Dedicated to KatieJooones and KittyJum, Erik'sTrueAngel, and hopebelievesblog on tumblr.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here.
Monica squeezed Chandler's hand, prising his fingers from the armrest. He wasn't afraid of flying, and even if he was, she was fairly certain he was too content after that little fete of theirs not five minutes ago would have muddled his mind enough for him to forget about any fears. So what that a make out like horny teenagers wasn't exactly the mile-high club they'd tried to join all those years ago, they had a pact to uphold and she was a brilliant kisser.
"I hate our pact," Chandler had whined when he pulled away from her reluctantly, stealing one last kiss, a murmur against her lips.
Monica hummed. "Yeah, but how much do the hostesses love us for not doing something arrestable?"
That made Chandler snort, pulling him out of his funk just a little, pulling him away from her too as he sat back in his chair, replete and disappointment at war on his face. "Not at all, Mon. Now they're worried we will do just that and they'll be watching us extra closely so we don't."
"Why do you think I kissed you?" She stroked her thumb over the corner of Chandler's lip, wiping away her peach lip gloss. "I need them to keep us honest."
A genuine chuckle spouted from her best friend's mouth, a wide smile making his eyes crinkle at her when Chandler lolled his head against his chair to rest his forehead against hers and whisper: "Wanted to make up for our London flight, did you?"
She hadn't felt this giddy since...well, since they'd started planning the wedding, and before that the proposal, and her proposal, and his promotion and when they announced themselves as a couple and he said he loved her and that week without Rachel after London.
Monica stretched her fingers and scraped her nails against that sensitive hollow spot on the back of Chandler's neck. So what if she was torturing them both a little? Cruel, it may have been, but Monica also knew that Chandler also deserved to know how proud she was of him, and this eagerness from her would ease his anxiety and let him know she supported him at every step. It also wouldn't hurt on her side, either. Dress shopping and cake tasting and picking photographers and knowing she would be on display for all of her family and friends and then have to show pictures to the leftovers from work that she didn't like enough to invite was bringing out all of Monica's old insecurities and a few new ones and not having sex with Chandler, who treated their apartment as a place where he could unabashedly prove just how attractive he found her body, was grating on her too.
Chandler pressed his cold nose against her cheek in an effort to disguise his moan at her touch, but Monica bore the full force of his hot breath against her ear and that deep growl that made her insides pulse with want. "Need them, huh?"
How this man made smugness attractive and dorky at the same time, Monica didn't know, because he made her weak with desire and giggly as a schoolgirl, rolling her eyes at him, the tension heightened and eased all at once.
Feeling the glare from the nearest two flight attendants, who Monica was acutely aware had been eyeing them - potentially because of the attractiveness of her fiance, but maybe because they were ready to warn them away from the bathroom together - Monica let her hand trail down Chandler's arm until she could lace her fingers with his. For the rest of their flight, Chandler read his book and Monica ran through their itinerary for the weekend and the wedding prep and then Chandler dared to kiss her again to stop her from second-guessing herself.
If the flight was any indication, it was going to be a long, torturous weekend trying to keep to their pact.
All their little one night getaways and weekend interludes had prepared Chandler and Monica for the process of checking in. Chandler had his own system, something his mother, world-traveller that she was, had ingrained in him - calling ahead, pre-tipping, uber politeness mixed contradictorily with a sexy standoffishness and elitism that wasn't him at all but suited him deliciously. Then Monica had her list of must-dos upon arrival in their room, cleaning and wiping down every surface, inspecting every glass, adding her own pillowcases to the pillows.
It was once the fastidious cleaning and preparation for their stay was complete that Monica noticed Chandler hadn't said anything since their door had been closed behind them. And not in the good, he's been staring at you at a loss for words, sort of way.
Across the room, seated at the small desk, fiddling with the hotel pen that Monica knew they'd have to take - growing up with miserly Ross gave them both a few quirks that Chandler and Monica couldn't avoid even if they tried - was Chandler. His shoulders were hunched forward, his brows drawn together.
