Chapter Text
"Monica, here he is again, your knight in ugly sweater vest."
Susan poked her head into the kitchen, announcing in a singsong voice, pretty much annoyingly happy, smiling mysteriously as if she was holding the world's secret in her. Both she and Carol - to Monica's surprise, she never could imagine the uptight Carol could ever - considered the fact that the-one-we-all-know-who coming to eat a big deal, especially for their beautiful and talented and painfully single head chef. The rumor started buzzing around the kitchen before Monica was aware of it and now everyone, from valets to sous chefs, made sure Monica knew that when Chandler visited, also his meal would be prepared by her.
It's logistically illogical but she couldn't fight 30 staffs and win, especially when her boss had started taking an interest in it to, damn it!
This was a proper, niche, 3-star-Michelin kitchen, not a high school, Monica huffed internally. She was nothing of a Miss Americana or did Chandler even realize he's the Heartbreak Prince all around Javu.
Monica paused nonetheless, trying to sound unconcerned as she replied. "Oh? What would he have then?"
"Um, table 7, let me see... Bruschetta for entreé, duck confit and salad on the side, cheesecake as dessert. I've suggested today's special but he'd like a quick meal this evening."
Monica's heart skipped a beat. He still hadn't ordered mac & cheese.
She cursed herself, turned away from Susan as if thinking and not sulking irrationally.
In fact, after that destined day, Chandler Bing never demanded more mac & cheese again. He usually came during rush hour, ordered the usual three-course meal and whatever overpriced dish Susan offered that day, of course didn't stay to compliment the chef or wait with Monica to catch the last bus. It wasn't that she expected him to do that, ever. She should even be happy that he didn't bother her with off-menu items again, as a well-mannered customer would. After all, they were two people with separate lives, they were not even friends or anything close to it, what reason did Monica have to justify making him spend time with her? According to Carol, he didn't bring any other dates or diners, he just came alone.
Monica didn't know why she cared so much about a stranger. Were all the teasing about having a rather deserted love life was getting to her?
She had no short amount of men warming her bed. It shouldn't be a problem now.
Maybe it was because he promised. Promised to "crash the restaurant's system" with her, and didn't keep his promise. A lie cracking the perfect illusion of a magical night. Maybe it was because Monica hated people who were lying to her face, that was all. The fact that Chandler was Chandler with his dry sense of humor and eyes in etheral blue and a kind smile had nothing to do with it; the fact that encountering with him was one of the only good things she could count on in the midst of her futile chase with the Prince, with Ross, with this fucked-up society that had nothing to do with it.
Nothing to do with it. Nothing.
Monica nodded to herself, quickly and emotion restrained, reading the order loudly to the team to take in and execute.
Susan had left since whenever she didn't even noticed, maybe freaked by her sudden silence, maybe smug for her role of matchmaker.
She leaned against the stove, blinking slowly.
Telling herself to accept that some things in life only happen once.
The endless walks with Chandler that invaded her dreams were ultimately just achingly sweet imaginations that were never to become real.
Chandler tried not to rush things. He knew better than anyone that haste makes waste, it's set in stone in his work and his personal life couldn't be excluded from the rule.
He didn’t want to go from being a slightly odd customer to being the jerk who was always trying to order something off the menu and making a mess of the kitchen. He was intrigued, however not too much that he would throw his brain out of the window. In an ideal world, encased in romance fictions Rachel was so fond of, he could maybe do that, bother Monica a little bit every week, come up with the craziest ideas to talk to her for ten, fifteen minutes, and then one day out of the blue, he’d ask her out to dinner somewhere other than Javu. She would accept him with grace, his occupation didn't matter as long as they were in a trance. He’d pay for dinner, they’d dress up to the nines, and he’d fumble when Monica asked if it was a date.
While he about to embarrass himself she would seal it with a kiss and all were right in their world, forever, after.
But this wasn’t an ideal world. He worked three hours away from home, only came home once or twice a week, spent more than half his life sleeping in some godforsaken place God only knows. The amount of blood shed onto his hands could dye a small water body red. He had no time for dating, or for daydreaming about the smile or the scent or the skin of a woman.
And such woman was one of the most respected chef in this country, with a bright future ahead of her.
