Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her home—okay, okay, her family's home—continues to be, as her father was so proudly quoted in the latest edition of New York Sailing Monthly, "a timeless yet modern testament to classic Long Island architecture."

The marble's all cool—nearly cold—and the entire structure is just restrained enough to show off the glitz without being gauche.

Rachel likes how her friends marvel at the place, can casually rattle off facts about its construction and the landscape paintings hanging in the main sitting room. But when they're not around, when she's got no one to impress and no boy-toy to sneak into her room, its grand emptiness drags her down like rocks in her shoes or stones in her pockets.

Her daddy constructed the home out of his ego, for intimidation, Rachel knows, but he didn't seem to understand how that might've prevented his daughters (or his wife) from feeling comfortable.

"Whatever," Rachel dismisses her intrusive thoughts with a flick of a turn of the latest JCPenney magazine—she, Renee, and Sara will have to check out the truly hideous blouses and dresses on display at next weekend's blowout sale. "I've got my giant walk-in closet, a queen bed, and a fully stocked kitchen. What else needs to go into a home?"

**

Barry's house is basically more of the same on the Island, old money combined with new—"kids always need braces, so I could afford to splurge for us, Rachel," he brags.

It's gorgeous: four bedrooms, two bathrooms, in Bethpage—the Syosset Central School District is among the best public schools in the nation, not just New York—near a state park, built in the late 70s, on a cul-de-sac, natural gas heating throughout.

It's nearly too large, a touch impersonal, but bound to be filled with two or three kids—three's the max, they'd agreed—and a swing set in the backyard, and maybe a dog, and that's what she wants.

Right?

Right.

She works to carve out a space of her own, to make an imprint on their home. Her name's not on the lease, and even the places that should feel like hers, according to Barry and her friends and her parents—the bedroom, the walk-in closet, the kitchen—don't call to her at all.

"Then again, I didn't have a say in much of anything. Not like I did with my bedroom at home."

She's not sure when this home will feel like, well, home, but she's reviewed enough copies of Better Homes and Gardens to have some ideas about simple improvements: adding curtains over the kitchen sink, for instance, or matching the welcome rugs at the side and front entrances for uniformity.

After making a list of plans, Rachel works up the nerve to suggest, "I could help decorate. I've got an eye for design, I think."

"We'll hire someone to take care of that," Barry dismisses her. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

"But—"

"It's fine, Rach," he insists, frowning slightly at her attempt to contribute. "Don't give it a second thought."

Her response—"But I want to do it"—dies in her throat, and she wonders, not for the first time, what exactly she'll have to offer to anyone when her youth and beauty desert her as she swallows her desire down.

Even though certain parts of the trophy wife lifestyle—the black AmEx card, the Weitzman knee-high leather boots, the prime New York strip steaks, the suburban dream house—appeal to her, she wants to be more than her husband's arm candy.

Maybe.

Possibly.

She'll leave that thought for another day.

**

All her credit cards—alright, alright, her parents' credit cards, she never paid them off—have met their untimely demise: death by kitchen scissors.

"Welcome to the real world!" Monica tells her, offering tough love and tenderness in one go as she pulls her close and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "It sucks. You're gonna love it."

"Thanks again for letting me stay here while I kinda get used to it."

Within a week, she's grown accustomed to the fact that Monica's apartment isn't just home for her or even the two of them—it's home for everyone, a space to come together for breakfast and dinner and everything in between (Chandler and Joey tend to pop over for snacks and treats the most often, given their proximity). A place to celebrate or commiserate—she hears plenty about how Ross is on the other end of marriage failure, how his wife left him for another woman—or play board games or watch TV. Anything, really, so long as some or all of them are together.

The apartment may be smaller, there may be an oddball elderly neighbor on the floor below them who insists that the right time to host a party is half-past never on a Friday night, and her closet might be about one-fourth as big as the one in Barry's Long Island house, but it's warm, dammit, and she finally feels like she might actually belong somewhere.

Now to figure out a way to un-belong to a life of low pay and terrible tips and Gunther hitting on her during her shifts at Central Perk.

It takes longer than she thinks, much longer, and she might strangle Chandler for talking her into quitting before she has to—ugh—beg Gunther for her old job back.

Joey dashes into the cafe, interrupting her threats.

"Hey, I got great news!"

"Save yourself, man!" Chandler calls over his shoulder while he uses the distraction to bolt for the door. "Rachel's on a rampage—run for your life!"

He turns toward his now-departed roommate in total confusion. "Huh?"

"Nothing," Rachel waves away his theatrics, "I'm just not super thrilled with Chandler right now since he convinced me to quit my waitress job with no backup plan."

"Speaking of—ever heard of Fortunata Fashions?"

"No."

"It's in Harlem. My old man is doing a plumbing job down there and he heard they have an opening," he explains. "So, you want me to see if I can get you an interview?"

"Oh, my God, yes!" she gasps, pulling him in for a tight hug. "I'd love that, that is so sweet of you to offer, Joey."

"No problem. I get it, yanno," he answers warmly. "Searching for your first big break."

"Thanks."

She releases the word with newfound fondness for him, with tension melting off her shoulders for a second before she realizes: "I've gotta practice for the interview!"

The whole gang pitches in over the next couple of days, asking sample questions, reminding her to keep eye contact and give a firm handshake.

In the end, being a twenty-five year old woman with a nice rack probably seals it for her, but hey, she's gotta get her foot in the door somehow, right?

The phone call that comes through the next week isn't a shock, but she's still pleasantly surprised to be chosen, to hear the words, "You got the job," and she repeats them back to her friends, nearly squealing, "I got the job!"

Coffee-fetching is still one of her duties at Fortunata, unfortunately, but she takes on more duties quickly, starts proving herself, and she feels more stable, like she's officially arrived, when she can pay her portion of rent in full without worrying about having to flirt with cafe customers to make ends meet. And through it all, through all her successes—like convincing Fortunata that pleated shorts weren't going to make a comeback, or dating Ross—and struggles—like accidentally ordering a giant shipment of ties in black instead of slate, or dating Ross—she can come home to Monica. She, and her apartment, are her unofficial north star, always able to help her stay balanced, even on her worst days.

So it's not too stunning that the announcement about Chandler tips her world off its axis for a second.

Or more.