It had been years since his silence had been a problem - Ross and Nora and whatever nightmare had gone at that dinner had been quite cathartic - he always spoke up when he had a problem. Except for last year when he'd been trying to make his proposal a surprise, but that hiccup aside, the man was normally so good about talking through his problems. It was upsetting to see him, literally watch, as he curled in on himself, a scared, lost boy at the prospect of having a moment with his father the way he'd stood up to his mother; part chastising, part apologising, part reconciliation.
That was Monica's dream scenario. Not an overnight relationship with her father-in-law, but Chandler's chance to open a dialogue. She saw it whenever they spoke of Charles and Nora. No, Helena, Chandler had informed her, and Nora. He complained and he griped but Monica knew how much Chandler adored his mother, he couldn't hide it. She suspected, from the soft way his voice broke when he spoke about visiting in the summers and trying anything just for a moment with his dad, that he loved Helena just as much.
There was also a little bit of her that was living vicariously through him. Monica and her own mother had never quite got along, mostly due to misunderstandings and gender-role assumptions and an overall bitchiness that Monica was sure Judy was fully aware of. She had to be. A small part of Monica knew Chandler had been down this road before, which might make this time easier for him, and give her a few tips on how she could manage it. But also, Judy had been great about the wedding, and welcoming to Chandler, and quite helpful throughout the whole process and Monica could feel how much her parents loved her every time she and Chandler went to dinner with them. She wanted that for Chandler, desperately, just to know what that felt like. Just once.
Monica crossed the room to where he sat and draped herself over his shoulders, massaging the tense muscles and sliding her hands forwards and backwards, forwards and forwards and unhooking his top button and then rounding her hands back over his shoulders to dig her thumbs into that tense spot at the base of his neck.
The back of Chandler's head knocked against the top of Monica's breasts as the man let out a breath of air.
Monica kept moving her hands, massaging the heels of her palms deep into Chandler's chest and soothing his skin in a gentle caress.
"Chandler," she let her lips tease the top of his ear. It was dangerous, and a little cruel, Monica knew, but it was also second nature. "I'm so proud of you."
Monica didn't want to manipulate him into doing anything he didn't want to do. She was so careful that any competition or reverse psychology - both typical between them - were completely playful and not forceful. She wanted this for Chandler, but Chandler had to want it for himself. She wasn't going to make him do, talk him into anything he wasn't comfortable with.
"Even if you don't get further than sitting in this hotel room. Just to get here, honey. That's huge."
It was the truth. Chandler didn't see it, she knew. He couldn't from where he was sitting, smack dab in the middle of the event. But he'd look back on his life, on this moment, one day, and see himself at a crossroads. There were regrets on both sides. Monica knew that, she wasn't naive. She had her own fair share of parental trauma. But it was a different regret; one of lost time, another of letting the wrong person in. Monica didn't much care which decision Chandler made, so long as he made a conscious, informed decision, and wasn't just a passive observer of his own life, but well-informed and completely in control.
"I know you can't divorce any support from their manipulation," she squeezed his shoulders, acknowledging how complicated she knew Chandler's relationship to be with his father. And mother, for that matter. She knew all about the parading in front of the school and how that felt like performing for an audience rather than genuine. She knew all about the unanswered phone calls that felt a bit like karma after a lifetime of holding his breath and hoping someone would pick up the other end of the line.
"And I know you can't help but second guess everything either of them did because of the way they used you." Monica wouldn't say she had it easy compared, but she was never used in a custody tug-of-war. Or for publicity. Then again, could she really blame Nora for flaunting the Madonna/Whore dichotomy to her own advantage in their post-feminist climate? Not that she'd ever reveal that little bit of purposeful, almost agreeable bit of promotional stance to Chandler. "I know you joke to hide how bad it actually was."
Chandler moaned at her touch. Not exactly the response Monica had been hoping for but not one she minded in the least. "Are you trying to butter me up for something?"
There it was. A joke to cover his emotions. His fears.
Monica patted Chandler's shoulders one last time and straightened herself up. It was okay. She didn't need him to say anything to her. She just needed him to know his options.
