Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the apartment, just the DVDs. There's no profit except writing practice being made here. Nor do I own the film You've Got Mail.

Renvoyer La Balle: To return the compliment.

"Anyone seen Chandler this morning?" Phoebe asked. "Yesterday he said he might come with me to the flea market and help me look around for a new coffee table."

Monica glanced at Joey and watched him shake his head, an expression pulling his lips down that Monica couldn't quite decipher. Joey tore into a piece of buttered toast, as though he needed to occupy his mouth rather than answer. He looked a little pale and was scowling at the toast in his hands. Joey never scowled at food. Eventually, he told them, "He said he wasn't feeling well."

Monica furrowed her brow. That was unlike Chandler. Even when he felt sick, he came over. Tied up in his robe and looking pathetic, but he'd find his way to Monica's couch nonetheless.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he had food poisoning," Ross pointed out. "Catfish can be tricky. Right, Mon?"

"But he didn't eat that much of it," Phoebe reminded them. "Come to think of it, he didn't eat much at all. He was just kind of picking at it."

Monica reflected on the night before. Chandler had filled up on bread before they all congregated around the table. Did the others know that? Did they know that he'd preferred to eat than to converse with her, because that had definitely been what he was doing. Monica knew that tactic, using bread as a comfort and a friend. But she'd been sitting right there, right beside him.

Then he'd taken a turn, talking all night with Phoebe and Ross and happily encouraging their opinions on things. It wasn't too obvious, but it was true.

He had rolled up his sleeves by the time the main meal came out, Monica had seen. She'd watched his lithe fingers lift his fork from the table and curl around his knife. His elbow had knocked against her bare forearm when he swirled his salad together with his fork. In fact, Monica had counted the times their arms had brushed, each time indicating that Chandler was pushing his food around on his plate. He hadn't lifted that arm from hers to put his fork to his mouth, certainly hadn't done it more than he'd bumped her.

She had watched his bony wrists flex and dimple when he poured water for her glass when it emptied. He'd done that three times over the course of the night but hadn't filled Ross' once even though he was sitting on Chandler's other side and was very obviously empty. The last time he'd done it, Monica had seen the muscle in his forearm tense handsomely and had to press her lips together and avert her eyes from it.

He smelt good too. Musky. Like Sandalwood.

Funny, with the absence of conversation and eye contact between them, Monica was noticing other things. The remnants of summer sun in his skin and evidence of his tennis playing in his taut arm and that she definitely shouldn't be looking at the way he'd rolled his sleeve up to his elbow because then her eyes fell to his thigh, which wouldn't have meant anything at all. He was Chandler, but his aftershave made him smell enticingly masculine, which was another thing she normally wouldn't notice because he didn't wear the stuff on weekends except when he went on dates which had been fewer and further between than normal recently.

"Maybe someone should go check on him," Rachel suggested from her seat at the table. Monica nodded absently. A lot of things had happened last night, but Chandler Bing eating was not one of them. He hadn't laughed all that much either for that matter.

The four of her friends sitting at her kitchen table each turned their head to look at Monica.

"Me?" she didn't really need the clarification, their imploring expressions were indicative enough. "Why me?"

Joey shrugged. Ross hummed as though he might have wanted to explain, but his throaty vocalisation turned into an 'uurh' that came out of the side of his mouth reluctantly.

"He likes you," one of them said, Monica wasn't sure who. "He'll tell you what's up."

Monica turned around abruptly at the sound of Joey snorting and muttering under his breath in disagreement.

"I'm pretty sure if one of us asked, Chandler would tell us. It's just that none of us have," Monica corrected. She was fairly certain it was true - none of them had inquired what was ailing Chandler, except for maybe Joey, who seemed to know what was wrong. Monica wasn't sure why she was trying to talk her way out of being the one to cross the hall, she wanted to go talk to Chandler and alleviate the tension between them. She wanted to press a cold compress to his forehead if he really was sick and let him know he didn't have to suffer alone. If he was fine, however, then it was her chance to clear the air between them. To confront him about it.

"Yeah, he'd listen to me but not really believe me," Phoebe said with a wave of her hand, showing all her rings on her fingers. She had a point. A lot of Phoebe's advice was about having faith in the universe or that things could be worse, which was great most of the time and gave a person a different perspective on their problems, but wasn't always helpful, or warranted.

"And he might talk to me, but it's not a guarantee," Rachel added. She'd been part of their group for long enough now that they all trusted her with secrets and holding their place in line at the movies and even that she'd pay them back even if they didn't hound her for the money. "And you know the boys don't talk about that sort of stuff, but he trusts you, Monica."