And, okay, the digs about the cleaning and stumbling across the hall to find a guy are uncalled for, but...

"You're the only reason I'm even here right now," she sobs as Monica hugs her. "This is the first place I ever really felt like I was home."

"You've been so great," Monica sniffles, wiping away her own tears. "Living with you was always so easy. But now you have to leave, and I have to live with a boy!"

"You'll be fine, sweetie."

"And now we'll have fun living together!" Phoebe adds. "You're always welcome to come over if you ever need a break from Chandler, Monica."

"Thanks, Pheebs. I'm sure he wouldn't mind that once in a while," she jokes. "So he can have his time with Joey and the chick and the duck."

"Oh," Rachel digs in her pocket. "Before I forget." She fishes out her keys, removes the apartment key from the chain. "I'm pretty sure Chandler already has one—most of us do—but in case he needs it."

Monica swallows hard and nods. "Thanks."

"I'm gonna check my room one last time, make sure I'm not forgetting anything."

It's a total lie, but Monica's nice enough to give her space and let her have her bittersweet moment, to remember so many nights and early mornings spent by herself, with boyfriends, with all her friends.

"It's the end of one era," she notes as she and Monica toast their last night together, "but the start of a new one."

**

"Don't worry, naked Wednesdays and Thursdays aren't actually a thing," Joey tells her.

"I didn't think they were, but thanks for the confirmation, Joe."

Somehow, it's not too weird, considering that, over the past two weeks, Rachel's moved between three different apartments.

"I'm not touching a hair straightener for at least a month."

Not that she really wants to put any of her toiletries or appliances in the bathroom, anyway, since there's no telling when Joey last cleaned it.

"Thank God it's Friday," Rachel groans when she gets...well, not home, but back to Joey's apartment. She's not sure if it'll ever really shift to home for her, and anyway, she won't be here long.

"Why, what happened?"

"There was a rush order that had to go out, and my boss is super particular about making sure we're all set for this upcoming product launch next week—there's a pop-up fragrance store that's bringing in some perfumes, and he wants me to help run it," she explains, "and it was just a lot." She frowns at the sudden realization that the second lounge chair is unoccupied even though her watch says it's nearly seven.

"Wasn't Chandler coming over to watch the game?"

"He had to cancel," Joey mumbles, his face clouding over. "Said Monica needed some TLC, so they're making dinner together and…"

"Ah," Rachel nods, trying for tact—there's no easy, breezy way to acknowledge exactly why Monica comes first sometimes.

"I mean, I get it, she's his wife," Joey goes on, "and I love her, too, but it'd be nice to just have it be him and me once in a while. Like old times."

"I know what you mean," she confides back to him. "Don't get me wrong, living with you's been awesome, too, but there's a certain rhythm you find when you're roommates with someone for a while and you get along well. Sometimes I miss having that with Monica."

"Yeah," Joey nods once more, his head hanging slightly before he flashes a quick smile at her. "So, uh, you got any plans tonight?"

"Yep, I'm gonna—"

She's about to say, "see if Phoebe wants to go out for a drink," but the sight of a downtrodden Joey gets her to reconsider.

"Even though he's had Pheebs and me living with him, that can't be the same as how it was before," she reflects. "Plus it's probably a good idea to save my money so I can eventually find my own place, and I'm not super excited by the prospect of getting dressed up tonight and going right back out."

She redirects, steers her sentence toward him.

"I'm gonna watch the Knicks with you! If that's okay?"

He genuinely lights up at that—it's not for show or for her benefit this time—and she beams, too, at his excited response of, "Sure, it's okay! I just realized we've never watched a game together, like, only the two of us—it's a key part of the living with Joey experience, so we gotta do it once. At least see how it goes."

"I'm not a huge basketball fan," Rachel allows, "but I like it just fine. Does watching sports with you involve getting the Joey special, by any chance?"

He points at her and grins. "You know it! I'll call up Bleecker Street to put the order in now. Want a beer?"

"For sure, once the game's on. Is it starting soon?"

"7:30."

"Alright, great."

She goes into her room, swaps her cream-colored blouse and navy slacks for an old t-shirt, her gray Knicks sweatshirt, and black sweatpants, and releases a contented sigh—in addition to her wallet, her feet will undoubtedly thank her for avoiding a night out, too.

"No wearing high heels and having to worry about some sleazeball trying to chat me up," she thinks. "It'd be nice to have a ladies-only bar for nights when you want to go out with friends but aren't looking for anyone."

Sadly, that's only a fantasy, but she'll take the current reality: kicking back in a lounge chair next to Joey, listening to him describe the part he'll play in his next potential audition.

"It'll be great, if I can get it," he tells her. "I'd be playing a customer at Morton Williams, in line at the deli. It's almost not acting, really," he chuckles.

"That sounds right up your alley," Rachel agrees.

"Would you mind if I looked over the script before the game starts?"

"Not at all. I can read lines for you if you want," she offers.

"I'm good for now—wanna get the scene figured out in my head before I do that. Thanks, though."

It's rare, this experience, of sharing a quiet space with Joey, getting to observe the work he puts into his craft—the way he reads and re-reads the page, shuts his eyes to visualize, scribbles notes on some lines and highlights others. Rachel sneaks a peek at the script when she goes behind him, into the kitchen, to get a glass of water, and it's only a couple pages, but he's prioritizing it like he's got a marquee role.

"It's pretty impressive, even if he's only auditioning for a small gig. I didn't work that hard at waitressing. Or at Fortunata's, even."

He takes the script back into his room just before 7:30 and, upon returning to the living room, declares, "Game time!"

He grabs a couple Heinekens from the fridge, cracks them open, and Rachel reflexively asks, "Where are your coasters?"

"Coasters?" he repeats with a laugh. "You're not at Monica's anymore, Rach. Just put your beer down on the little fold out table. It'll be fine."

She does, and she laughs a little, too, at the freedom that she could never afford before.

Now, could Joey's place stand to be a little neater? Would Rachel prefer not having to sniff the milk and the orange juice in the fridge to check they're not expired, instead of just knowing that things gone bad will automatically be thrown out? Yeah, sure, and Joey's actually admitted that, too.

