Sweet Talkin' Woman
chandler bing x reader | slow burn
summary: you accidentally call chandler pretty.
masterlist
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December 2nd, 1993
It’s a Thursday evening, and for once, you’re not behind the counter. Your shift ended 20 minutes ago, your feet are sore, and you’re half-buried between Monica and Joey on the couch, a hot chocolate in one hand, your other fidgeting with your jewelry.
Ross is perched on the arm of the couch beside Joey, elbow on his knee, mid-rant. Chandler’s slouched in one of the armchairs, legs crossed, hands gesturing lazily as he interjects now and then. Phoebe’s sprawled on the floor with her tea, and Carol’s tucked into a side chair with a scone she’s picking at absently.
They’re arguing about monsters again.
“I’m telling you,” Ross says, already halfway out of his seat, “the Xenomorph would wipe the floor with the Creature from the Black Lagoon. It’s faster, it bleeds acid--come on.”
Joey waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Dracula would charm it to death before it even got close.”
“Dracula?” Ross scoffs. “He’s just a Victorian guy with boundary issues and a cape.”
Chandler, deadpan: “Fantastic. Another riveting installment of ‘Who Would Win: Blob Edition.’ Can’t wait until we circle back to Frankenstein vs. The Wolfman.”
You’re not really following the conversation anymore. You’ve heard it before--same arguments, same dramatic gesturing. Your fingers are absently twisting your necklace as your eyes drift across the table.
And land on Chandler.
He’s talking--something sarcastic and ridiculous, judging by the smirk--and you’re watching. You don’t mean to, exactly. Your brain just… taps out, and your gaze stays there. On the way his mouth moves when he talks. The way his hair’s all out of place like he towel-dried it in a hurry and never fixed it. The way he sometimes squints right before he makes a joke, like he knows he’s about to say something clever.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until:
“Okay, what is going on?” Monica says, twisting to look at you.
You blink. “What?”
“You’re staring at Chandler like he just gave a speech about world peace.”
Joey leans forward, grinning wide. “You were! You were totally spaced out--just staring.”
“I was not,” you say immediately, heat rising to your face.
“Oh, you definitely were,” Phoebe chimes in. “You were all floaty and dreamy, like a girl in a music video.”
Chandler sits up slightly, clearly enjoying himself. “So, wait… I talk about bloodthirsty monsters and that’s what does it for you?”
You open your mouth. Then close it again. “I was zoning out.”
Ross lifts a brow. “And your eyes just happened to be stuck on him?”
"He was talking." You defend yourself, ears turning pink.
Joey snorts. “Hey, I talk all the time. You never look at me like that.”
Carol smirks. “Maybe she has a thing for guys who look like they haven’t slept since 1991.”
Phoebe nods. “Yeah, and who make everything sound like a punchline.”
You bury your face in your hands. “This is a nightmare.”
Chandler grins. “Admit it. You were picturing me in a leather jacket, leaning on a motorcycle, probably smoking a cigarette I’d never actually inhale--"
You cut him off, flustered. “Oh my god shut up-- you’re pretty.”
The whole group erupts.
Joey whoops and points. “Aha! She said it!”
“Oh wow,” Monica says, eyes wide. “This is way better than when Phoebe said she was in love with that mime from Nebraska.”
“He had presence,” Phoebe says calmly.
Ross shakes his head like he’s been personally offended. “This is so inappropriate. I’m drinking decaf and now I have heartburn.”
Chandler preens a little, straightening his posture. “I mean… I do moisturize.”
You groan. “I take it back. You’re average at best.”
“Still a win,” he says cheerfully. “Most people don’t even give me that much.”
Carol lifts her coffee. “To Chandler Bing, the most average-looking man in New York.”
Joey raises his cup in return. “Hey, don’t drag the rest of us down.”
“You’re just jealous,” Chandler tells him, gesturing vaguely. “I have mystery. I have cheekbones.”
You’re still blushing, but it’s mostly behind your cup now. And even with all the teasing, you’re smiling. And Chandler--he’s got that spark in his eye, like he’s thinking something he’ll never say out loud.
You look away before you start staring again.
A moment later, you slip from the couch with your mug in hand, using a refill as your excuse. The clink of ceramic on the counter covers the sound of your own thoughts--and the heat still lingering on your face.
You don’t need to look to know he’s followed.