He shouldn't taint her.
But that didn't stop Chandler from fumbling with a grocery bag filled to the brim and barging into Javu through back door in the middle of the night, dirt and dusk still on his skin, his vest torn along the sleeves, and his hair a perfect bird's nest.
Chandler Bing wasn't good at fighting his impulses.
After almost dying was even the worse time to challenge said impulse. As he was thrown into the back of the truck, the grenade landing about 10 meters away from him, fever frying his brain, all he could think was, "I'm really hungry, I wish I could have another plate of mac & cheese."
And that's exactly what he did. When he escaped the damn hellhole alive, the thought of running back to Maine to get Joey to patch him up didn't even cross his mind. He just jumped in the car by instinct, and drove full throttle to New York.
To her.
Someday, Chandler would think about this again in a more sober light, and he'd regret it, but right now, damn it, he was just hungry. No one should've denied a mad man the meal he craved.
He said exactly that as he throwing the door open and declaring to Monica's shocked, wide eyes. "I'm so hungry! I don't have a kitchen, so do you mind if I borrow yours for a moment?"
"AHH!!!"
Monica screamed, dropping the pan of bechamel onto the stove. With a flick of wrist, she grabbed the nearest knife and pointed it at the voice. Her heart on her throat as she searched for a defined figure in blurry dusty night air.
Monica thought she was dreaming.
This strange man, came here for the first time and asked for something off the menu, promised to back just to not order it for two months straight, and at this very moment, showing up again, tall and tired and clumsy, WinCo shopping bag heavily dangling in his grip. He looked strangely miserable, as if he had just returned from war, but his eyes were pointed at her as a pitiful puppy would, gaping at Monica's attack.
She took another second, swallowed the lump in her throat. Her heart was still beating too fast, unable to calm down.
"Hey, it's me." He voiced, trying to sooth the situation.
"Yes," she answered, her voice trembled. She slammed the knife to the counter, turned off the stove and shrieked a tone too high. "Yes, Chandler, I know now. Oh God, are you trying to scare me to death?! Why are you here? Javu has been closed for hours! "
"I'm craving your dishes." Chandler answered simply, as if there's no way that reply was any weird, and invited himself to the kitchen. He looked around curiously, whistled. "Nice place."
Monica scoffed, taking the plastic bag he passed her. She wanted to knock that arrogant smile off his face, but who could bear to do so, when he's so scruffy and pathetic? Worry overcame the unfamiliarity, Monica used her other hand to pull Chandler closer, then touched the dried bloody cut on his cheek.
Chandler flinched. It didn't hurt much, nothing compared to what he'd gone through, but the feeling of the soft fingertips on his skin was so strange, he couldn't help but jump like a spring.
It had been so long since he had been touched with motive.
She mumbled, voice full of concern. "What is this, blood? Does it hurt?"
"N-no..."
"What did you do to get into this? Were you robbed? Fell face down somewhere? You're burning up."
"Work." He stammered, his mind paper-white blank. "I was in a teeny-tiny trouble, my boss..."
Monica frowned. Didn't even let him whatever he had to say, she pulled him aside, shoved him to the low bench where the chefs usually rested their legs and made him sit down. She reached for a clean towel, put it under running water until it was thoroughly damp, then lifted his chin, and began wiping the streaks of dirt and blood remained on Chandler's head and neck. He washed his face rather hurriedly in order to catch the last hours of Javu, and even though he failed, it seemed to be not too bad a failure.
Monica ordered him to take off his coat, also his terribly torn tshirts that she couldn't stand. He threw it straight to the trash can. Chandler sat obediently, not daring to disobey her and her fierce gaze as she checked for concussion and wounds. Joey would be so envious if he saw this. Joey had never, ever taken care of Chandler without the agent screaming like someone murdering him. His mouth always working at full capacity, fueled with sarcasm or complaints, both to distract himself from the pain and to keep Joey from asking about the mission and worrying.
He often jokingly told his friends that he's allergic to love and care.
That's not a lie but not entirely the truth either.