But there's something attractive about not caring, in the sort of happy, untroubled nihilism he's cultivated over the years. About not worrying that she'll be interrogated on the state of her socks—"they could have dust bunnies!"—should she dare have her feet up on the couch. About being able to put mugs away in whatever order strikes her fancy, instead of adhering to Monica's strict "a place for everything and everything in its place" mantra. Because in-apartment coffee mugs and travel mugs simply cannot coexist on the same shelf.

So Rachel's concern about potential beer bottle rings staining a cheap table go out the window, especially once the pizza arrives and Joey mentions, "We don't need plates—that's the whole point of the box!"

"Have I mentioned that I love living with you?" Rachel asks through a mouthful of her second slice, gesturing at the TV with it as she shouts, "Call a foul, ref!" when Allan Thomas yet again gets hacked on a drive to the lane.

"No, but I'm loving it, too!" Joey answers. "I'm getting to see this," he points toward her with his own piece of pizza, seemingly impressed, "this whole new, kinda loosey-goosey side to you."

"Monica doesn't really do loosey-goosey. It's a nice change, even if your place could use a little cleaning up."

"I'll give it a shot. And it's our place now."

"Really?" she asks, trying not to sound too touched by the gesture. "But I've only been here about a week."

"You're drinkin' a beer, eating pizza, and yelling at the refs during a Knicks game, Rach," Joey laughs. "You definitely qualify as a fully-fledged Joey Tribbiani roommate, even if you don't stay for too long. Cheers."

He extends his beer glass out toward her, and she meets it with her own. And if that little clink rings out with a calming sweetness and makes her grin, well, it's probably just because she's getting to relax with one of her best friends after surviving a whirlwind of a month.

"It's a really nice sentiment," she thinks later while she's drifting off to sleep—later than she'd expected, but the Knicks mounted a furious twelve point comeback in the final three minutes and she'd been swept up in the excitement, screaming and jumping up and down with Joey when the Raptors missed a potential game-winning three at the buzzer, and the commotion even got Chandler to come over for a bit.

"Even if, like Joe said, I'm only gonna be here for a little bit longer."

Chapter Text

A little bit longer turns into a lotta bit longer, for plenty of reasons: rent's cheap, moving's a bitch—Rachel can still remember Ross yelling, "Pivot!" about eighty times on the stupid staircase with his oversized sofa—and she doesn't wanna deal with a potential weirdo for a new roommate.

And, really, truly, more than anything, she loves living with Joey.

It's easy. Effortless. They can enjoy each other's company or pursue their own interests, with just enough space that it's not too difficult for Joey to review scripts or Rachel to contemplate new orders in the living room when work gets busy for either of them. They'll never really host dinner parties—Monica's got those on lock, even with Chandler moving in—but they spruce up the apartment a bit. Not like Mon would, no, but with their own methods. They turn cleaning into a game to make it manageable, treating dust pans as makeshift hockey goals and brooms as sticks.

"Green has the puck down low. She dishes to Tribbiani out in front," he narrates while they sweep. "He shoots," he pushes one of the final, big dust bunnies into the pan, "he scores, and the Rangers win it in overtime!"

Monica nearly bumps him with the door when she pops in to ask, "Are you two just about ready to go? Best In Show starts in," she checks her watch, "forty minutes, and I wanna leave in five."

"Yep," Rachel reassures her. "We're just finishing up some cleaning."

"Oh, okay...wait, what?!"

"We're cleaning," Joey repeats. "C'mon, Monica, we're not animals."

"But—but—neither of you is even dating anyone to impress with a neat apartment!" she sputters.

Rachel shrugs. "Doesn't matter. We've got our own system. Sort of."

"It's perfectly irregular," Joey notes, with a hint of pride in his voice.

Monica shakes her head in disbelief or discomfort at that, drawing a laugh from the pair of them as they lock up.

"Just like us," Rachel hums happily on their way out as Chandler joins them, remarking, "I'm glad you two are joining us for this—we went to Marco's, that new Italian place downtown, with one of my work buddies and his wife for a double date last weekend."

"How was it?"

Joey leans in toward Chandler a bit after he poses the question, his eyes gaining that keen focus that nearly always emerges when someone mentions a restaurant he hasn't tried yet.

"The food? Great!" he answers. "The date…"

"Not so much," Monica informs them dryly. "Turns out Doug is super into homebrewing—"

"We learned more about yeast reactions than I ever needed to know," Chandler cuts in.

"And his wife, Tammy, tried to sell me a bunch of Mary Kay makeup," Monica grimaces. "All in all, it wasn't really a fun time for any of us. By the way," she asks Chandler, "how did you not know about Doug's obsession with beer?"

"We mostly talk about WENUSes and accounting at work."

"For some reason, double dates have never really worked for us," Monica muses while they're waiting for the West 4th subway. She nudges Joey lightly. "Like when you were with Janine."

"That turned messy fast. I'm glad to be a free man right now."

"So you're not seeing anyone?"

"Not officially, but, um…" he shifts, shoots a "how you doin'?" adjacent grin, one that's a tad apologetic, at everyone.

Rachel informs Monica, with a hint of tightness to her tone, "We say he's having houseguests over."

"There haven't been a ton lately! Only a few over the last couple months, including the one who came over on Tuesday," he defends himself.

It's an expected part of living with Joey, and it's not too much of a big deal—she and Monica heard each other at least a few times over the years, and hell, she'd been banging Ross with alarming regularity—but the situation bothers her more than she'd figured it would.

"Maybe it's just because you haven't gotten any in a while."

The whole thing with Paul and opening the floodgates to an unstoppable outpouring of emotions and sadness left her wanting to avoid any serious relationships for a while, and she's not enjoyed any chance encounters with fling-worthy men at work or on girls' nights out, either.

(Okay, and she has a teensy, tiny little crush on Tag, her new assistant, but she's not letting that go anywhere. Yet.)

"So it's just me, myself, and I. Plus Joey in the next room over."

No wonder she's struggled to get off to take the edge off.

"Then again, he's not shy about having a good time with his partners. So maybe I don't have to try to stay super quiet, either."

"What about you, Rachel? Gone on any dates lately?"

"No," she answers Chandler, "but I'm mostly fine being single right now. Like Phoebe once said: boyfriends and girlfriends come and go, but this," she extends her arms toward all of them, "is forever."

