HELLO AGAIN, AND WELCOME TO CHAPTER TWO OF "A LOVE AGAINST ALL ODDS." THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO LEFT A REVIEW FOR PART ONE... TO YOU AND TO EVERYONE ELSE... PUH-LEEEEEEEEEEEZ GIVE ME FEEDBACK!!! I THRIVE ON IT. THANK YOU... IT'S MUCH APPRECIATED. GETTING NO FEEDBACK REALLY GIVES ME A COMPLEX. LOL. BUT SERIOUSLY, I REALLY LOVE TO HEAR WHAT PEOPLE THINK, SO IF YOU COULD PLEASE JUST JOT DOWN A FEW WORDS IN THAT LITTLE BOX AT THE END, I'D REALLY APPRECIATE IT! THANK YOU! ENJOY!
Chapter Two
As she watched him sawing the lower branches off an oak tree near the edge of her father's property, Monica couldn't help noticing how strong and capable he looked. His white undershirt was damp with sweat, and although she was too far to see for herself, she could picture the beads of sweat that surely glistened in the warm May sunshine. She watched as a branch crashed to the ground and Chandler jumped down from the ladder, dropping the saw to the ground and running his forearm across his brow. She tried to picture someone like Peter Becker sawing off branches, and she found that not only was it relatively impossible, the notion in itself was almost amusing. The idea that such a man as Mr. Becker would ever resort to doing manual labor was absurd; such tasks were of course suitable only for people of lower status. In Monica's mind, however, a man who could cut wood and paint sheds was far more interesting and certainly appealing than a man who sat around talking of nothing but banking and horseracing, and the type of man who wanted his women to listen but not to speak.
As he arched his aching back, Chandler caught a glimpse of her sitting under what he assumed was her favorite tree, and as he did so he grinned without being able to help himself. It almost seemed as though she were trying to be within seeing distance of him at most opportunities, but it was a thought that he quickly pushed away. Monica was a Geller. She was one of those girls who could have any man she wanted. She would undoubtedly marry a man just like her father and would end up living just like her mother. Chandler shook his head, feeling strangely sad at the thought. While he often wished that he and his mother had more money, more for her sake than his own, he was rarely if ever jealous of the type of people for whom he worked. He'd never been envious of the type of life lived by the Ross Gellers and the Mark Delaneys of the world. Never, that is, until he realized that they were the ones who got to marry the Monica Gellers, and at that realization he was suddenly filled with envy. It was an envy that he almost felt was ridiculous, given the circumstances of its cause; after all, in what world would a man like him ever have a chance with a woman like her? Yet, at the same time, he knew that in some way he could offer her more than Peter Becker could. He could give her the chance to be a true person, and not simply an arm ornament for her husband. He would never allow the fiery spirit within her to be tamed -- instead, he would nourish it, being that he found it to be one of the characteristics about her that he loved the most. He knew all too well that the type of man she would undoubtedly be expected to marry would most certainly see her as an animal to be broken, thereby killing the fire in her heart and the sparkle in her eyes that made her what she was. He sighed again and bundled the branches together with twine, holding them under one arm and grabbing the ladder with his other. He made his way back toward the house, and each step took him closer to Monica, who was once again looking intently at the book in front of her.
"How is it?" She looked up shyly and closed the book hesitantly, keeping her finger marking her page.
"Wonderful." Chandler grinned as he hoisted the ladder higher on his hip.
"I'm glad you like it. Well, I'd best be getting back to the house. Work is never done." He smiled again. "See you later, Monica." She simply nodded and watched his retreating figure, sighing. She was somewhat annoyed at her father for giving him so much to do -- he never had a free moment to talk. She shook her head, suddenly feeling foolish. Of course he had work to do -- that was his JOB. She silently rose and picked up the blanket she had been sitting on and the hat that had been beside her and made her way back to the house, pausing and sighing when she saw her best friend sitting in the kitchen talking with her mother through the window. While she and Rachel were almost close enough to be sisters, her friend's shallowness sometimes irritated her the same way that Ross's did. Rachel loved the parties and the socializing and didn't hold any of the same opinions as Monica. Yet, despite their numerous differences, Monica loved her, which was one of the reason that it didn't bother her much that it looked like Ross and Rachel would eventually be married. Mr. Green had spoken with Jack Geller about marrying Rachel to his son, and being that the Gellers were quite fond of Rachel, the proposition had gone over quite well. Ross had also been happy, given that Rachel was both beautiful and elegant, and Rachel had been happy because Ross was both well-off and distinguished. A perfect match, it seemed.
