It's two forty-three in the morning and Monica was on her fifth – unsuccessful – batch of snicker doodle cookies.
She had begun a little before eleven, right after everyone had parted ways and left her apartment for their perfectly content lives. Joey, who wasn't even present, was at some overnight audition for a commercial in Newark, Phoebe had left for her apartment, as had Chandler, and the oh-so-happy lovebirds were headed back to Ross's for a night together – which left Monica alone. She needed this, though. At least, that was what she had told herself.
She needed time to process, by herself. The others would know in time, and when that opportunity came she would be ready for it. But first she needed to tell Ross. Shit. She should have done it before he left, but she couldn't ruin this night for him and Rachel. It wasn't worth it, it could wait.
But her mother couldn't. She could be dead tomorrow – who knows? When stage four breast cancer hits, anything can happen.
When everybody had left, she had spent all of twelve seconds on the couch before she needed to start cooking. Something. Anything. She had grabbed a book at random and started to flip through recipes when she landed on one she had always meant to try: Mom's homemade snicker doodles. She had always wanted to make them, but was never given the chance.
Better late than never.
Milk and eggs and flour and cinnamon were splayed out on the counter carelessly. The spoons were intermixed between ingredients and things weren't kept at room temperature, but who cares? It's not like a little mix and match would kill anybody.
But cancer could.
No. No. She wasn't going to start with that. That could come later, with her family. Not when she was covered in white power, had egg dripping in her hair, and had her make up smeared across her cheeks. Not when she was in her zone – it was her time to cook.
The first batch was carelessly burnt. The second wasn't fluffy enough. She forgot to add the eggs on the third. And with the fourth there was too much cinnamon added – and no one liked a cookie with too much spice. Which is what brought Monica to her latest predicament. For the fifth, she had run out of milk. There wasn't a single drop left in the container, and that wasn't acceptable.
She had glanced at the clock a couple times throughout the night, not truly registering how late it was. Besides, she felt great. Exhaustion was nothing new to her. It drove her more, if she was being honest with herself. So at a quarter till three in the morning, she waltzed her way over to Chandler's door, knocked loudly, and waited with her hands behind her back.
It was a minute before the door creaked open, but Chandler eventually appeared from behind it in a white t-shirt and pajama pants, also adorning tired eyes and a scowl. His brown hair was disheveled and it seemed as though he was still half asleep. But he answered, and that was enough for the crazed woman in the hall.
"Monica, it is almost three in the morning. What could you possibly want?" Chandler rubbed his eyes, not even looking at her.
"Milk," is all she answered him with as she wormed her way into the apartment.
"Good morning to you, too," he greeted to an invisible audience as he turned around and closed the door.
It was dark within the his kitchen, and the only way he knew Monica was physically there was her footsteps that echoed throughout the apartment. She was stumbling, he could tell. When she had reached her final destination, the refrigerator light illuminated her face – her pale cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and floured forehead. Yes, that face.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Chandler voiced, now seemingly fully awake. He flipped on the kitchen lights, filling the room with a yellow glow. The second she turned around to face him, milk in hand, though, he immediately wished he hadn't.
He strode over to her in two steps and placed his hands over her shoulders. "Mon, what's goin' on? You look like you've seen a ghost." He would have laughed, if it had been five hours earlier.
She shook off his hands, as is Monica's fashion. "Nothing, I'm fine." She brushed past him and took off for the door. He was quick on her heels, though, catching her wrist in the hallway.
"You are most definitely not fine. Monica," he turned her around to face him, "it's three in the morning and you're baking. You were fine last night, so what happened?"
She shook her head and tried to smile at him. "Nothing, really. I just can't sleep and need to finish a batch of cookies. I'm almost done, I promise. I just need…to finish."
Before he could do anything more she was walking away from him and into her apartment. Chandler wasn't stupid, though. While he knew she was keen to late night cooking sessions, there was something that he couldn't place about this one. Her face was so empty. So bare. And that bothered him more than it should have.
