#chandler

“Put that out,” Ross barked, waving a hand in front of his nose. “You’re not even supposed to smoke in here!”

“Ugh!” Phoebe fanned the air dramatically. “Chandler, come on. You’re gonna get cancer, and then we’ll all feel like jerks for yelling at your urn.”

Chandler rolled his eyes and took a drag. “Wow. Judgment and a guilt trip. You guys should start a band.”

“Oh my god,” Monica groaned again, waving toward the window. “Go outside!”

“Hey, this is so unfair!” Chandler protested, gesturing with the cigarette like it was on his side.

“Oh yeah?” you said, finally lowering your zine with a look. “What’s unfair--lung privileges?”

“No! I have one flaw, and suddenly I’m public enemy number one? Meanwhile, Joey cracks his knuckles every five seconds like he’s trying to summon Captain Planet--”

“Hey!” Joey protested again.

“--and Ross,” Chandler went on, “acts like he’s narrating a PBS documentary every time he talks.”

Ross sat up straighter. “I articulate. It’s called having a command of the English language.”

“And Monica,” Chandler added with a flourish, “has that weird little snort when she laughs. Like a piglet getting tickled.”

“I do not snort,” Monica said indignantly.

"You totally do,” you muttered into your mug.

“Oh, and you,” Chandler turned to you, finger pointed. “With your whole ‘I’m better than everyone because I know the exact day every Bowie album dropped’ superiority thing. And that weird food ritual where you never finish your plate. You eat 85% of a sandwich and then abandon it like it said something offensive.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t have to explain my sandwich habits to a man who smokes indoors."

“God forbid someone smoke a single cigarette around Miss Precision Sandwich Eater of 1994.”

“Say that again when you’re hacking up a lung in your thirties,” you shot back. “We’ll see who wins then.”

there's a pause.

“…So, does the knuckle cracking actually bother everybody?” Joey asked, eyebrows raised.

Ross looked slightly guilty. “Well… I could live without it.”

“Okay but is it, like, ‘quirky habit’ annoying,” Joey pressed, “or like… Phoebe chewing her hair annoying?”

Phoebe blinked, mid-chew, and immediately pulled her hair out of her mouth.

“Don’t listen to him, Pheebs,” Ross said gently. “I think it’s endearing.”

Joey turned to him, mockingly sincere. “Ohhh, you do, do you?”

Monica snorted--actually snorted--and immediately covered her mouth, eyes wide.

Chandler just grinned. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing wrong with enunciating,” Ross said stiffly, crossing his arms.

“Indeed there isn't.” Rachel imitated Ross from behind the couch, then glanced at the espresso machine. “I should really get back to work.”

“Yeah,” Phoebe muttered, “before someone accidentally gets what they actually ordered.”

“Oh-ho-HO. The hair comes out and the gloves go on,” Rachel snapped.

The entire room descended into chaotic, overlapping bickering.

You got pulled into it-- snarking and sparring like it was second nature. You accused Monica of weaponizing passive aggression. Joey said you were just bitter because you were always cold. Ross tried to quote Latin. Phoebe said she liked your 80% sandwich thing. Rachel asked what a Bowie was, earning herself a death glare from you.

And somewhere in all that noise, Chandler was gone.

You scanned the room, eyebrows pinching. The door was still swinging slightly on its hinge.

That bastard.

You sighed, stood up, and slung your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Rachel asked, coffee mug in hand.

You didn’t look back. “To go kill the Marlboro Man.”

And just like that, you disappeared after him, zine abandoned, door shut behind you.

You caught him halfway down the sidewalk, leaned casually against the window, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like he was trying out for a 1940s heist film.

“Smooth escape,” you said, approaching him.

He glanced at you sideways, amused. “Thank you. That was my own version of smoke and mirrors.”

“Clever.” You folded your arms. “So what’s it gonna take to get you to quit?”

He puffed once. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve already had five guilt trips, three lectures, and a surprise intervention this week. None of it worked.”

You shrugged. “Alright. What if I sweeten the deal?”