**

"Thanks again for going out with us!" Monica tells her and Joey, pulling each of them into a hug in turn—she always gets extra affectionate when she's tipsy, and the waiter they'd had at Mythos had recommended a delicious red wine to go with her chicken souvlaki. "This was way better than our last double date. Not that this was a double date, exactly, but," she waves away the imprecisions, "you know what I mean. Four people going out, two guys and two girls."

"Seriously, we had a great time," Chandler adds.

"What, like it was a surprise?" Joey deadpans, getting a laugh from everyone.

"Not that I doubted we would with you two," Chandler clarifies, "but still. Compared to some of the couples we've grabbed dinner with before…"

"It was a ton of fun," Rachel pipes up, registering a tremor, a little twinge of guilt in her stomach, at the fact that she'd enjoyed herself more than she'd even anticipated, but sometimes Monica can be a bit severe, and Chandler's jokes come across as more awkward than funny, and Joey…

"Well, he's Joey. A doofus with a heart of gold. The kinda guy who has an in-depth rating chart for pizzerias and bakeries all around Greenwich Village and Manhattan, but can't always keep track of his audition schedule."

"We should definitely do this again sometime," Joey agrees just before they all split off between the two apartments, calling "goodnight!" and "see ya tomorrow!" from across the hall.

Rachel's in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed, when she swears she hears a light knock on the front door over the running water.

A woman's hushed voice reaches her ears, she catches the squeak of Joey's bedroom door closing, and the puzzle pieces fall into place.

She learns a few things in short order, such as:

-The woman's name is Erin.

-She can speak some French.

-She's a former cheerleader, with the flexibility to prove it.

The night-time education bleeds into morning, with Joey rushing to get dressed and telling her, "I gotta go, I'm late for work—would you mind letting Erin know I'm not really lookin' for anything serious? And if you could whip her up some breakfast, I'd appreciate that, too."

"Tell her—breakfast—" Rachel sputters before finding the words to address a whole mess she's too tired to handle at 9 A.M. on a Saturday. "Are you kidding?! You're just leaving me with this random woman and you want me to cook for her?"

"Please?" Joey wheedles. "C'mon, Chandler used to do it when I brought girls home—he'd even make 'em pancakes sometimes!"

"Well, forget it," Rachel declares, though she hardly sounds all that imposing through a yawn. "I'm not telling this girl anything. It's not my responsibility."

"Fine!" His irritation softens a smidge. "Now, where'd we land on those pancakes?"

"We'll see," she decides as he rushes out the door before Erin emerges from the bathroom.

"Hi!"

Well, she sounds nice enough.

"Hi."

"You must be Rachel. I'm Erin."

"So I heard." Oops, not her smoothest moment ever.

"Yeah," she admits, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Um, I don't mean to get all high school, but did Joey say anything about me?"

"...do you want some pancakes, Erin?"

Naturally, breakfast is a bit of an awkward affair, but after that, Rachel finds herself marveling, "How'd Joey land himself a woman like this?"

She's attractive, kind, funny, into sports, and she puts away most of an eight-inch sub over lunch—all in all, she just might be the ideal woman for Joey Tribbiani, and Rachel tells him so, with Phoebe backing him up, after Erin finally leaves.

He rounds on both of them. "So, the 'tell a one-night stand that Joey's not lookin' for a serious thing' system kinda broke down, huh?"

"But, Joey, Erin's so cool! And totally your type!" Phoebe answers earnestly.

"She's sweet, she likes baseball, and she had two beers with lunch!" Rachel points out. "What more could you want from a girl?"

"She had two of my beers?!"

"Focus on the bigger picture!"

"Okay, fine," he relents a little. "Maybe I'll go out with her again. I'll at least think about it, how's that?"

Rachel makes herself scarce when he goes to call Erin later, slipping into her room and closing the door to give him some privacy. Or, more accurately, the appearance of it, since she's listening intently as he dials, with her ear pressed to the door.

"Hey, Erin, it's Joey. How you doin'?"

She barely stifles a giggle at the line as he keeps talking.

"Yeah, last night was fun...I'm glad you liked Rachel and Phoebe so much, they're great...say, would you wanna get together next week? Sure, I could go for a walk around the village. Maybe grab a bite to eat while we're out, too? Awesome. Okay, see ya next Wednesday. Buh-bye."

Joey hangs up the phone with a beep and calls toward Rachel's room, "You hear that? I'm going out with Erin again."

She cracks up at his prescience—he's smarter than most people give him credit for—and thinks, again, as she's done quite often lately, "I'm so glad to live with someone who knows me this well."

**

The biggest surprise isn't that Erin breaks things off with Joey because she doesn't want to have a committed boyfriend. It's not even that she claims there was no spark (which seems incorrect, based on what Rachel heard that one night, but it's not her place to judge, and God knows she's faked plenty of enthusiasm during sex herself).

Instead, it's how hard Joey takes the news, how quickly his mood turns dour after his plans crash around him, how he seems genuinely hurt, that takes Rachel aback.

"So Erin told you she's a loner," he repeats dully after she breaks the news.

"Joey…"

She's not sure what to say—there's nothing she really can say—and he does his best to go along with it.

"No, hey, Rach, it's cool, okay? Y'know I'm a loner, too." He pauses at his door, doesn't turn back to her. "Right?"

She wants to say, "Right," back, except it's a bold-faced, eighteen-point font, all-caps lie, at least in this moment.

Luckily, Phoebe intervenes to skirt over his unanswered question.

"You know what? You're way too good for her, Joey."

"Yeah," Rachel agrees, since that's a much easier task, "and, honey, I promise that next time I'll just say goodbye and tell 'em you're not looking for a relationship."

"No, don't do that!"

His response emerges so quickly, with such strong investment, that Rachel's willing to call it.

"I think Joey's playboy days are behind him."

"Just, next time," he goes on, backpedaling to qualify his statement, "if you end up talking with a girl I'm with, make sure she really likes me."

"Yeah, of course."

He retreats into his room, and, after a moment's deliberation, Rachel follows him almost all the way in, stopping just outside the threshold.

"Joey?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want some pancakes?"

He re-emerges with a smile that's at least a watt or two closer to normal, and she'll take it for now.

"Sure. Thanks, Rachel."

"And how about some ice cream on top?" she finds herself offering.

"Ice cream?"

"A pancake is still a cake."

Joey beams even brighter at that and it lights her up, too.

