(A/N) Hello! I'm back with another Randler fic! :D This one is a lot different from my first one (TOW the Central Perk Receipt), but I really wanted to write it. I was inspired by several things - one, I discovered this really cool genre recently called '1sentence'.. check some out here on FF! It's basically a form of fic-writing that includes a collection of sentences that don't follow a chronological pattern, and the reader has to piece a plot together. However, I did a different spin on it because I didn't think I could limit myself to one sentence per scenario. Also, I recently finished A Time Traveler's Wife - and I was soo struck by the beauty of the format. Lastly, I wanted to challenge myself with this kind of out-of-order writing (I've never tried it). So it might be confusing, but die-hard Friends fans can probably do alright following along the timeline. Feel free to ask me to clarify anything! :)
Background info: this fic follows the regular seasons, but has Rachel actually following through with moving to Paris for her LV job. Anything that occurs after that is my invention. :) Alright, enough rambling! Onwards! :)
December 2007
A slim woman, her twinkling eyes half-obstructed by a stylish fringe of blond bangs, was waving her arms ecstatically in his direction.
For a second, Chandler Bing was tempted to look around him for the undoubtedly chiseled, cologne laden, Armani suited businessman that would most likely be acquainted with such a woman…. but then he realized.
"Chandler! Over here!"
He grinned. Of course. I'm him. Albeit less chiseled and less scented, and, well, this suit is from Ross (the friend and not the discount retailer, at least.) But nonetheless, I'm the guy she's waiting for.
Chandler felt a ripple of uncharacteristic pride as several men turned their heads in the direction of the woman's excited waves, all wondering to themselves who the lucky bastard was. More than one saw Chandler waving back and thought incredulously, "Seriously? That guy?" – and, with a lingering glance at the woman's legs – "C'est dommage. What a shame."
When Chandler finally fought through the throng of people and reached his friend, he dropped his heavy duffel bags and exhaled deeply, simply smiling at her and letting it all sink in.
He was here. She was here – and had handled her charm with time exceptionally well, it looked like.
He smiled. She smiled. The noisy airport rushed on.
Finally, she extended her arms in a welcoming embrace fitting for two friends who hadn't seen each other in – how long had it been? – three years. The thin gold bracelets on her wrist jingled. Her left ring finger was bare.
"Hi, handsome," she grinned, squeezing her old friend as tightly as she squeezed her eyes shut. Until this moment in which they stood in embrace, she hadn't realized how much she'd missed these constants of her old life. The nostalgia gave her a slight zoomy feeling in the depths of her stomach and caught in her throat. "Been working out lately?"
Chandler had forgotten how much he'd loved Rachel's voice – that smooth, sweet chime that comforted him so many times in the past, or exchanged witty banter with him, or – in his guest room at her goodbye party – dealt him that final "I love you."
"Hi, Pinocchio," he joked back. Some things never changed. "Been lying lately?" He smirked and tapped Rachel lightly on the nose for good measure. Then he sighed, downshifting to serious. "God. I've missed you."
August 2005
It had been a whole year, but bus driver Nils Jansen was still haunted by that day. He remembered the details with almost cruel clarity (It's funny how that works, isn't it? – you can't, for the life of you, remember to pick up your daughter from ballet class every Tuesday, but you are constantly remembering the only day you wish you could forget).
It was November 17, 2004. Approximately 9:45 in the morning. A brisk 50 degrees. It had smelled like freshly baked bread.
The beautiful woman who had been so enraptured by the bakery's warm loaf in her hands that she hadn't seen the bus coming at her before she stepped into the street.
July 2010
Phoebe Buffay-Hannigan made her way back from the mailbox tentatively, in fear that her annoying neighbor with a propensity for whistling 90's pop songs would pop out from behind the bushes at any moment.
Recognizing that the coast was clear, she flipped open the brass latch of the white picket fence. She had always wanted the house with the white picket fence. A day didn't go by when Phoebe didn't guiltily think that to herself each time she touched the brass latch.
Bills, bills, bank statement… ooh, my Aroma of the Month pamphlet! …Wait. What's this? Phoebe regarded the unfamiliar address on an unfamiliar white envelope. Where the hell is Rue? Both her and Mike's names were scrawled on it, in a loopy cursive font and a heart where the 'O' in her name should have been. Phoebe tore the letter open with her teeth and walked indoors, so curious that she didn't even notice her sleepy husband greeting her with a cup of coffee.
April 2004
Chandler walked into his green guest room in a daze, with heavy feet and heavy heart. Green. So green. Why had he never realized how… sickly that color choice was? It had seemed alright – serene, even – when Monica had selected it, but now it only seemed to match the vomit that was threatening to spill from his mouth.
Green. So green.
Rachel Green.
He fiddled with the mysterious handcuffs as he stared back at Rachel, hands clasped, tears already beginning to fill her eyes.
"Oh, honey," Rachel murmured.
But her voice was the thing that should've been deemed as such – so gentle, so genuinely tender, so sweet like honey.
Now, though, it was also filled with sadness. Chandler thought he would probably break down himself if he had to hear another word come out of Rachel's mouth in that heart-wrenchingly wistful tone.