Monica hummed, walking away to continue unpacking their bags by the closet. She could feel Chander's eyes on her as she moved. If he wanted to avoid the subject, she'd happily oblige. Perhaps a little teasing, and a lot of testing his willpower was exactly what Chandler needed to clear his mind. Destress, even.
Monica picked up the dress she intended to wear to meet Chandler's dad from their suitcase. She'd spent hours trying to find the right balance of not caring if he liked her or not out of solidarity with Chandler - he might forgive his father, but she didn't have to, just like Chandler treated her parents sometimes, glaring at them from across the table while she smiled and sucked it up - but also wanting to put her best foot forward. The pink dress was just this side of sheer, just in case Chandler decided they'd just go to dinner and that was all, barely appropriate to meet one of his parents and inciting trouble should they decide on sharing a candlelit meal. But it came with a shawl, which would protect her modesty if Chandler and his father invited her to dinner with them. .
It was like they read each other's minds. "If you really want me to take my mind off what I'm about to do," Monica heard him get up, the rustle of his clothes distant compared to the volume of his words. He was really going through with it! She was so proud of him.
Then Chandler's breath was ghosting over the back of her neck and warm against her cheek and Monica found herself slumping against his chest.
Monica allowed Chandler to drift his hands across her abdomen for a moment before giggling and turning out of his reach.
"I'm not about to start losing now," Monica warned him, dancing out of her best friend's reach and putting the width of the bed between them. "And no way am I losing to you."
Chandler frowned, and pushed his sleeves up. "You do know that we agreed on the pact, right? We're on the same side."
"I can't believe you agreed to it, actually," Monica teased, fingering the silk of her dress and getting a wicked idea. "Unzip me?"
Monica stood at the vanity, brushing her teeth when Chandler stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself in the terrycloth robe Monica had bought for this holiday and for far cheaper than the hotel would charge them for the same product. She was wearing an identical one.
Only, lucky for her, Chander took his sweet time towelling dry before he tied the belt around his waist.
Monica spat white toothpaste into the sink and wiped her mouth. She rinsed her toothbrush and dried it quickly, dropping it back into her toiletry bag and turning to face her fiance.
"You know what I think?" she asked Chandler, cocking her hip and leant backward against the tile of the counter. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
Chandler laughed, bodily, rolling his eyes upwards, his gaze lifting to the ceiling, exposing his bobbing Adams apple to her perusal. "You're so lucky you have me."
"Excuse me?" Monica scoffed, folding her arms over her chest, her robe tie loosening a little. That wasn't her intention, but quite a happy accident, she had to admit. Especially when Chandler's eyes glinted mischievously at her when he clocked the slip of skin between her breasts. Monica imagined her skin was just as golden beneath the yellow bathroom lights as his was. Chandler was still dotted with water droplets too, and his wet hair was drying a little wildly.
Monica licked her lips.
Chandler took a step toward her, resting his hands against her hips. "I just never realised how much better I am at sweet talking than you. I always thought you were good because you always win me over, but honey, that is such a cliche."
Monica rolled her eyes. "I mean, a lot of your arguments come off like the ramblings of a mad man."
"Oh, right," he pulled a face, contorting his features in that way he always did. Disbelieving.
But Monica was hard up and so proud of what he'd accomplished with his dad and Chandler was gorgeous in this light. Why was he the only one allowed to distract her from her rules? That wasn't something Chandler had a monopoly on. Couldn't she do the same?
That could be dangerous, though, if it worked. If Monica unlocked just the right phrasing, not just her typical reverse psychology but the perfect unrefutable argument, then the two of them would never be disciplined again. It might very well doom them from ever sticking to their words, or leaving the bedroom.
Monica scoffed, tightening her crossed arms. Chandler definitely watched that movement. "Oh, okay. Mister Somebody Should Use the Honeymoon Suite. That's pretty cliche. So is sleeping with the bridesmaid."
Even as she was saying it, Monica's face broke out into a grin. Her arms loosened and her hands fell against Chandler's forearms, pushing the fabric up and picking at it with her fingers.