"Hi, Rach," Monica said as she entered the kitchen.
"Monica!" Rachel greeted as she rose from the table.
"Monica, where on earth have you been?" her mother interrupted.
"I was in the garden reading," Monica replied simply. Judy sighed and shook her head.
"Honestly, there are so many things you could spend your time doing, why do you waste so many hours with your nose stuck in some book?"
"I suppose I simply don't see them as wasted hours," she replied, and turned to Rachel, eager to escape the conversation. "Let's go into the sitting room," she suggested. Rachel nodded and turned to follow her.
"You're going tomorrow night, right?" Rachel asked once they were seated in the other room.
"To the Delaneys'?" Monica asked skeptically.
"Yes. Oh, do come, Monica, it'll be fun."
"Fun? A night spent with Katie and Ashley Delaney?" Rachel sighed.
"Please? It won't only be them, there will be lots of people there. Peter Becker is going." Monica rolled her eyes.
"Another reason not to go," she replied shortly.
"Oh, Monica... I know you're not too fond of him, but you should at least give him a chance. Especially when, chances are, you'll probably end up married to him." Monica shook her head defiantly.
"I will NOT marry someone I don't love," she said hotly.
"Monica, how many people do you know who married someone they were actually in love with?"
"Bessie and her new husband." Rachel rolled her eyes.
"Yes, well, the poor can afford to marry for love." Monica looked at Rachel incredulously.
"Well, in that case, I'm envious of the poor." Rachel stared at her for a moment, and realized that she would never win an argument with Monica, especially not one dealing with a topic that she knew her best friend felt strongly about.
"Okay, well, anyway, you are coming tomorrow, right?" Monica sighed and nodded.
"Yes, Mother already told them to expect both Ross and me." Rachel smiled.
"Good. Well, I'd best be going, I told Daddy I'd be home in an hour. I'll see you tomorrow!" Mon nodded sullenly and let Rachel out, leaning against the door dejectedly. The idea of a night spent amid such superficial people filled her with a sense of dread, and she tried desperately to think of a way to get out of going, but she knew all too well that no excuse short of severe illness would save her. She sighed again and headed up the stairs to finish her book.
Chandler sighed as he pulled off his shirt and looked at the scrape across his shoulder that he'd gotten from a branch that had snagged him on the way down. He gingerly touched it and immediately winced. He wondered where the Gellers kept clean rags and ointment as he dabbed it with his balled-up t-shirt. Suddenly there was a knock on his door and he opened it slightly to reveal Monica on the other side once again. She blushed slightly when she realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but hid it by smiling and extending his book toward him.
"Finished already?" Chandler asked with a smile, only half-surprised. He'd only given it to her three days ago, but he knew how difficult it was to put a good book down. She nodded silently and smiled again. He opened the door a little bit wider to indicate toward his shelf, but before he could offer her another book, she noticed his shoulder.
"Oh, Chandler, what happened?" she asked, the concern in her voice making it sound as though he'd lost his whole arm. He couldn't help grinning as he answered.
"Branch. Wasn't too happy about being cut off, apparently." He shrugged nonchalantly, but was grateful when he realized that he could ask Monica if they had any clean rags.
"Come with me, we should clean it."
"Oh, don't worry, I can do it if you can just tell me where there are some rags and maybe some ointment." She looked at him evenly.
"It reaches to between your shoulder blades. If you can reach that, you should be in a circus, not working our land." She smiled slightly and nodded toward the hallway. He followed her wordlessly, thankful that she had shown up.
"Okay," she said a few moments later. "This may sting a little, but the alcohol will prevent any infections. Ready?" He nodded, immediately wincing as she poured the alcohol onto the wound. He turned his head away so that she wouldn't see the pained expression on his face. Knowing that it was burning, she leaned in and gently blew across the scratch, and as she did so he felt a shiver run down his spine. Once she had finished drying it, he felt her small fingers gently rubbing ointment in.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"It's no problem," she replied as she put the cap back on the tube and covered the cut with gauze. "Does that feel okay?" He nodded as he turned to face her. He stared at her for a moment, allowing himself to get lost in her clear blue eyes, slightly saddened when she turned away and focused on wiping her hands on a clean rag. He smiled slightly.