He stopped her short, and they hugged goodbye. He didn't realize how soon after that they would meet again.
January 2005
The pile of paperwork on the desk of Sue Lynch gaped up at her with their sharp, 12-point font teeth.
She hated this part. This didn't happen very often, and she didn't know what custom dictated in these situations. Did she board up the windows? Did she put the house back on the market? If she did, what would she explain to future house hunters?
The phone rang, jolting her alert. She grabbed it.
"Hello, Sue Lynch, realtor. How may I help you?"
December 2007
"God, Paris is absolutely beautiful this time of year," Rachel gushed, pushing open the door of the chic vintage boutique she had just dropped a cool 200 euro in. "Ah, la belle Paris! You're so lucky you got assigned here so close to the holidays."
Chandler raised his eyebrows at how many carrier bags Rachel was now toting on her thin wrist. "Uh, need a little help there, Richie Rich?"
"Huh?" Rachel regarded her bags. "Oh. Yeah, thanks, Chandler." She dumped all but one in his arms.
Chandler staggered a little, but only grimaced to himself and continued listening to Rachel chatter on about Fashion Week.
They were currently strolling along the Champs Elysees. It was about 8:30 at night, and they had just finished eating dinner at a cute little café near the Arc du Triomphe – near Chandler's hotel room. They had caught up on old times over smoked salmon and sipped red wine as they watched the Parisian nightlife pass them by. "Aprez- dinner" shopping had been Rachel's idea, but Chandler didn't mind. He was enjoying hanging out with her.
And she was right – Paris really was beautiful this time of year. The Champs was lit up with thousands of lights strung throughout the row of trees – all the way down past the high end shops to where the street ended at the Arch.
Both Chandler and Rachel had lived near the smaller, Washington Square replica of the Arch back in New York, but here they were now – in view of the real one. To Chandler, it seemed slightly symbolic – if he'd majored in English rather than Finance in college, he'd probably use words like 'cyclical, parallel, coming full-circle.'
He tuned back in to Rachel's conversation, noticing how effortlessly she dropped in French phrases here and there. Chandler smiled and thought about how it had just seemed like yesterday when a culture-deficient Rachel had been turned on by Phoebe's French skills, and had bid them a final "Au Revoir" from the doorway, in such a thick American accent that it had come out more like "Aw River."
Now look at her.
What a difference three years makes, Chandler mused, realizing how true this was for his own life as well.
December 1997
"Are you sure?" Rachel fussed, pulling down the hem of her little black dress for the millionth time. "I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea."
"Yes," Chandler sighed. "I'm sure. You don't look like a slut, Rach. In fact, you're practically a nun."
"Really?"
"Yes." Although, if he had to be completely honest, Rachel's dress was a little short – but he thought she looked amazing in it. Hot, even. "Well, from the top up, at least." That was the truth, as her dress was long-sleeved and crew-necked, but wrapped like a bandage to her body and ended high above her thighs, endless legs and peep-toe black heels.
"Okay," Rachel grumbled, shooting glares over her shoulder. "Fine. But I just don't like the way some of these guys are looking at me. And I could've sworn I heard one of them refer to me as 'Hot Rachel'."
"Really? Bastards; I've been working with these guys for years and they've never given me a nickname." Chandler paused. "'Small WENUS Bing' doesn't count."
Rachel chuckled and refilled her cocktail glass.
"Cheers. Merry Christmas." They drank.
Through the corner of his eye, Chandler noticed his coworker Patrick leering at Rachel enviously, and he felt an inexplicable surge of possessiveness. Not taking his eyes off Patrick, Chandler took Rachel's hand gently and wrapped a protective arm around her waist.
"Don't worry, Rach. Everyone here knows you're here as my date tonight," he said, giving her a charming, moon-eyed smile.
"Aw thanks, hon." She smiled back. "But can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Can you take your hand off my ass?"
"… Fine."
November 2004
Monica Geller breathed in the brisk New York morning air and turned down the volume of her iPod as she pushed the button for the crosswalk.
It had been almost half a year since Rachel had moved to Paris for her new job, but Monica still missed her best friend all the same. The last time they had spoken had been a long chat over the phone – but Rachel had been busy working on Paris Fashion Week and had to cut the conversation short.
"Talk to you soon, sweetie!" she had chirped before being hauled off to take notes on some more rail-thin models.
Monica sighed, mentally counting the days until Rachel said she'd return home for a visit. Her flight was already booked – that was good.
Mm… what is that? Monica smiled and inhaled happily, enjoying the delicious aroma coming from the store behind her. Her chef's intuition kicked in. Do I smell… sesame? A dash of oregano? Extra virgin olive oil.
Her mouth was watering now.
Well… since I'm here, might as well pick up some breakfast for Chandler. The fat girl inside her always won, she realized cheerfully, as she stepped into the bakery.
A couple of miles away, Nils Jansen shifted his bus into Drive.
(A/N) How was it? I hope you liked it! If you have any questions, comments, etc, about what's going on - feel free to drop me a review. They definitely encourage me! Thank you for reading, and I'll update soon! :)