Friendship fic, slight focus on Chandler/Monica. Early-series. Very little plot. Standard disclaimers apply.

First time writing Friends fanfiction. *flails*

The One Where Chandler Has The Flu

Chandler wakes up feeling hungover, which is decidedly odd because he is quite certain that he did not drink last night (in fact, he remembers eating ice cream with the girls over at Monica's place, but that is neither here nor there). His body feels heavy, especially his head, and the t-shirt he slept in is drenched in sweat, sticking to his back and chest. He feels about as fresh as a dung beetle. It takes him several moments before he realizes that he is probably sick, not hungover.

When this idea takes hold, he becomes aware of exactly how cold he is, despite sweating, and he burrows under his duvet until he is suddenly way too warm to want to be in his own body anymore. He kicks the covers off his body, taking a moment to let his brain catch up with the movement, and stands up on unsteady legs.

The short trip to the bathroom confirms that he definitely is sick. His legs feel weird and his back is aching. He is probably running a fever. He is probably dying. He wants to die.

He has never been very good at being sick.

Grabbing a package of painkillers from the bathroom cabinet, Chandler stumbles to the fridge to grab a carton of juice. He pours himself a glass and swallows two pills with the drink before settling on one of the bar-stools to grab the phone receiver and call in sick to work. He winces at the way his voice sounds, all raspy and weak.

Important stuff taken care of, Chandler brings the entire carton of juice back into his bedroom and heads back to bed.

If possible, Chandler feels even worse when he wakes up the second time. His head is throbbing. It is light outside now, sun is shining in through the curtains. He can hear Joey bustling about in the kitchen, and Chandler realizes that his flatmate probably thinks that Chandler is at work. He should probably make his presence known.

For the second time that day, he kicks the duvet off of him, then grabs the blanket from his chair to wraps around his shoulders before stepping out in the living room. "Hey," he rasps.

Joey looks up from his cereal in surprise. "Hey, man. What are you doing here?"

"Sick," Chandler says shortly, sitting down in his barcalounger and spinning it around to face Joey. It makes him momentarily dizzy and he blinks to clear his head.

"Your voice sounds like, really weird."

Chandler frowns at him.

Joey shrugs at the displeasure. "I have an audition today. Do you need anything? I took the last of the milk." He motions at the bowl in front of him.

Chandler thinks about it. He should probably eat something, even though he doesn't really feel like it. He's finished the entire carton of juice, at least, because he's pretty sure sick people should stay hydrated. "Just juice," he says. "I'll just bug Monica for food."

"Okay." Joey finishes his breakfast. Chandler watches from the barcalounger as he gets ready to head out.

"Feel better, man." Joey tells him, and heads out of the door, offering him a little wave and a smile.

Chandler sits there for a moment, unable to muster up the energy to move and generally feeling sorry for himself. A cold-wave hits him and he shudders into his blanket until it passes, and he finally decides to stand up. He probably should eat something. He glances down at the shorts and shirt that he had slept in, rumpled and disgusting, but he finds that he doesn't really care.

"I'm sick, please feed me," Chandler says as he enters the girls' apartment, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

"Wow," Phoebe says, staring at him from the kitchen table. "Say that again."

"What?" Chandler says, confused.

"More, more!"

Chandler has no idea what is going on. "What are you even doing here?" If he sounds testy, it's because he is.

"Your voice sounds like Alan Rickman's!" Phoebe, ignoring his question, raising her upper lip in some sort of weird seductive expression. "Rawr."

Chandler regrets coming over. He sits down by the kitchen table and looks at Monica with what he thinks may be an embarrassingly pitiful expression. She looks both amused and sympathetic. She comes over and puts a hand on his forehead. It feels like cooling balm.

"You do feel warm," Monica says.

"Joey took the last of the milk," Chandler says hopelessly.

Monica seems happy to produce some toast for him. He nibbles at it carefully, unsure of how his stomach will react to solid food.

"I have to get down to the restaurant." Monica pats his head. "But I'll make chicken soup for you tonight if you want."

Chandler has never really had chicken soup when he's been sick. It is such a cliché, but it also sounds kind of nice, so he nods, clearing his throat. "Thanks."

Phoebe 'rawr's again.

"Boys are so pathetic when they're sick," Rachel says, her voice both teasing and haughty. She had gotten back from her shift at the coffee shop while Chandler was watching cartoons on the couch. Joey was back as well, and Chandler is feeling grumpy and under-dressed in his clammy sick state.

Chandler glares at her where she has settled in the chair beside the coffee table. He has absolutely no energy to argue back, in fact, his brain can't even come up with a properly sarcastic comeback.

"What?" Joey protests instead. "Why?"

She smirks at him. "You come down with one little cold and suddenly, you act like you're dying."

Chandler wants to protest that he is pretty sure that he actually is dying, but he is afraid that it will result in humiliation. "It's the flu," he says instead. "That's worse than a cold."

Rachel raises an eyebrow. "Phoebe is right, you really do sound like Alan Rickman right now."

Chandler makes a face.

"I know, right?" Phoebe says as she steps out of the bathroom. "It's so sexy. You should do a British accent."

"I don't want to do a British accent," he protests, ignoring the fact that he sounds like a petulant five-year old. Or Alan Rickman. "I'm sick. Leave me alone."

"You're in our apartment," Rachel points out.

Chandler pulls the blanket over his head to ignore them. The stuffy, warm air of his cocoon brings to his attention that he really kind of needs a shower because he smells rank, but since he is also in one of the shivering cold periods, it is pretty cozy too. He decides to stay hidden from the world for a while, the voices of his friends just a little muffled, and somewhere along the line he drifts off to sleep.

When Chandler wakes up again, he feels disoriented for a few seconds before realizing that he is still on Monica's couch. It is dark, which is weird, because that means that he has slept pretty much the entire evening, and most probably through the sounds of his friends hanging out, and Chandler is usually a quite light sleeper. The girls' bedroom doors are closed, so he assumed that they have gone to bed by now.

He sits up, carefully, and realizes that his head doesn't feel quite so heavy anymore. His eyes fall on the coffee table, where someone has placed a fresh glass of water and a package of painkillers. There is a note as well. Chandler squints at it in the dark.

"Chicken soup in the fridge, since you slept through dinner. Feel better soon."

-Monica

Chandler smiles slightly as he puts the note down, standing slowly, weakly, to heat some soup.