The intensity in Monica's eyes rendered him speechless. Her fingers slid over his skin, bind into his hair, pressed hard against his neck and collarbone, leaving no inch unattended, making his head swimming. He never imagined the calloused, strong kitchen hands that played with the kitchen knives could move so smoothly and quickly, stealthy like a cat. The ingredients under her care must've die without regret, knowing she would kill and also rebirth them, he thought and smiled to himself.
And she moved lower.
When she got too close to the bruises on his chest, Chandler's breath hitched. It seemed to pull Monica out of her motherly instincts, too, to realize they were now very, very, very close. Her breath caressed his neck, invisible but as strong as a loop hanging around it, signaling his demise.
Chandler swallowed. Monica cleared her throat, straightened up, and threw the dirty towel into the wastebin. Under the warm kitchen lights, their cheeks seemed even more rosy.
"So-"
"I-"
They spoke at the same time, and as eyes met, they suddenly burst out laughing.
Chandler scratched his head, smiling shyly. He slipped his jacket back on, suddenly very aware of his half-nakedness. "I'm sorry to bother you so late at night, look like I'm interrupting you again. Also, thank you for not sticking a knife into my chest."
"It's nothing, it's something I have to do."
"Not sticking a knife to an annoying guest's chest?"
"Noooo. I have to keep our VIP at table 7."
"You mean, the VIP at table 7 who is always noticed by the maitre'd and that brown-haired waitress as soon as he arrives? Do you know how much pressure I have walking along this street, Ms. Baum? I once came around for a haircut and ten minutes later I found myself having cheesecake. Are you keeping an eye on me, lady?"
Monica blushed, feeling like a child caught in the act. She turned away, he followed on her heels, grinning mischievously. Her eyes dropped to the the mysterious plastic bag that had been left forgotten on the kitchen counter, the only witness to the peaceful moments at midnight, now an escape Monica immediately holding onto. "What do you bring here?"
"Mac & cheese stuff. I didn't know if the kitchen had any left, so I bought some. Here's American cheese, Parmigiano-Reggiano, Kraft elbow macaroni, butter, milk!"
Monica chuckled, placing an pan with full tags and label on the counter. "You even bought the pan?"
"That's right! So you don't have to do any dishes anymore."
"What about flour?"
"Um, I-"
"Salt and pepper?"
"That's-"
"I like mustard and spices in mine, I made you one like that, but I guess you don't like it much so you don't order the Chan-special anymore, right?"
"Monica-"
"And did you know that American cheese is not a cheese?" Monica smirked, pleased. Consider it revenge for him making her lose sleep over not ordering bad mac & cheese!
Chandler pouted, eyes soften up in a mix of guilt and beg. He timidly hooked his pinky through hers, trying to flash his best, handsomest smile. “The other ingredients… can I borrow them from you? Charge me whatever, because I think I’ll die if I don’t eat that mac & cheese right now. The other days I was afraid of disrupting your workflow, so I didn’t order any. Are you mad at me, then?”
Monica liked her man begging.
Chandler wasn't her man, but still... He's acing this puppy act.
Yes, of course, she was a little upset with him. God forbid a man with the ability sway someone's mood like that and could entirely get away with it with his sincerity.
"I'm not mad."
"Monica, I may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I know that when a girl says no, it never means no."
She snorted, his fingers playing with hers was truly distracting. "But you promised."
"Well... Breaking into your kitchen after hours is also sabotaging the restaurant system, right? Now, milady Monica Baum, please accept your partner in crime back."
How did he do it? How did he guide the flow of the conversation so smoothly, make her forget the sulkiness she had pinned on him for the past few days so fast, and summon her desire to cook, for him? Even though she was experimenting with a bechamel base for a citrus beurre blanc sauce, that would be used for a promising scallops dish, Monica wanted nothing more than to shove it all aside to make something ridiculously simple, just because Chandler liked it. That was it, the reason was it.
She pointed to a closed cabinet door. “Open it. Get me a box of Emmental and Comté. Parmigiano-Reggiano is a hard cheese, very tasty and cheesy but it doesn’t melt as quickly and smoothly as soft or semi-hard cheeses. And you’ll want to stay away from the additives in this American cheese. Grate the cheese for me.”
“Yes, Chef!”