At which statement, Ross protested. "We do too talk about that stuff, but not as often as you three do," he gestured at the girls. "And it's not even necessary, there's nothing wrong with Chandler. Just a couple of bad days at work, it is the end of the month, his busiest period."

"Plus you're the one with the food," Phoebe added. "It'd be weird if we went over with food when you're the one who made it."

"And you don't have to leave for work in ten minutes," Rachel chimed in.

Monica glared at her roommate for reminding her of her unemployed status. "It's Saturday."

Rachel's eyes widened and she stood up hurriedly, her words staccato and stunted. "Yes, but. I wanted to get some work in to catch up-"

Rachel crumpled under Monica's withering stare.

Rachel screwed her face up in a confused and hopeful twist, her pitch rising. "There's a sale on at Bloomingdales."

Monica watched as Rachel eased her way out the door, taking long, slow steps as she spoke. Ross followed her out and Joey shrugged. "I can go shopping with you, Pheebs."

"That might work out better than taking Chandler anyway," Phoebe agreed, making a joke about the man in apartment nineteen being the weakest of them as she decided to leave with Joey even though Monica went grocery shopping with him every weekend and knew that wasn't the case at all.

Monica piled a few pieces of toast onto a plate, a few buttered, a few plain. She put the plate on a tray with a bowl of fruit and a cup of coffee, black, the way he liked it unless they were out and cream and caramel were options.

She followed Phoebe and Joey out of her apartment, Phoebe flicking the lock from the inside so Monica didn't have to get her key out. She didn't even need to ask Joey to reach across the hall and turn the door handle to let her into his apartment because she couldn't do it with her hands balancing the wooden tray.

"Chandler?" she called as she walked in.

She surveyed the living room. It was still greener than beige, which Monica blamed on the olive green throw rug over the single-seat chairs, that stupid Foosball table, and the overcast light that streamed through the windows because of the closeness of the building next door. The apartment was small and smelt like boys lived there; like old pizza and too much deodorant that didn't quite cover up the stink of sweat, but was otherwise pretty inoffensive. The carpet was disgusting, but only because it was ehite. It would show every stain, every shoe print unless a professional or herself got down in the fabric. Taking out that carpet would probably fix the smell too. But that was the only problem, as far as Monica could see. Except for the dishes piled in the sink and the fact that people who didn't have her organisational skills should not have cupboards without doors. But even then, the mess was minimal in the shared living space. Given what Chandler said about Joey leaving food in places it shouldn't be like horror stories being told around a campfire just to make her squirm and amuse himself, Monica expected the place to be worse. Much worse.

"Chandler?" she called again. "Are you in here?"

The bathroom door was open. It didn't look so good in there, but it didn't look so bad either. Towels were flung over the shower rod, probably dripping down the shower curtain, but they weren't on the floor.

Monica thought back to Chandler and Ross' dorm. That had been fairly tidy too. But Ross' bedroom growing up? While that hadn't been a warzone, it had been bad and Monica had made pocket money from her parents to keep it clean and a bit of extra change from Ross to keep quiet about the magazines beneath his mattress. Ross had been clean, a result of growing up with Monica and Judy who both liked things in their place.

From the stories Ross told about Chandler in warning of how his friend might behave when Monica came to visit their dormitory, which had been verified by Chandler himself after the years, he'd had a maid to clean up after him growing up. Monica had assumed that meant he'd be sloppy and a slob, her preconceived notions not exactly equipoise with reality. Apparently, the house staff had been more involved with his parents than with their jobs, more involved in the competition between his parents than anything else, and that when Chandler was shipped off to boarding school as a solution to solve the kidnapping stunts his father pulled and manipulation of his emotions, the rules were almost militant concerning made beds and dorm presentation. He wasn't as neat as Monica, but neat enough to give the impression he was a little too interested in appearances. The five of them tried not to tease him about it because Chandler really wasn't nearly as bad as Monica, not even close, but Monica expected that a lot of women read his neatness as a quality. That and the perfect hair and the constant state of being well-dressed.

She heard a groan from the bedroom on the right. The door was open a crack so Monica couldn't knock. Instead, she called his name again and announced herself, letting him know she was coming in and then pushed the door open with her foot.

Chandler was lying on top of his bed in a pair of dark jeans and a loose-fitting bowling shirt. Monica couldn't remember the last time she'd seen such dark denim, darker than the blue of traditional Levi's, so navy that they were almost black, which was the opposite of the current style of acid-wash and faded jeans. They made his legs look long, almost the length of his bed. Not that Monica was looking except to notice that her best friend was in fact dressed as though he had intended to come to breakfast but hadn't managed to make it across the hall for some reason.

Monica cocked her head at Chandler's prone form.