Chandler raised a brow. “I’m listening.”

“If you go a full week without smoking…” You tapped your chin. “I’ll buy you that vintage Batman comic you’ve been hunting for. The one with the misprint cover.”

His eyes lit up slightly-- then narrowed. “Tempting. But not tempting enough.”

You nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll throw in those black licorice things you like that taste like regret and despair.”

Chandler took another drag. “Closer.”

You stepped in, lowering your voice just enough that only he could hear it. “If you can go one week without a cigarette, Chandler… I’ll show you my boobs.”

He froze.

The cigarette fell from his fingers and hit the sidewalk with a tiny hiss.

“…A week, you said?”

You smirked. "I'll even provide the nicotine patches."

He looked genuinely conflicted for a second-- then sighed dramatically and stomped out the cigarette.

“Fine. For the sake of my lungs… and your very generous offer-- I accept.”

You beamed. “See? Bribery works better than judgment.”

Chandler shook his head with a crooked smile. “God, you’re dangerous.”

You leaned in, already walking backward toward the coffeehouse. “Only when properly motivated.”

He watched you go, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets, trying not to look too smug-- or too flustered.

March 24th, 1994

Chandler looked like a man on the edge.

He sat on the couch with a cup of coffee (his fifth), hunched over and twitchy, leg bouncing like a nervous rabbit. You were sitting on the floor in front of him, sipping iced tea and pretending not to notice how he’d muttered “kill me” under his breath at least twice in the past ten minutes.

Joey leaned back in the chair beside the couch, squinting at Chandler with cautious admiration. “Dude… not to jinx it, but… this is, what, day four?”

“Day four and seventeen hours,” Chandler said, rubbing his face. “Not that I’m counting. But also I definitely am.”

Monica walked over with two fresh mugs. “I’m honestly impressed. I didn’t think you’d last this long.”

Phoebe nodded. “Yeah! You’re usually all talk and zero follow-through. It’s very inspiring.”

“I hate all of you,” Chandler muttered. “And I hate this coffee. And I hate the air. And my lungs feel too clean.”

You patted his thigh like he was a feral cat. “You’re doing great, champ.”

Rachel came over from the kitchen with a knowing smirk. “Okay, but seriously--what’s the real reason you’re actually doing this? You didn’t even quit when Monica threatened to replace your cereal with celery.”

Chandler hesitated.

You looked down and busied yourself with a cracker from the coffee table.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes. “Wait… wait a minute. You’ve never made it four days unless something’s in it for you.”

Joey gasped. “Oh my god. Are you getting paid?”

Monica stared. “Did you bet on your own lung health?”

Chandler opened his mouth. Then closed it.

And then Ross-- who had just emerged from the bathroom with a face like he’d walked into something he shouldn’t-- sat down on the arm of the couch.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Oh!” Phoebe beamed. “We’re figuring out why Chandler quit smoking.”

Ross raised a brow. “Wait. Still? You’re on day four, right?”

“Four days and seventeen hours,” Chandler corrected.

Ross tilted his head. “Why? Did someone die?”

Phoebe leaned toward you suspiciously. “You did something, didn’t you?”

You raised your brows, feigning innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joey pointed back and forth between the two of you. “Wait a minute. This is just like that one time--remember when he stuck to that diet for a whole month because that girl from work promised him a peek at her--”

“Boobs,” Chandler blurted. Then winced.

The room went silent.

“What?!” Ross was scandalized.

You took a slow, measured sip of your drink.

“…So,” Monica said slowly. “Let me get this straight.”

“Please don’t get it straight,” Chandler muttered.

“You promised to quit smoking,” Phoebe said.

“And she said if you made it a week…” Joey’s voice trailed off as he nodded in admiration. “That’s… actually genius.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Wait, is this, like, a scheduled thing? Are we counting down to Boob Day?”

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Can we please stop talking about my tits?”

Ross looked like someone had just set his coffee on fire. “Yes, thank you! I didn’t even know this was on the table!”