Chandler tightened his grip on her hips, caressing up to her waist and down again. Then he laughed, loud and resonant. "As cliche as sleeping with your best friend after hiding a crush on them for years."
"For years?" Monica smacked her fiance's bicep, finding herself suddenly distracted by the fullness of it and the crisp, clean smell of him. "On and off for a couple of weeks maybe."
"Years," he reiterated in a husky, grinning whisper, scrunching his nose happily at her.
"Weeks," Monica relented, "Maybe."
"She admits it," he seemed so carefree - joyful - as he pecked her nose. "Two hundred weeks "
Monica squeezed his arms, knowing it was probably a little painful, tighter than normal, but that that was exactly the best way to rile Chandler up when neither of them were making the first move.
Monica sighed. He wasn't right. But, looking back, sometimes she couldn't determine where their line had ever been. They'd always been far too close for just friends, that the crossing of the line had been effortless. And she'd absolutely been closer to him than anyone else in her life, and there'd definitely been a crush once or twice, and occasionally finding him attractive in his office wear.
Their smiles were wide for a beat, as Monica stared up at him, their hot breaths mingling. Their closeness and recent lack of closeness overwhelmed them and Monica felt her body curving forward, leaning her chest against his, letting his arms wrap around her with her movement. She wasn't even conscious of it. He was a magnet.
But they'd made promise to each other.
She pushed him away and found herself leaning against the countertop again.
Thankfully, Chandler seemed just as effected as she was, gulping in air where he stood, three paces away from her.
"Do I really come off that cliche?" Chandler asked. Monica squinted at him, disliking this resurgence of insecurity that Chandler didn't need to feel. "It's not just about the sex. You know I don't think it is. I love you and the quiet moments and the simple parts and doing the bills and talking at midnight in our pyjamas and the way you snore."
Monica blushed, nodding. "I love grocery shopping with you, and faking smiles at your office parties and talking all the way through movies on our couch."
Chandler beamed, miming a kiss in her direction but not breaching the gap between them. The tension was coiled tight between them, ready to snap. They'd defused it for a moment, but only a moment. "I'm not actually that desperate."
Monica took a step forward. "Last week you wanted to take a break."
"Temporarily." he countered. "You kicked out your cousin just to be with me and we all saw right through that."
Monica flared red hot at the memory. And the thought of what followed afterward. "You were looking at her."
"I needed to get her out," he shrugged. "You get possessive when you get jealous. I wanted you possessive."
Monica felt every nerve ignite as she swiped her tongue over her teeth, her insides twitching with promise. "And I just want you to break the rules, bad boy. But you're refusing to play along."
"Oh," he chuckled lowly. Hotly. It did something to her.
Chandler hooked his finger in the loop of Monica's belt and yanked her toward him. She collided with his chest with an exhale that Chandler caught on his lips with a fiery kiss.
His hand carded through her hair and pulled her away from him, gazing down at her with blown pupils. "You sure you won't regret losing your own pact? Feel guilty about it?"
Her heart was racing, blood pounding. A little angry as she pulled away from him. "Do you want me to walk out of here right now?"
But Chandler refused to release his tight hold on her, their robes opening at the chest. Monica couldn't think straight, he was still slightly wet but his skin was hot and smelled sweet. His voice was huskier than before. "We've broken rules before. I want you to give me permission."
Monica blinked. Chandler was reversing their roles, they'd never done that before. He'd always been the tempter, her own personal devil, teasing her into letting go of her rules. He wanted her to tempt him this time.
"I suppose," Monica swayed, teasing her fingertips through the hair that dotted Chandler's chest. "We could do with a practice run."
Chandler pursed his lips, resisting. "Do we need practice?"
Monica increased the pressure of her fingers. "A pre-honeymoon, then."
His eyes narrowed, still unconvinced.
Monica flattened her palm against Chandler's chest and walked, pushing him right out of the en suite and into the bedroom. "Chandler Bing we are going to use this weekend to rectify the last time we were here. Vegas is going to be nothing but good memories. We don't even have to worry about knowing the people in the rooms around us. Do with that information what you will."
That thought ignited something devilish in Chandler's eyes and Monica pounced.