"We missed you at breakfast this morning," she announced, indicating to the tray in her hands. "Do I brought over your typical tiredness, upset stomach, vitamin infusion starter pack."

Monica moved forward into the room and looked bedside table closest to her had a lamp and a stack of books. Above it and the bed, perfectly centred in the room was Chandler's window, not big or particularly bright, but still frosted with morning dew which filtered the light that came in to a softglow. The shelves to her right had photo frames and yearbooks and Chandler briefcase for work. The wall to her left that was Joey's room was bare except for some hockey sticks standing upright but there wasn't enough to for much else given that the thoroughfare between the bed and wall was so skinny. Or so she thought until she realised those were Chandler's closet door handles his hockey sticks were balanced against, just like her room across the hall, the clothes making a bit of a buffer between the thin walls of the bedrooms in the apartment.

Across from her, on the other side of the bed, was a basketball hoop hamper and a couple of knickknacks and another overstuffed shelf. The other bedside table had another lamp and probably enough room to put her tray down in it, but Monica found herself suddenly unsure. What was the etiquette in Chandler's bedroom?

Monica could lounge with Chandler without a second thought, putting her legs over his was a matter of competitive pride not anything suggestive like Rachel had thought when she first joined the group. Squeezing up to Chandler when he stole the single chair in her living room was a matter of taking back the place she had been sitting before he so rudely claimed it out from under her. Sharing that seat naturally so they didn't have to have that skirmish was muscle memory.

Chandler had made her living room his over the years, and Monica knew that she was extended the same courtesy even though she came in this apartment less. But bedrooms were different. Bedrooms, while not off limits, had always been private spaces where she and Chandler didn't venture. They might have stood in doorways while they waited for each other, Monica had been so long in the phone once that Chandler had looked his head in impatiently. Or when his mother called Monica's number and Monica trudged over to Chandler's room to hand him the phone. Little moments that meant nothing and weren't intrusions. There'd been an unspoken understanding that they didn't cross the line of the bedroom. Not even on the many nights they stayed up to talk. Those nights when they didn't want to wake Phoebe where when they moved out onto the balcony. Or they went and did their laundry so they were completely out of the apartment. Avoiding that private place had just been something they'd naturally done and Monica ahd never really thought anything of it.

Except for now. Monica didn't think she should work her way around his bed and deeper into his room without invitation. So she placed the tray on the edge of the bed.

This room was too small for him. She'd never known that. The bed would easily fit two people but Chandler took up most of it. Had he always been so tall? Monica had never noticed, he didn't talk down on her like other tall people, or make her strain her neck to look up at him when he spoke.

"Thanks, Mon," Chandler's voice was husky, like he hadn't gotten any sleep. "You didn't have to."

Monica perched her right hip up on the mattress halfway up the bed, neutral-ish territory, facing his feet with her left foot still flat on the floor.

She did, actually. He was her best friend, she had to check on him. She told him as much and Chandler's blue eyes finally blinked open. They fluttered in surprise when he saw her looking down on him and his lips quirked up a little and then pulled down. On anyone else it would have looked like a friend, but on Chandler, that was a smile. Self-conscious and self-deprecating, like he didn't want to show his crooked teeth or weakness or draw too much attention to himself at all, like he wasn't even sure smiling was the right thing to do in the situation but it might lighten the mood if he did.

Monica let out a sigh of relief. She hadn't seen that smile in days.

She folded her arms in her lap and leant sideways toward Chandler, smiling back at him. Monica slipped a little, almost falling but stabilise herself by shifting her legs. Monica uncrossed her arms and pushed her hands into the covers, moving up a little but being careful not to jostle too much lest the tray of food fall over and leave crummies.

"Feeling a bit better, at least?" she asked.

Chandler hummed, moving on to his elbows as though he was going to sit up but laying like that instead. "You do know it was all a ploy to get breakfast in bed, right?"

Monica grinned at the way he shook off the serious moment and pretended it wasn't there. She couldn't tell if it was a bald-faced lie or a distraction, or if those things were even mutually exclusive. But it was classic Chandler Bing to change tracks like that, no warning, just pulled the lever. It was good to have him back.

Monica smiled down at him and poked him in the stomach, hoping to grab his attention and tickle him enough to make him smile fully, showing all his teeth.

"Hey, now that we're alone," Monica started. She'd been dying to tell someone and while she told Rachel the unfortunate half, Chandler was probably the only person who would understand the other half. He might be a little offended that she'd looked elsewhere for comfort, but his first reaction wouldn't be a complaint or a whine that their group was readily available. He would understand the need to venture outside of their group.

"Can I tell you a secret?"