Sure enough, he slides up beside you, leaning one elbow on the counter like he’s posing for a Seventeen magazine spread called Men Who Think They’re Casually Cool.
“So,” he says. “Pretty, huh?”
You glance at him. “You’re not going to let it die, are you?”
“Die? Sweetheart, I’m getting it engraved. On a plaque. Possibly a trophy. ‘Chandler Bing: Unexpectedly Pretty Since 1993.’”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet--” he gestures to himself, “--still pretty.”
“God.” You accept your refill from Gunther, who’s pretending not to listen but is absolutely listening. You lower your voice. “I wasn’t trying to flatter you, it just… slipped.”
He’s close enough now that you can smell whatever shampoo he uses--something crisp and cheap and weirdly comforting. His sleeve brushes your arm when he shifts. And for someone who never shuts up, he’s oddly good at letting silences hang, just long enough to make you feel seen. Or maybe exposed.
You glance at him.
Big mistake.
“Slipped?” he echoes. “So you accidentally said I was pretty? Happens all the time, I’m sure.”
You give him a look. “I was just… appreciating. In a neutral, objective way.”
He raises a brow. “Neutral appreciation? Of me? Bold move.”
You sigh and gesture at him vaguely. “Your hair's doing a thing. And your shirt was fitting a certain way. And--fine--your hands are nice," His brow ticks up slightly. You swear he notices the way your eyes drop to his fingers, resting against the countertop like they’re daring you to look again.
“Which I didn’t mean to notice,” you rush, “but now I have, and here we are.”
His eyes widen. “So what you’re saying is… I’m devastating.”
“No,” you say, immediately. “I’m saying I made a mistake by opening my mouth.”
Chandler grins and follows as you head back toward the couch. “Well, I think you should be more careful with your words. Especially around someone with as much natural charm and flawless bone structure as me.”
“I will push you into traffic.”
“You’d miss me.”
“Maybe,” you mutter. “But I’d be really smug at your funeral.”
You drop back into your spot on the couch between Monica and Joey, who are still half-arguing over which movie monster would win in a fight--Godzilla or the shark from Jaws. Ross is insisting the shark has no chance on land, Phoebe is talking about the shark’s emotional state, and Carol is casually making a case for the blob.
Chandler drops into his chair across from you with a smug little bounce.
Monica eyes him suspiciously. “What’s with that face?”
Chandler glances at you.
You freeze.
Do not, you mouth.
“Oh, nothing,” he says innocently. “Just basking in the glow of being admired by our very own resident Canadian.”
Your stomach drops. “Chandler--"
“She said I have nice hands.”
Everyone looks up.
“Excuse me?” Ross says, blinking.
“Oh yeah,” Chandler says, way too pleased. “Apparently, I’ve got the whole package. Good hair. Good shirts. Good--what was it again?”
You cover your face. “You’re actually the worst person alive.”
“She said I’m pretty,” he tells the group. “Then tried to walk it back like she was describing, I don’t know, a kitchen appliance. ‘It’s just functional prettiness, it doesn’t mean anything!’”
“I hate you,” you mutter.
Joey perks up. “You think his hands are nice? That’s wild--I always thought mine were more symmetrical.”
Chandler side-eyes him. “You once got rejected from a hand modeling gig because you had ‘aggressive knuckles.’”
Joey scoffs "That was one guy! One opinion!”
Monica squints at his fingers. “You do sort of have… boxer thumbs.”
“Okay, wow,” Joey says, wounded. “Is nothing sacred?”
Phoebe grabs Ross’s hand suddenly. “Ross has museum hands.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, alarmed.
“Like something you’d see in a dusty glass case labeled ‘academic.’”
Carol holds up her own hands for comparison. “Mine are reliable. I feel like mine could lift a car if a baby was under it.”
“Mine could definitely open a jar of pickles,” Monica says.
“Mine,” Chandler announces, holding his up theatrically, “have been compared to John Travolta's.”
Everyone looks at him.
“…By who?” you ask.
“My mirror. And one weird girl at work.”
“Why are we comparing hands now?” Ross asks, brow furrowing as he instinctively folds his arms tighter across his chest.
Phoebe leans forward, snatching Chandler’s hand like she’s inspecting a rare artifact. “Yeah, I see it. Very elegant. Kind of like a piano player. Or a sneaky villain in an old cartoon.”