**

Rachel knows how she ended up here in a literal sense, at the cafe, after work on a Thursday night: she walked down with Joey.

She's still not quite sure how she ended up here, speaking abstractly, in her life's mix of messiness and absurdity, three and a half months pregnant with Ross' future child.

"It was alcohol. Alcohol and questionable decision-making. Luckily, more of the latter than the former, but," she laughs to herself, at herself, in her head, "how it happened doesn't change the fact that it did happen."

And pregnancy hasn't been too unkind to her so far, aside from the morning sickness, and having to give up coffee and the occasional glass of wine, and the lingering concerns over whether or not she'll make a good mother…

Joey punctures the swell of anxiety threatening to consume her with a quick question.

"Say, Rach, I was wondering—I got a big date coming up this weekend. You have any recommendations for fancier restaurants?"

"Umm...ooh, check out Paul's Cafe in midtown. They've got great food and it's pretty romantic, but not too cheesy."

"Sounds great! Thanks!"

"Sure! And then afterwards," she remembers another one of her favorite spots, "you can take her to the Four Seasons for drinks. Or go downtown and catch a jazz show, or go dancing—oh, take her dancing!"

Wistfulness curls into the end of her suggestions—the only dates she has these days are with the toilet in the morning—but Joey misses it and answers, with a shake of his head and a little laugh, "You sure are naming a lotta ways to postpone sex, I'll tell ya."

"Oh, I miss dating," Rachel confesses to him. "Gettin' all dressed up, going to a fancy restaurant—I won't be able to do that for so long. I mean, not that sitting at home and worrying about giving birth to a sixteen pound baby isn't fun, but…"

She can't quite read Joey's look, and she's not sure what's on his mind when he says, "Well, hey, y'know what?"

"What?"

"Why don't I take you out for a date?"

"What?! Joey, that's sweet, but you don't wanna go on a date with a pregnant lady."

"Sure I do!" he insists. "We're gonna go out, have a good time, have some fun, and take your mind off childbirth and C-sections and—"

"Alright, alright, I get the picture! And...okay, yeah. Why not? I'll go with ya."

"It'll be fun," he repeats, and Rachel nods, trying to make herself believe it, since it's been too long since she enjoyed a carefree evening.

"It'll be fun."

It's easier to feel that way when she's getting ready the next night, although putting on maternity underwear isn't quite as enjoyable as being able to wear a push-up bra and lace panties.

Even when she's pregnant, though, someone finds a way to interrupt her date night prep, as there's a knock at the door.

"Joey, could you get that?"

Another knock.

"Joe, c'mon, get the door, please."

And one more for good measure.

"Seriously?" she huffs at his closed door. "It takes you like five minutes to get ready, if that. You're telling me you can't be bothered to—"

He's on the other side of the front door.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel almost gasps. "I thought you were in your room."

"Nope. I'm picking you up for our date," he beams at her, presenting a small bouquet. "These are for you."

"Ohhh—lilies." She takes them, breathes them in deeply. "They're my favorite, Joey. Thank you."

"And a brownie. Or half a brownie. Actually, it's just a bag. It was a long walk back from the flower shop and I started feelin' faint…"

"Buy me dessert to make up for it later?"

"Definitely."

"This is so great!" Rachel enthuses. "I actually feel like I'm going on a real date. Although I have a hint of morning sickness and I'm wearing underwear that goes up to about," she feels her way up from her stomach to a bit below her chest, "here."

"Hey, this is a real date," Joey reminds her while he walks in. "So, uh, nice place ya got here. Foosball, huh? You must've ordered pizza recently," he gestures toward the empty box. "And you have a subscription to Playboy? You're shapin' up to be my kind of woman."

"Actually, that's my roommate's," she informs him, unable to keep herself from smiling at how committed Joey is to acting out a role for her.

"I'd like to meet him. He sounds like a stand-up guy."

"He is. But he's also very protective of me, so you better watch yourself." She walks toward the door. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Joey answers with a grand bow.

**

Joey scans the restaurant as they walk in, contemplating the décor and ambiance, and tells Rachel, "Great pick. Upscale, but not, like, snooty-fancy."

"Thanks. And, more importantly, the food's great."

A server comes over promptly, brings them water and a basket of fresh bread and asks for their orders.

Rachel scans the entrees for a second.

"What are the side options for the filet mignon?"

"Either steamed vegetables or a baked potato."

She frowns. "Would I be able to substitute the, uh, three pound lobster for my side dish?"

The waitress opens her mouth to object, but Joey interrupts, "Bring her both, and I'll have the same."

It takes her a second to jot down the order, but she goes along with it and heads off to another table.

"Thanks, Joey. Good start to a date, having a guy splurge for me like that—oh, by the way," she suddenly remembers, "I'll get you my rent check by tomorrow, I know it's due soon—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—no roommate stuff tonight," he cuts her off. "Okay? We're on a date."

"Okay," she agrees. "Wow! So I get to see what Joey Tribbiani's like when he's out with a lady. Are there any moves you use to reel 'em in?"

"No! No way. I'll just be myself and if they don't like me for me…"

He laughs, puts up his hands in mock surrender, and apologizes, "I'm sorry, I couldn't even get through that."

"I knew it!" Rachel claps excitedly; it's fun to have someone else in the group with some carefully cultivated dating tricks, and she does genuinely want to know what Joey's might be.

"Come on, tell me some of your moves."

"Well, okay, I usually start by having a bottle of wine sent to my table from a fan."

"And that works?"

He must hear her skepticism, because he puts on a smug grin and says, "It does when you combine it with, 'This is so embarrassing, I just wanna have a normal life!'"

"Oh, you poor little famous man," Rachel lightly teases him, and he takes her bait, rises to her challenge.

"Okay, uh, what about this one…"

He cocks his head at an angle, offers a warm smile and a shy yet familiar gaze, and tells her, in a voice only a few notches above a whisper, "I was gonna wait 'til the end of the night to kiss you, but you're so beautiful…I don't think I can."

It's just Joey. On a fake date with her. No big deal.

But she hasn't been wooed or charmed in ages—Ross, bless him, was never the smoothest guy in the world—and she's only human.

That must be why a flush sweeps over her cheeks, why the pulse points in her wrist and neck pump more insistently, in perfect rhythm, why she finds herself actually tipping forward a tad—

"Oh my God!" she gasps, snapping out of it before laughing a touch too loudly. "That was fantastic—I almost leaned in!"