"You're going to be a good mother someday," he said quietly. "Must be that basic woman's instinct." Monica stared at him, surprised. His comment seemed so personal, and yet it didn't seem at all offensive or inappropriate.
"Thank you," she said blushing, and then sighed.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, rising from the kitchen table. "That was rude of me."
"No," she said, looking up quickly. "Not at all! It's not that." He sat back down slowly, gazing at her.
"May I ask what it is?" he asked gently. He felt as though he were prying into her privacy, but at the same time he knew that if there was something that she didn't want to tell him, Monica Geller would most certainly tell him to mind his own business. She sighed again and, after a moment of silence, looked at him evenly.
"It's just... the idea of children isn't exactly a happy one when I imagine being married to someone I don't love." He stared at her, completely clueless as to what to say.
"Someone in particular?" he asked carefully. She was silent for a moment as she looked at him, almost as though she were sizing him up with her eyes, debating whether or not he was worthy of her story.
"Peter Becker," she answered eventually.
"The banker Peter Becker?" he asked. She nodded, and he sighed. It was exactly how he had imagined it -- Monica, beautiful, lively, intelligent Monica, was to be married to dim-witted, dull, and arrogant Peter Becker.
"I WON'T marry someone I don't love," she said boldly. Not knowing what to say, Chandler remained silent. In that moment she had revealed her fear, her strength, and her fire to him, and he wanted so badly to wrap his arms tightly around her, kiss her, and show her the love that she would never find in someone like Peter Becker, but he knew he couldn't. He played absently with the tube of ointment as his mind whirled, and he spoke quietly after a moment.
"Love is the dream," he confessed in a voice barely above a whisper. Monica looked at him, a combination of surprise and confusion playing on her beautiful face. He licked his lips before continuing. "I saw my parents, and I don't think they were ever really in love, but I've seen people in love and it's got to be the most powerful thing in the world. People are willing to do any multitude of things for love. It consumes, it nourishes, it comforts. It causes sublime happiness and dull despair. And yet, despite all of the difficulties that it inflicts upon us, it is still the single strongest emotion we hold within us. It's the one thing that can save us from the hell of true life. It's the fairy tale possibility within our own hearts." Suddenly he stopped and looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly after a moment. "I get a little carried away sometimes."
Monica swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat as she'd been listening to him. "Don't apologize. That's... that's it. Perfect. That's what I want. That's why I don't want to marry someone like Peter Becker. I could never find that love with a man like him." Chandler looked back up at her, grateful that she'd been so understanding and surprised that she understood what he meant. After a moment, she rose from the table. "Well, I'd better be getting to bed. I have to attend another one of the Delaneys' parties tomorrow night," she explained with a sigh. He smiled half-heartedly.
"Well, on behalf of my former employers, I apologize for the boredom that undoubtedly awaits you." She smiled. "Thanks again for fixing me up, Mon." She grinned.
"Mon?" He blushed.
"Sorry, Monica."
"No," she said, smiling and shaking her head. "Mon. I like it." He grinned again. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Chandler."
"Goodnight... Mon." She smiled and turned away, heading for the stairs. Chandler sighed and leaned his elbows on the table and placed his forehead in his hands. What a pity is was that the love he'd wanted for so long and that he'd always dreamed of was one he managed to find in someone he could never have.
"Monica, there's a slight problem with the plans for tonight," her mother said carefully as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
"Oh?" Monica asked, raising her eyebrows hopefully.
"It seems that Peter Becker will be unable to attend, as he's had to go to a conference in Philadelphia."
"Strange, that doesn't seem to be a problem in my opinion," Monica muttered.
"Monica, it's not very ladylike to mutter, especially not such sarcastic comments."
"Sorry," Monica replied, only halfway meaning it.
"Anyway," her mother continued, "Ross won't be able to bring you home, as he'll be Rachel's escort for the evening."
"That is a shame," Monica said in false earnest. "Well, perhaps the best thing to do would be for me to stay at home tonight, then." She looked at her mother hopefully.
