length of the bed, Chandler sent his wife a sheepish smile. "About that-"
"Remember, Jack," Erica recounted. "Mum was still working nights, this was before she opened Four, and Dad let us sleep in here. He'd carry us to bed before Mum got home so she never found out."
"Whoops," Jack winced, realising before Erica did that their secret had been blown.
"Yeah," there was more amusement than venom in Monica's tone as she glared at her husband. "Whoops."
Jack snorted. "Dad's in trouble."
Erica's chuckle matched her twin's. "Dad's always in trouble."
Across the bed, Chandler winked, beaming at his wife. "Ah, but Dad always gets out of it.
Monica, however, wasn't biting his bait. "Not tonight, buddy. Couch."
Chandler, whether he felt the same way as his scoffing children or not, took his punishment in silence, nodding solemnly. Between their parents, Jack chuckled lowly and Erica offered him a bet of a week's worth of washing up that their dad would only have to make a show of spreading blankets on the sofa before their mother realised she hated sleeping without him.
She hated sleeping without him.