"It's a good line," Joey acknowledges, chuckling a little at her strong response. "So, what's one of your moves?"

"Alright, um," she mentally runs through her dating dewey decimal system and hits on one she thinks will work for him. "To start with, where'd you grow up?"

He quirks an eyebrow up at her. "That's it? That's your opening move? Jeez, Rach, you're lucky you're hot."

She swats at his arm. "Come on, just answer the question."

"Alright, alright," he goes on, clearly sure he's humoring her. "Queens."

"And were you close with your parents?"

"With my mom, yeah. Grew up baking together—or she'd bake and I'd eat," he allows, drawing a laugh from her. "My dad, uh, not really."

"Why not?"

"I dunno," he sighs. "We could bond over sports, but we didn't talk much about important stuff, like, what are you gonna do when you grow up. There's always been this distance, y'know—I mean, we both try to pretend it's not there, but it is."

"Oh," her voice catches a little, and she starts tracing her thumb over his wrist. "That's gotta be rough on you."

"Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—"

His eyes drop to her hand as he registers her touch, and he almost comes to, emerging from a daze of sorts.

"Wow!" he exclaims, gesturing at where she's still absentmindedly rubbing circles against his wrist. "Nice move!"

"Hmm?"

"Where'd you grow up—it's so simple!"

"I toldja it worked!" she crows triumphantly. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the restroom."

"Sure." Joey scoots his chair in so she can get around him.

"And now you're watching me as I walk away," Rachel calls when she's a few strides past him, grinning at how she doesn't even have to look back over her shoulder to know it's true.

"You're right, I am! Again, so simple!"

His tone of amazement and surprise carries to her even over the light jazz music, other patrons' conversations, and the occasional scrape of a fork or a knife, and it helps her smile settle into place.

"You've still got it, Rachel Green," she tells herself. Even if Joey's only playing along to help put her mind at ease, to help her feel wanted and desirable, it's nice to receive a positive response to her charms.

They keep swapping moves, along with their favorite date spots—"why haven't you ever gone ice skating for a date?" she asks, and he answers with, "why haven't you ever gone to a Mets game for one?"—and a couple of horror stories, and Rachel has to keep reminding herself, "This isn't real. This is just a favor."

Especially when some of their moves turn more intimate, like when Joey says, "Everyone who ends up in New York City's got a story of how they made it here. I wanna hear yours."

She knows it's only a game, knows he'll be laying the sincerity and tenderness on just as thick for the woman he sees tomorrow, but…

"Why does it feel so real?"

"You—you know my story already," she tries to play it off.

"Hey, if I went along with your 'where are you from' question, you gotta answer mine, too."

"Okay. Well, I left my then-fiance at the altar and crawled out a bathroom window, several years and pounds ago," she glances down at her belly, "and came to the only person I knew in the city, my old friend Monica, from high school, and she was kind enough to take me in."

He stares at her for a second, then answers softly, "I kinda forgot, since it was a while ago, but you were really brave to do that, Rach."

"And foolish," she adds with a dry laugh, willing Joey's compliment to stay skin-deep at the most. "Banking on a stranger's generosity."

"Still," Joey goes on, "you could've gone the easy route, and you didn't. You went for what you wanted. You're scrappy, and I—I've always liked that about you."

"Thanks. You, too. I think you get what it's like," she answers, "fighting for any opportunity you can find and having to hold onto it by the skin of your teeth. Moreso than the others."

"Definitely."

He looks like he's debating saying something else when their waitress comes back with a dessert menu, and whatever was going to come next gets lost to a happy decision to order slices of both the classic New York cheesecake and the black forest cake.

"That was great, but I gotta say," Joey comments after his eyes turn into saucers for a second when he looks at the check, "I probably won't be ordering the lobster as a side tomorrow."

"Here, I'll help cover some of it." Rachel retrieves her wallet from her purse, but Joey waves away her offer.

"The whole point of takin' you on a date was to give you a nice meal and a good time, you don't have to pay."

"Lemme get the tip, at least. Just the tip," she adds after a beat, throwing in a saucy wink that gets Joey to chuckle. And she's feeling, again, the same lightness that rested comfortably in her chest when he'd cheered up at her 'ice cream on pancakes' suggestion.

"Thanks. 'Preciate it."

Their banter continues as they're leaving the restaurant, as they're catching a cab home, and even when they're back in the apartment, even if Joey's current question is a touch inappropriate.

"I'm not gonna answer that!" she tells him again.

"Aw, c'mon!" Joey carps, but it's good-natured, all in good fun; if she really didn't wanna play along, he'd lay off. "Just pick one! Between Monica, Phoebe, Chandler, and Ross, if you had to, who would you punch?"

"None of them! They're all my friends!"

"...Chandler?" he guesses.

"Yeah, but I don't know why. Or maybe I do," she amends. "He seems like the weakest, in terms of a physical fight. And he's the funniest when he gets flustered."

"Like when Pheebs pantsed him during the touch football game that one Thanksgiving?"

"Oh my God, yes," she laughs at the memory. "By the way, Joey, this whole going out thing was a great idea—I'm having such a wonderful time!"

"Me, too!" Joey confirms. "I think this is the best date I ever had!"

"I know!"

The agreement, the way it springs forth so freely, almost reflexively, makes her do a double-take.

Because she's been on plenty of dates in general, and on plenty of dates with Ross, in particular, and that thought's never come to the surface before.

"I mean, when you told that story about Barry freaking out about having an outdoor picnic and trying to move everything inside and tripping and falling—did you see the wine come out of my nose when I was laughing?"

"Joey, sweetie, I think everyone saw the wine come out of your nose."

"Probably," he concedes, and she marvels (just for a second) at how he brushes that little misstep off, how he's focused on their shared humor and the way she makes him laugh.

"I've gotta say," he continues, "I never knew I could enjoy the non-sex part of a date so much."

Her proud grin is bordering on cockiness and arrogance, but she's earned it—to be someone's best date ever while she's deep in her first trimester is a hell of an achievement, and Rachel brags, "That's because you'd never been on a date with me before."

"Huh," Joey murmurs, almost to himself.