Chandler obliged, as Monica grabbed another pan—from her set of tools, not the tiny one Chandler had brought—and set aside part of the bechamel for the sauce, leaving the rest in the refrigerator, deciding to try the citrus beurre blanc sauce the next day. She added mustard, nutmeg, white pepper, garlic, and cheese while he commented on each ingredient, chattering away as he cleared away the dirty dishes she pushed aside. Monica usually preferred quietness in the kitchen, but Chandler's presence was surprisingly soothing.
They washed the dishes together as the mac and cheese tray settled into the oven. Monica rinsed each dish thoroughly, and Chandler dried it, a routine so smooth, so practiced, so continuous that it seemed like they'd been doing it together for ages.
"So... what do you do, really? I can't come up with any occupation that bring you to this state, maybe except a bouncer."
"I'm... a ghostwriter. Of a crime novelist." Chandler lied without blinking. He wasn't a spy, he wasn't an expert at pretending and impersonating, but in his plan to have a life, a friend circle separated from his work, he came up with a few ideas to cover himself up. "He often goes abroad to find inspiration for his work, wanders around stupidly dangerous neighborhood around the US, so I have to go with him. Today we walked into some dark and suspicious alleys, so... it turns out like this."
"That's too dangerous." She said. The last plate was washed, she passed it to him, then turned to face him, her still damp hand patting his arms. "If you ever think of quitting, Javu has positions available for waiter."
"Well, I can't work here because I'd be too looking at Chef Monica." He said softly, but the sly curl of his lips revealed his true intention entirely. He was a little dizzy, and he blamed that for his loose mouth.
He smiled even brighter when Monica blushed.
The oven chimed, a blessing to some, a curse to some. Monica quickly removed her hand from his body as if it burned, though he certainly couldn't be as hot as the steaming ceramic tray she'd just pulled out. He could feel his fever rising.
"Tada!" She exclaimed happily, but quickly became worried when Chandler just stood there, leaning against the side of the island, looking at her dreamily. Monica placed the tray on the shelf, moved forward, placing her hand on Chandler's cheek, her caring instincts taking over. "You're even hotter than before."
"Thanks-"
"Don't be a jokester now. You live nearby, right? Come on, I'll take you home, you can't be alone tonight."
Jesus, Monica, jump him would you! she scolded herself, realizing how incredibly wrong he could interpret that. She didn't even know where she had gotten the courage to ask. Under Ross's tutelage, she had become accustomed to a rather private manner. With previous boyfriends, it was only after the fourth or fifth date that they learned a little more about her, and she had always limited her visits to their homes, still afraid that their family enemies were lurking behind her back. But now she didn't even spend a moment hesitate, the days of not being able to stop thinking about him began to turn into reactions Monica had not anticipated.
Chandler used all his remaining strength to send out a smile, completely not annoyed at all. "Monica! We've only just known each other's names and you want to come to my house? What if you're a serial killer, huh?"
A smile spread across her face once more and she gave him the packed mac and cheese, then slung her arms under his to prop him up. Only slightly, of course, she was like a few inches shorter than him, but he appreciated the sentiment. “Come on, I’m just a chef who doesn’t want a customer dying of fever on her living room floor. Let's go, show me the way.”
Well, as aforementioned, he knew when he sober up, he would realize that while going to Javu alone in the middle of the night was a bad idea, having the dream girl herself escort him home was even the worse one. But now, he was starting to feel faint. He was unable to remember if he had left a gun or any classified information on the coffee table.
His mind said, This is such a stupid idea, reject her now, reject, reject, reject!
But his feet were in step with her and his mouth was throwing up the direction and his face was buried in her hair. God, this woman, with her delicious mac and cheese and her amazing blue eyes and her kindness when he came to her unexpectedly, had cast a spell on him. A spell he didn’t want to find an antidote for.
He lay himself in the trap of comfort. Of a normal life.
It would swallow him alive.
They soon arrived at Chandler's apartment door.
Monica searched Chandler's pocket for the house key, and, one tall and one short, they leaned against each other, stumbled up the stairs to the fifth-floor apartment. The elevator was broken but Monica didn't complain.
Any outsider would have thought they were lovers.
For insiders involved, the boundaries had gradually, unknowingly, willingly blurred.