You are one of my favorite people and the most beautiful woman I have ever known in real life.
She refills her wine glass pouring just a little bit more than quite constitutes a serving and plops unceremoniously onto her sofa. The apartment is unnaturally quiet and while twenty-four hours ago she would have appreciated the stillness, now she finds she misses the clatter that always seems to follow Phoebe wherever she goes. The silence is a reminder that she is really and truly alone in the apartment and that her old roommate isn't coming back.
Alone. She may as well get the word tattooed on her forehead she thinks miserably taking a long sip of her drink. Why did Phoebe want to leave so badly? Was she really so hard to live with? Was this why she didn't have a boyfriend?
Monica is no dummy. She knows that she can be a bit difficult sometimes, sure. But so could everyone. Did Phoebe really think she was so easy to put up with? The incense? The guitar playing? The relentless discussion of auras and past lives? But Monica put up with all of that and would put up with much more, because Phoebe was worth it. Their friendship was worth it. Monica doesn't doubt that Phoebe values their friendship too. But that just goes to show how awful Monica's faults must be. Even her closest friends can't handle her in close quarters.
So she liked a clean house, order, method. Was that so wrong? Honestly she can't understand how the rest of them can live without these things. Once she had happened upon Phoebe's sock drawer and she couldn't for the life of her figure out how the woman got dressed in the morning. It had held as many bobby pins, random pieces of mail, and scarves in it as socks and the socks themselves weren't even matched together! Even to this day she longs to barge in and help the poor little things find their mates. Well actually she wouldn't ever get that chance now, because Phoebe had up and taken herself and all her socks away. Taken them away because she couldn't stand living with Monica. The thought leaves her wanting to cry so she just takes a big swig of wine instead hoping to at least transform her sorrow into drunkenness if nothing else.
At least Chandler's new roommate had found her attractive enough she thinks taking a little pleasure in the fact that she isn't totally repugnant to the opposite sex. Monica has worked hard over the years to shed the weight of her girlhood and even harder to discard the insecurities that came along with being heavy. She's not ashamed to admit that she likes how she looks now and she's pretty sure most men do also.
She likes who she is on the inside too, even if no one else seems to, she thinks, defiantly finishing off her wine in a final swig. She rises a bit unsteady to refill her glass but its getting difficult to pour without spilling so she discards the glass all together opting to bring the bottle back with her instead. So she'll die alone. So what? If no one is going to love who she is, warts and all, who needs them? She likes herself, so there.
And Chandler likes her too. So double there! She thinks triumphantly remembering their conversation that afternoon. What had he said again? That she was one of his favorite people and that he thought she was beautiful. No, no. Not just beautiful, the most beautiful. Chandler thinks she should have a boyfriend. Chandler loves my warts, she thinks smiling for the first time all night.
Chandler was so great, she muses drunkenly. Sure he was always cracking jokes and never taking anything seriously, but with her at least, he was always so attentive and kind. Always noticing when she was struggling, like today. Always knowing just what to say to make her feel better. She feels warm all over remembering their embrace from earlier and how with a few simple words and a hug her friend had brought her so much comfort.
It really had been a pretty fantastic hug. She'd even wondered for a fraction of a second if the hug might evolve into, well into something else. Which would be crazy, she reminds herself with a laugh. This was Chandler she was talking about. He was her friend, her very good friend. And they just simply didn't think of each other that way.
If she hadn't single-handedly nearly polished off an entire bottle of wine, this is probably where her thoughts would veer into a much safer direction. But a quick peek at the bottle balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table quickly confirms that she's about 2 or 3 sips away from finishing the once full bottle of Chardonnay.
All at once she feels very drunk and finds she needs to lie rather than sit on her couch in order to keep the room from spinning. She's finally found a comfortable position resting with her eyes closed when her traitorous mind begins to wander. What if she and Chandler did think of each other as more than friends? What if their hug from earlier today had lead to something more? What would it be like to actually kiss Chandler?
Her first thought is that it would be a bit unpleasant. Chandler can be so spastic, all flopping limbs and nervous energy. She initially imagines it may be like kissing a teenager or worse a cocker spaniel. But even as she tries to picture this, the Chandler in her imagination refuses to comply with these unflattering comparisons.
"This is nice." Even as he's complementing their embrace he moves to break it pulling his body apart from hers to better look at her. She thinks maybe this would be the moment that Chandler would reach for her, bringing her in for a kiss. It doesn't feel quite right however that Chandler would make the first move. And despite this being her fantasy where she could really imagine anything at all, she finds for reasons she'd rather not examine that she wants this to feel real.
She'd spend a minute looking into his eyes, searching them for confirmation of what she already knows before ever so slowly pulling his lips down to her own. The kiss would be slow at first both of them hesitant about how the other would respond. But after a moment or two, their confidence would grow and with it, their passion. She flushes with embarrassment and pleasure as she imagines Chandler deepening their kiss, still slow but now equally sensual. She imagines his hands rising from her waist to cup her face holding her to his lips.
Though she would have never thought it before this moment she feels pretty confident that this is probably a fairly faithful recreation of kissing Chandler. Though the rest of the world may only know the insecure and immature version hiding behind an endless series of sarcastic remarks, Monica knows he can be so much more. She's fairly certain that his lack of confidence in matters of the heart and the bedroom would only make him that much more conscientious, focusing all of his attention on making sure she'd be thoroughly and fully satisfied.
Just as she's picturing Chandler moving her towards her bedroom, lips never leaving her own, she's rudely dragged from her imaginings by the flesh and bones version walking into her apartment.
"Oh no," he admonishes with a chuckle. "What do we have here?"
She's much too drunk and embarrassed to respond with more than a glare, which only causes him to laugh outright.
"Monica Geller, I do believe you are plastered."
Monica only groans in response. Now that her fantasy bubble has been popped, she's much more aware of how drunk and ill she feels.
"C'mon. Let's get you to bed," he says kindly helping her from the couch and carefully walking her to her bedroom.
After helping her under the covers, he sits momentarily beside her. "I meant what I said before," he tells her now serious, brushing her hair from her face, "You're gonna be alright. You know that right?"
She nods in response, overwhelming sleepy now that the warm comforting feeling she'd gotten from his hug earlier is back. Taking his hand from her temples she gives it a soft kiss before releasing him. This wasn't the bedroom moment she'd been fantasizing about earlier, but it is so much better. Chandler is her friend. He'll always be her friend. And he loves her, warts and all.