"Mon," he called after her, entering apartment twenty before she could lock it behind her. "Why are you baking this late in the –
He had to stop. Couldn't go on. Her kitchen was a mess. Complete and utter chaos. Cinnamon filled the air, egg shells covered the left counter, flour dusted the entire area, dirty bowls were scattered around the table, plates of cookies were stored on any open surface, and spilled milk – not his – left puddles dripping on to the floor.
"Mon…" he trailed off, finally focusing his wandering eyes on the woman in the middle of the kitchen. She seemed to hardly notice him. Her eyes were frantically scanning the counters for something, probably a bowl, if he had to guess. The carton of milk was firmly grasped in her hands, and if his eyes weren't deceiving him he could have sworn that it was trembling.
"What's going on?" he asked her again, his voice more demanding than the first time.
"Nothing," she told him. Again. She had darted towards the phone for a bowl with unmixed ingredients, quickly grabbing it and slamming it down on the table in front of her. She spoke to him without looking, her voice tight and controlled. "I'm just baking, Chandler. Really, you don't have to be here. I'm fine."
He took a couple step towards her. "Is that why you're hand's shaking?"
Monica froze, stopping her failed attempt at pouring the milk into the bowl. She pursed her lips, a habit Chandler was realizing she always did when she was angry or nervous (he couldn't tell which one she was feeling now, though). Slowly – very – she lowered the milk and began to screw the lid back on.
He waited until after her third attempt to intervene. Approaching without a sound, he gently grabbed her shaking hands and moved them out of the way. "Here," he told her quietly, quickly spinning the cap on without a second glance.
"Mon," he murmured, finding no need to really speak as loud as he had now that he was so close to her. He placed his hands on her shoulders once more, willing her to just look at him. "Talk to me. Tell me what's goin' through your head."
"Nothing, Chandler," she practically seethed as she ripped his hands off of her. "All I'm trying to do is finish these goddamn cookies while I still can and I'd really appreciate it if I could do that alone." A bowl was knocked onto the floor, the sound echoing throughout the mostly empty apartment.
Now this Monica he was only slightly used to. The one that lashed out when things got to be too much and closed off when she felt threatened. Ever since he'd truly known her he had realized that she bottled a lot of things up, kept them all inside of her until she could deal with them on her own. He had been witness to more than a couple of of her fits, but it was always Rachel or Ross who took her outside to calm her down. They knew what to say, what to do, and when to do it. He was clueless, though. Completely and utterly at a loss. Emotional women, both angry and sad, had never really been a specialty in his book; that was for Joey and Ross. Sure, he could crack them up and change the subject, but he couldn't comfort them or console them or any of that. No, sir. That wasn't for him.
But at three in the morning, what other choice did he have? Not that he didn't want to help – no, that wasn't it at all. He wouldn't leave her alone, not when she was this…emotional? Fragile? Livid? He didn't know. Not at all.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said, placing his hands out in a truce, "I know you want to be alone right now. Trust me, I know. But I also know that the minute I leave this apartment you're gonna do something stupid, and I will not let that happen. Not to you."
Monica had the bridge of her nose pinched, her eyes squeezed shut. "Chandler, please. I can't deal with your…you right now. Just let me finish my cookies and I'll talk to you first thing in the morning."
"Or you could tell me right now and we can get you back to acting like yourself," he suggested, moving a little too close to her.
She didn't answer him, only lowering her arms to her side. He continued, now only a foot away from her. "Why are these cookies so important to you? I promise they can wait until morning. Hell, I'll even help you finish them if –
"No," she snapped at him, her eyes popping open. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed, forcing him back a couple steps. "I'm doing this alone, okay? I don't need your help. Now, please, Chandler, I'm not asking again. Leave."
He couldn't believe they were arguing over cookies. "Mon, what is so special about them? Are they your grandmother's? Your mothers? Something only a Geller can do?"