Phoebe, unbothered, turned to you. “But wait, so--was it, like, part of a larger strategy? Did you offer anything else first?”

You nodded, dry. “I tried candy and comics. Nothing worked.”

Joey nodded solemnly. “Boobs. Nature’s nicotine patch.”

“Can I please die now?” Chandler muttered.

Rachel leaned over the arm of the couch, grinning. “So if he makes it to seven days…”

“He gets the view,” Joey filled in.

“You don’t have to narrate it,” you deadpanned.

Phoebe tilted her head thoughtfully. “But technically, she’s still in charge of the reward. That’s so powerful.”

“I mean,” Monica said, licking her spoon, “you could just change your mind. Or make it conditional. Like, no boobs unless he also gets a haircut.”

You made a face. “Okay, first of all, I would never make him get a haircut.”

Everyone turned toward you at once.

You immediately added, “Not because I like it or anything. I just--he’d look weird with, like, short hair. His whole thing would fall apart.”

Chandler grinned. “My whole thing?”

You shrugged, sipping your tea, ears turning pink. “Yeah. Like, your sarcasm wouldn’t hit the same if your hair was too neat. You’d lose your edge.”

Phoebe tilted her head. “So you do like his hair.”

“No,” you said quickly. “I respect it. Like a… cultural artifact.”

Joey pointed at Chandler. “Your hair is a museum piece.”

Rachel cackled.

Chandler looked mildly stunned but definitely pleased, while you resolutely avoided his eye.

Ross, still trying to catch up, gestured vaguely in the air. “But--so what if he doesn’t make it? Do you just… revoke the boobs? Or is there some kind of punishment clause?”

You gave him a flat look. “Ross. There were never any boobs. That’s the whole incentive.”

Monica laughed so hard she nearly spilled her yogurt.

Chandler slumped into the couch cushions like a man accepting his fate. “This was supposed to be a quiet, dignified week of personal growth.”

You mockingly patted his thigh. “Aw. Poor baby. You’re just trying to better yourself and everyone’s obsessed with your hypothetical sex prize.”

Chandler looked at you with pained affection. “You’re evil.”

“I’m effective,” you corrected.

Monica clapped her hands once. “Okay, now I need to see if he actually makes it to day seven.”

Phoebe nodded solemnly. “For the sake of nipples everywhere.”

March 27th, 1994

Chandler was sprawled on the couch like he’d just survived a hostage situation.

He looked pale. Grumpy. Deeply betrayed by the world. He was also seven days cigarette-free.

You were curled next to him, one leg tucked under you, gently running your fingers through his hair--part comfort, part victory lap. His eyes were closed, head tilted toward your touch like a cat soaking up sun.

“You know,” you said, voice light, “you’re shockingly tolerable when you’re detoxing. I expected more weeping.”

“I did weep,” he mumbled. “In the frozen food aisle. Over a bag of peas. Maybe some eggos”

You snorted.

Monica entered from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. “It’s almost time!”

Phoebe and Joey followed, each holding a cookie in one hand and buzzing with anticipation. Rachel leaned against the counter, arms crossed and smirking.

“I still can’t believe you made it seven days,” Rachel said.

“Neither can I,” Chandler groaned. “Everything smells better. Food tastes better. I feel emotions now. It’s terrible.”

Monica set the mugs down. “Timer’s got thirty seconds left.”

Ross glanced at his watch, nodding. “Ah, the final countdown. This is better than any sports game.”

“I swear,” Chandler said, eyes still closed, “if someone lights a match and I inhale by accident, I will throw myself out the window.”

You smiled down at him. “Oh, come on. You’ve been a delight. Moody. Cranky. Deeply dramatic. But a delight.”

Phoebe held up a cookie like a microphone. “So, are you ready for your prize?”

Joey leaned in with a grin. “Do you have a speech prepared?”

Chandler sighed. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I’d like to thank spite, coffee, and her boobs for getting me through it.”

Ross chuckled softly. “Her… boobs? Not exactly the typical quitting incentive, but hey, whatever works.”