"Now, don't judge me," she warns, "I normally wait until the guy leaves to dig into leftovers, but you live here. I'm tearing into the swan."

"As long as you don't judge me for grabbing a couple Oreos, we're all good."

"As if."

Another stray thought runs through her head as they fully transition out of date mode, save for changing out of their outfits: "Have I ever been able to relax like this around any guy I'm with?"

"So, tell me," she says from her perch on one of the bar chairs while she's cutting up a strip of leftover steak, "what're Joey Tribbiani's end of the night moves?"

He gives her another slightly furtive look—the magician's revealed a lot of his secrets tonight—but responds after a moment's hesitation, anyway.

"Well, if I want the girl to kiss me, the first thing I do is make my lips look irresistible."

"And how do you do that?"

He holds her gaze for an extra second, and his voice takes on a hint of gruffness.

"Now, you can't tell this to anyone, but, uh...I put on shiny lip balm."

She claps a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God."

"It works, though! Like a moth to a flame, I'm telling ya. And since I shared that, it's your turn."

"No, I don't wanna tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's embarrassing," she lies after a beat.

Not because she's torn between wanting to keep this dynamic going and worrying about just how far it could extend. Definitely not.

"More embarrassing than shiny raspberry lip balm?"

"...raspberry?"

"I didn't say raspberry before, did I?"

She shakes her head.

"Well, c'mon, since my trick is that bad, there's no way I'm gonna make fun of you for yours."

"Okay, okay, all right, you win," she chuckles. "Would you mind standing up?"

He does, and she eases herself off her stool to slowly approach him.

"Alright. When we're at the door, I'll lightly press my lips to his. Just a soft, gentle, tender first kiss," she continues, pressing her pointer finger and middle finger to the corner of Joey's mouth—at least there aren't any Oreo crumbs there. "And I'll move into his body and lean into him for just a second."

Joey nods silently, like he can see how it works, so she keeps explaining.

"And then I make this sound: mmm."

It's the perfect ending note for guys who deserve it, in her mind, suggesting dreaminess and contentment, letting them know she's very, very comfortable with them without getting too naughty.

Joey's just staring at her, though, seemingly frozen, without a compliment to give like he'd been doing earlier, and she thinks, "Maybe he's used to some other first kiss moves."

It shouldn't be quite so deflating, and Rachel defends herself from nothing: "Okay, I know it doesn't sound like anything special, but I swear it works."

"Yeah, for sure...yeah, I can see how that could work for ya…"

He sounds a bit groggy—maybe he's tired, too, it is a Friday, after all—and it's late, so after she's put the leftover filet mignon in the fridge, she announces, "It's pretty late—I gotta go to bed. Honey, thank you again for everything. I had such a wonderful time."

She only goes in to hug him. Really, she does.

She's not sure why she presses such a firm kiss to his cheek, or why she breathes, "Have a good night," like she does when she's actually been on a date and wants to give the guy something to think about afterwards.

She's not sure why every moment of the night is replaying on a loop with such crystal clarity.

She's not sure why she laughed more on this one fake date than on the last five real ones she'd had.

**

The aftermath's weird.

It has to be weird—after all, Joey had said, "I'm falling in love with you."

Not I like you or I wanna date you.

He'd kinda jumped past those, and she'd frozen up.

But now she's unthawing, and somehow...they're still making it work (discounting the whole "my boss wants to steal my baby" disaster, but between work and her personal life, she's been under a lot of pressure lately). As both roommates and friends—best friends, even, she thinks, considering how close they've been for so long now.

"You do kinda have a lot of experience with guys unexpectedly confessing their love for you," Phoebe points out while they're at the cafe one day, just the two of them. "Remember Ross and the vintage brooch?"

"Yeah, but…" she takes a sip of her green tea, trying to articulate why this is so different, so much more...revelatory. "I dunno. Ross was still crushing on me from high school. And he'd gotten to know me some by the time he gave me that gift, but I think a lot of his feelings were from wanting to be with me back in the day. Joey didn't have that background, so he fell for me..."

"As you are now," Phoebe supplies after taking a bite of her lemon blueberry muffin. "I'm surprised Joey's handled it as well as he has, from what you've told me."

"Well, we're always gonna be super close," Rachel notes, "no matter what. And I've tried to be thoughtful to him without acting so nice that it's weird."

"It might be a odd to say, but I'm kinda glad you took the initial blame for my apartment fire a few years ago," Phoebe answers. "Living together has been good for you and Joey."

"Yeah. Yeah, it has been."

"I mean, imagine if you could go back a couple years and tell him he'd be perfectly happy to have a pregnant woman for a roommate."

"Hey! He's grown up a lot since then. We all have. Mostly."

"I know. You have to admit, though, it's still a little funny."

"A little," Rachel concedes, begrudgingly, because Joey's been more helpful than she'd expected, and kinder, too, with how closely he listens to her. Like how he doesn't eat pickles with his sandwiches when she's around because they upset her stomach. And living with him is still a blast, even as her due date draws closer.

One of her biggest pregnancy milestones kicks in—literally—in the middle of the night, jolting her out of sleep.

"Joey! Joey, wake up!"

She bursts into his room—thank God there's no Erin or anyone else there tonight—and he stirs, mumbles, "Wha' is it?"

"Come feel this! Come feel my belly!"

"Why?"

It's a fair question, considering he's just woken up and it's nearly three in the morning.

"The baby's kicking for the first time! Come over here!"

His head snaps up off the pillow. "Really?!"

"Yes!"

He starts to swing his legs out of bed, but stops. "Ah, maybe you could come over here. I'm not—I'm not wearing any bottoms."

"Okay!"

She walks—alright, it's more of a waddle—over to him, and he slowly reaches his hand out to place it on her stomach.

"Oh—oh my God! She's really kicking away!" Joey exclaims.

"It's unbelievable! She's been doing it so much! Like a little...um...oh, who's that kinda annoying woman soccer player?"

"Mia Hamm?"

"Mia Hamm!"

"It's...wow!"

"I know!"

She's gonna be too wound up to go to sleep for a bit, but she hardly minds. They sit together for a while, each holding a hand on her stomach, until a few minutes pass with no kicks.

"Thanks," Rachel murmurs when she gets up.

Joey's confusion returns. "For what, exactly?"

"Just being excited. It was nice to share this moment with...someone."