Chandler raises an eyebrow. “You mean like the kind that strokes a white cat and plots world domination?”
“Exactly,” Phoebe nods. “Only instead of a cat, you’ve got sarcasm.”
“Alright, alright,” Monica cuts in, holding up her own hand. “You know what they say about a guy’s hands, right?"
You groan. “Monica, please--"
“No, it’s science!” she insists, turning to the rest of the group. “From the tip of the index finger to the tip of the thumb? That’s supposedly how big their--y’know.”
“Seriously?” Joey’s already forming an L-shape with his hand and squinting at it. “This? This is it?”
Carol snorts into her coffee. “That explains so much.”
Ross blinks down at his own hand, then glances nervously around the room. “I--no. That can’t be real.”
“Oh, it’s definitely not real,” you say quickly. “It’s just one of those stupid myths.”
Carol, trying very hard not to laugh, leans subtly toward Ross and glances at his hand. “…Actually,” she says, sipping her coffee, “it tracks.”
Ross’s head snaps toward her. “Carol!”
“What?” she shrugs innocently. “I have the data.”
The group howls with laughter. Joey doubles over. Phoebe drops her forehead to the table. Monica wheezes, “Oh my God.”
Ross flails, beet red. “Can we please stop talking about my--my data?!”
Chandler, completely deadpan: “Don’t be shy, buddy. You’re clearly working with verifiable evidence.”
You bury your face in your hands, laughing so hard it hurts. “This got out of hand so fast.”
“I see what you did there.” Carol giggles.
And just as the group starts to settle down, you glance toward Chandler again--just a flick of your eyes, barely there--but his hands are resting on the table, fingers loose, like he’s setting a trap.
He sees it.
And he grins.
Not loud. Not smug. Just that quiet little smirk that says caught you.
You look away fast, heat rising to your cheeks.
He doesn’t say a word.
But he taps one elegant, villainous finger against the table, just once.
You pretend not to notice, but you absolutely notice.
The next morning, you’re half-dressed and halfway through a bowl of cereal when you hear the front door swing open like it lives on a goddamn stage.
“Ah, my number one fan. How did you sleep after all that ogling?” Chandler asks as he strolls into the apartment in his usual business casual, tie already slightly crooked like it offended him on the way over.
Joey’s right behind him in sweatpants and a Knicks hoodie, holding a bagel in his mouth and waving.
Monica, already dressed and packing her lunch, smirks without looking up. “Oh good, you’re here. We were just talking about how pretty your face is. And your hands. And your clothes.”
“Don’t forget my hair,” Chandler adds, dramatically coifing it.
You groan, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into your mouth like it’s going to protect you. “It was one dumb comment.”
“Dumb?” Monica gasps. “Sweetie, you practically wrote him a love letter with your eyes last night.”
Joey flops onto a kitchen stool. “It was kind of romantic. Like a Hallmark card, but hornier.”
You choke on your cereal.
Chandler leans against the fridge. “Honestly, I should start charging for appearances. Just let people look at me while they fidget with jewelry and emotionally unravel.”
You slam your spoon down with exaggerated flair. “Okay, okay. Fine. So I think Chandler isn't the worst thing to look at. Big deal. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything nearly as embarrassing as Joey hitting on that waitress at Moondog’s by listing off every movie he’s been an extra in.”
Joey nearly drops his bagel. “Hey, she said she liked cinema!”
You pivot toward Monica. “Or you, trying to flirt with the UPS guy by offering him cold soup because ‘it’s refreshing.’”
Monica squints. “It was gazpacho!”
You turn to Chandler last, eyebrow raised. “And need I remind you of how you tried to impress that girl from the copy place by quoting entire scenes from Die Hard?”
He blinks. “…It’s a classic.”
“Yeah,” you say, snatching your bag and slinging it over your shoulder, “and you did all the voices.”
You walk toward the door, tossing your half-eaten cereal in the sink. The room is silent behind you.
As you reach the hallway, you glance back with a sweet smile. “So if we’re ranking humiliating crush behavior, I think I’m still in third place. Maybe fourth.”
You exit, letting the door swing shut behind you.
In the stunned silence that follows, Joey finally mutters, “She’s got receipts.”
Chandler exhales, impressed. “She weaponized our most shameful moments. She’s learning.”
Monica sips her coffee, grinning. “I’m so proud.”
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Sweet Talkin' Woman by: Electric Light Orchestra