The timer dinged.

A beat of silence. Then the group exploded into applause.

“Seven days!” Rachel whooped. “No cheating, no sneaking?”

Monica narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t just, like, sneak one in the hallway, right?”

Chandler raised a hand like he was swearing into court. “I swear on Joey’s cholesterol levels.”

Joey nodded solemnly. “That’s sacred.”

You gave Chandler’s hair a final ruffle, then stood up with a satisfied stretch. “Well then. A deal’s a deal.”

Chandler bolted upright. “Wait. Now?”

Rachel’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god, are we actually doing this?”

“I mean,” Phoebe said brightly, “we were here for the buildup.”

Monica raised a hand. “Nope. No way. You two take that weird sexual tension to your room like civilized roommates.”

You turned to Chandler with a grin and wiggled your eyebrows. “Shall we?”

He scrambled up from the couch like he was being offered backstage passes and a winning lottery ticket.

Rachel covered her eyes. “This is too weird. I live here now. I need walls.”

Joey called after you, “Make it count, man!”

Phoebe added, “Don’t blink!”

Monica just groaned. “Please don’t scar me emotionally.”

You pulled Chandler toward your bedroom by the wrist, looking completely smug. “Come on, Bing. Let’s get this over with.”

“Romantic,” he muttered.

“Oh, you’re gonna cry. Guaranteed.”

“I already did. Over the peas, remember?”

You disappeared into your room with him stumbling after you, clearly overwhelmed but absolutely not protesting.

You shut the door behind the two of you and turned slowly to find Chandler standing in the middle of your room like he’d just wandered into a holy site. Hands in his pockets. Jaw slack. Trying very hard not to stare at your chest but clearly already halfway to heaven.

“You okay?” you asked, eyebrow raised.

“I’m great,” he said quickly. “I’m fine. I’ve never been better. I’m just--uh--trying to process that I’m in your room for boob-related reasons and it’s not a hallucination brought on by nicotine withdrawal.”

You took a slow step toward him. “Still want the reward?”

He nodded so fast it looked like whiplash. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything. And I’ve wanted things. Pizza. Sleep. Parental approval. But mostly pizza."

You circled him, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing up his sleeve. “You sure you’re ready?”

“Born ready,” he said, then added quickly, “unless this is a trick. Is this a trick? Are you gonna hit me with a water balloon or something?”

You laughed softly and stopped in front of him. “No trick.”

Then, with complete calm, you reached behind your back.

His eyes widened.

You unhooked your bra under your shirt, sliding the straps slowly from your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor with a light, traitorous thump.

Chandler made a sound that could only be described as a prayer.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here, right? You’re trying to kill me. This is a slow, beautiful murder.”

You shrugged one shoulder, innocent. “I thought I’d give you a preview. You’ve earned a little anticipation.”

“I will write songs about this moment,” he said, eyes locked on you like you were a mirage.

Then, finally, you gripped the hem of your shirt.

Lifted it. Slowly.

His breath caught audibly in his throat.

You held it just long enough to drive him insane, then raised it fully--bare, lit softly by the lamplight behind you.

Chandler didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Then--finally--he exhaled, a stunned, reverent whisper:

“…Thank you.”

You laughed--not at him, but softly, surprised, like his sincerity had caught you off guard.

“Wow,” you said, tugging your shirt down as you reached for your bra. “That was unexpectedly polite.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, dazed. Giddy. Slightly ruined.

You passed him, casually patting his chest like a congratulatory coach. “You did good, Bing.”

“I’m in love,” he said automatically, then winced. “With the moment! The moment. Not you. That’d be weird. Haha.”

You paused in the doorway and glanced back at him, smug.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “You’ve got about three more weeks of clean lungs before I flash you again.”

He pointed at you helplessly. “You’re evil.”

"Proud of you, Bing. Still a menace, but now a smoke-free menace." You said, walking out, leaving him completely shell-shocked in the middle of your room, muttering under his breath:

“…Best. Bet. Ever.”

----