She won't let her brain wander down that path again, and excuses herself, turns to leave Joey's room, and quietly calls back, "Night, sweetie."

"Night, Rach."

They don't mean to third-wheel Ross, between the "baby's first kick" incident, and the hospital trip for her Braxton-Hicks contractions, and the pickle-induced nausea, but it makes sense that it happens, anyway.

Because she and Joey are living together.

But the change he's suggesting...it makes sense.

"If you're gonna have a roommate, it might as well be the father," he explains.

"But, Joey," and she shouldn't be arguing about this, she shouldn't want to stay here with him, but she does, just the same, "I don't think Ross would want me to move into his apartment and disrupt his life like that."

"No," he chimes in quickly, "I'd love to be around for you and the baby. We can just try it on a temporary basis."

"But it's us! And, I hate to say it, but us living together didn't really go well the last time."

"It wouldn't be anything romantic this time, though. I mean, I'm with Mona—oh, damn it, Mona!" he remembers. "I was supposed to meet her almost an hour ago! What is wrong with me?!"

Joey ducks that loaded question and poses another one to both of them: "So, do you two wanna try this?"

"I don't know," Rachel answers quietly. "Is it crazy?"

"No! No, it's not. Joey, this is a smart idea."

He shrugs modestly. "I was due—hey, check out that pun!"

Rachel high-fives him for it and decides, "Let's do it. I'll move in with you, Ross."

"Oh, Rach, that's great!"

Ross' sigh of relief overshadows the slight gasp she gives at being hugged so tightly.

Moving basically across the street doesn't prove too challenging, and Rachel almost laughs at how lightly she can travel these days.

"Former material girl turned...career-oriented, sort-of single mother-to-be, living with the father of the baby even though we're not together."

It's strange, she'll admit, but still worlds better than being a bored, botoxed trophy wife on Long Island.

Stranger still: for all of Ross' talk about wanting to be there for her and the baby, he doesn't do a particularly great job of it. It's not any one big thing. Just a bunch of little things interspersed with the good.

He forgets that she can't stand pickles and keeps having them on his sandwiches.

He wears a slight scowl when she can't keep anything down in the morning—as if she wants to throw up dry toast and Rice Krispies before 8:00 A.M.

He goes over to Mona's more often than she expects, leaving her to handle the pain of another round of Braxton-Hicks contractions that "most women don't even feel" on her own one night.

As she approaches her due date, though, it gets better.

They get better.

And maybe, she thinks, after Emma's born, maybe they can make this—whatever it is—work long-term.

**

"It was one kiss! With one guy!"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes! As I've said repeatedly now, if you could ever listen to me!" Rachel snipes, the long weeks of exasperation finally shortening her temper—and, with Monica offering to play baby-sitter for Emma tonight, she's not bothering to keep it on a leash.

"Well, then, what about the guy at the bar?" Ross retorts.

She frowns. "What guy at the bar?"

"The guy you gave your number to."

She replays the night she came home, just to be sure that information didn't slip out, but she knows herself well enough that she almost doesn't need to rely on her memory.

"I...I never told you about that. So how do you know I gave him my number?"

"Because he called here looking for you. So don't tell me that this stuff is a one-time thing, okay?" he accuses her. "You've been out there in bars and on balconies for over a month! And you didn't have the courtesy to tell me."

She purses her lips, wills herself to not fully fly off the handle at Ross, as much as he deserves it, and regains her control.

"Setting aside the fact that I shouldn't have to tell you about one guy I randomly kissed once—and it'll never happen again—and one other guy who asked for my number...why didn't I get that message?"

He goes into his pathetic shell, looking away from her, looking guilty and defiant all at once, and she can't take this any more.

"Ross, why didn't I get his message?"

"Because I folded it up and put it in my pants pocket. Do you...do you not look there?"

He has the gall to smile, like it's so funny, the way he thinks he should have complete control over her.

"You have some nerve," she hisses. "Who do you think you are, exactly? Who are you to decide what messages I should or shouldn't get?"

"Who am I? I'm the guy who's taking care of our baby while you're out at bars meeting guys!"

His stupid air of superiority finally tips her over the edge.

"Oh, sure. As if you didn't flirt with every woman that came within a five-mile radius of you while I was pregnant!" she seethes. "You were dating Mona! It's crazy," she laughs, bitterness and acidity dripping from her dark humor, practically burning through the living room's hardwood floor, "the way you can always do whatever you please, but I'm supposed to just be here at your beck and call whenever you wanna get with me, no matter how I feel, because who cares about what I want! I can't believe I was gonna try to have a mature conversation with you about this. About us. But that's impossible when you do stuff like hide my messages and bring crazy women back to the apartment!"

"None of the sane ones would do it," he almost yells, as if that's a good defense. "And that's not the point, okay? You—" he points his finger at her and she almost wants to bend it back til it breaks, "you're the one who moved on and didn't tell anyone!"

"Oh, my God, Ross. This is so messed up and it's—it's just exhausting! I've tried telling people that it's fine," she goes on, "even though they think it's weird, that we live together and have a baby together but we're not a couple, and I always tell them it's working, but it's not. This is the opposite of working!"

"Uh, clearly."

"And we said we'd live together as long as it makes sense, but maybe it just doesn't anymore."

"Maybe it never did," she realizes before she registers Ross' agreement.

"Yeah, maybe not. So...whaddya wanna do?"

The answer comes to her before she even tries to think about it.

**

"Can Emma and I stay with you for a while?"

There's a momentary pause, a glitch, as Joey mentally fills in why she's on his doorstep like this, and he doesn't ask any questions, doesn't give her any sort of judgemental look, doesn't make her worry for a second that he'll say no.

"Yeah, of course."

"Thank you," she breathes, pressing the words into the crook of his neck because she can't wait to hug him.

She repeats, "Thank you, thank you," in the warmest, most heartfelt murmur she can muster, but the sentiment doesn't feel like enough, will never be enough to repay Joey for living up to what he'd told her in the hospital, when he'd held her hands and soothed the anxiety running rampant through her head with three sentences.

"You are never, ever gonna be alone. Okay? I promise I won't let that happen."

And as Rachel relaxes or, honestly, collapses into his embrace, she takes a moment for herself—for herself and Emma; her daughter will always be the best part of her—and thinks, "We're home."