"Yes, Chandler, they're my mother's! Are you happy? You finally cracked the fucking code, alright?" Monica threw her hands up in exasperation. She stormed her way over to the refrigerator and pointed at him. "You know, you barge in here after me when all I needed was some stupid milk to finish these stupid cookies which I can't even get right. I'm a fucking chef and I can't even get a simple recipe from my mom right."
He took a hesitant step closer to her, feeling that things were finally coming to a close. "Why are these cookies so important, Mon? It's all gonna be fine, you know that, right? Whatever's going on in that head of yours, it'll all be alright"
She snapped again. "You have no idea, Chandler, none at all. You can't tell me that and not know, okay? You can't tell me that my mom's gonna be fine when she could die tomorrow. You cannot do that to me, I won't let you. So let me finish my fucking cookies while I still can, okay? Just let me deal with this on my own time because when people like you push me I can't function. So please for the love of God get out of my apartment and let me finish what I started!" By the end of her rant, everything on the counter was scattered and spilled on the floor.
It was when her voice cracked that he moved. His hands were on her face, body seemingly on top of hers as he held her close. "Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, look at me, Mon." He tilted her chin and forced her to look him in the eyes. She was beginning to shut down – her eyes widening and losing their focus, her body becoming limp, and her face losing more color than it had to start off their conversation – and he couldn't allow that. His thumbs were rubbing under her eyes, willing them to return to him. "Come back to me, Mon. Talk to me, okay? You need to say something, anything. Please, Mon. Say something."
Her breathing was becoming frantic, little gasps of air fanning out across his neck. "Let me finish the cookies, please. They're almost…right. Almost done. Please. Mom…"
"What about your mom? Talk to me, Mon. I know it's hard, but you got to, okay?" He easily scooped her up into his arms and hastily made his way to the couch. He plopped down, her in his lap, and grabbed her face again.
She had one hand twisted in the fabric at the collar of his shirt and he other gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. Her eyes were locked on a place far away as she spoke to him in a hushed tone. "She's dying. My mom is…dying. Chandler. I don't….I can't…I don't know what to do." She finally looked at him. "What do I do, Chandler?"
"Shh, it's okay, it's okay." He stroked her hair, her back, her legs, anywhere he could reach. "We're gonna figure this out, okay?"
She was shaking in his lap, continually muttering the words what do I do what do I do whatdoidowhatdoido until her sobs took over her body. Her face was buried into the crook of his neck as she wailed and heaved and mourned on top of him. And all he could do was hold on to her tighter.
He rocked her back and forth as much as he could on the couch, whispering in her ear, "I'm right here. Shh, it's okay. It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay…"
But it wasn't, and he knew that. He had no clue what was happening to her mother, but he did know that it had to be bad if Monica was so troubled by it it. Hell, she said she was dying. But, as a friend and as someone who cared so much for the woman weeping, he had to make everything better. It was his job – at least to be there for her. To hold her. To make her feel better. And even though he probably sucked at it, he'd be damned if he didn't try.
The grip around his neck was almost painful and there was a very uncomfortable wetness running down his chest from her tears, but he pushed those feelings away as Monica held on to him for dear life. Her dark hair fanned his face as he pressed closer to her, speaking words he wouldn't remember in the morning and promising things he could never fulfill. She didn't seem to mind, though – of course she didn't.
He held her all through the night (the morning, really), even after she had fallen asleep in his arms, nose still pressed into his collar and arms still locked around his shoulders. Chandler didn't sleep, though. He was too wound, too tense, too worried for that. When Monica would stir randomly throughout the night, he was there to calm her down and ease her back into, hopefully, a dreamless sleep. He was there for her – just as he had promised Ross. Just as he had promised himself.
He pulled Monica just the slightest bit tighter against him, preparing himself for the next few hours – and he noticed that the spilled milk from earlier in the night was still dripping quietly in the background.