"Of course you can't miss the Delaneys' party," Judy said, appalled at the suggestion.
"Well, then, I can just bring myself home," Monica replied simply.
"Oh, Monica, you know you can't very well be walking alone after dark."
"Why? They don't live THAT far away."
"Dear, what in heaven would people think if we left our daughter to walk home in pitch black like some... unrefined peasant?"
"Mother, it's almost the 20th century. There's no such thing as peasants anymore," Monica said.
"Monica, don't speak to your mother in such a tone," Jack interrupted.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she replied. "I just don't see my lacking an escort to be quite the crisis situation you see." She turned as she heard Chandler clearing his throat from the other end of the kitchen where he had been putting a nail in the wall to hang a painting.
"I don't mean to be rude," he said, glancing at Monica, "but I couldn't help overhearing your dilemma. If it would be of any help, I would gladly go to the Delaneys' this evening to pick her up if you can find no better solution." Judy offered a tight-lipped smile.
"Well, thank you Chandler, but I don't think that will be necessary."
"Oh, Judy, that's a wonderful idea!" Jack countered. "After all, Chandler is familiar with the Delaneys and the way to their house." He turned to face him. "Thank you for the offer, Chandler." Chandler nodded, smiling slightly, and returned to hanging the painting. Monica took a sip of her water to hide the smile that played upon her lips, glad that she wouldn't have to put up with the boring small talk that always took place on the walks home with Peter Becker. Facing the wall, Chandler also grinned, pleased at the opportunity to retrieve Monica from the party and to have the time to talk with her alone without the danger of shirking his responsibilities.
"Who's Mark Twain?" Monica had to fight from rolling her eyes. Sarah Taylor, one of the more intelligent girls at the party, or so Monica had thought, had proven otherwise.
"Never mind," Monica said dejectedly. She found herself wishing that Chandler were with her so that she would have someone to talk to that would make the party interesting. She stole a glance at the grandfather clock in the hallway. 9:30. Only thirty minutes until he would show up to take her home. Her parents had told him to get her at 10:30, but she'd taken him aside that afternoon and begged him to pick her up half an hour early so that she wouldn't die of boredom. Now, however, it looked as though that danger lurked in the not-so-distant future. She looked around for Rachel, eventually spotting her in the opposite corner of the room talking with Ross and a few others. Monica made her way over to them, hoping, if nothing else, that their familiarity would offer some comfort. "I don't believe it!" she heard Rachel say once she was within earshot. She joined their circle and looked on curiously.
"Don't believe what?" she asked politely.
"You remember Anne Franklin?" Monica nodded. "She's... well, she's in a 'delicate condition.'" Monica frowned.
"I didn't know she was married."
"She's not," Ross said simply. Monica's eyes widened slightly. She had always gotten on quite well with Anne, considering that she was an upper-class girl. Yet she'd been far less superficial than most, and for that reason Monica had found her far more tolerable.
"If she's not married, then what of the father?" she asked inquisitively.
"That's the strangest part. Seems it was some blacksmith or something. Her father was irate, as you can imagine. After all, he was planning on her getting married to someone of a much more respectable status." Rachel shook her head pityingly. Monica rolled her eyes.
"Well, it's quite bad form to gossip, really," one of the girls said.
"Perhaps she loved him," Monica argued, ignoring the interruption. Everyone listening looked at her, surprised.
"Why would someone like Anne love someone like that?"
"Why not?" Monica challenged.
"Oh, Monica, honestly, could you ever see yourSELF with someone of a lower class than your own?" Rachel asked. Monica froze and blushed as the image of Chandler swept through her mind. "There you are." She opened her mouth to argue, but could find nothing of value to say. As she heard the Delaneys' doorbell chime, she glanced at the clock. 9:50. She silently prayed that it was Chandler who had finally arrived to rescue her from the dreary world of condescension.
"Miss Geller."
"Thank you, Arthur," she said to the Delaneys' butler as she walked into the entrance hall. She smiled when she saw Chandler shifting nervously in the doorway. He grinned back.
"I'll get your coat," he offered as he walked toward the hall closet.
"Thank you," she said after he'd found it and helped her on with it.
"My pleasure. Shall we?" He said, offering his arm. She smiled again, taking his arm and allowing him to escort her out of the house.
"Oh, thank you for rescuing me!" She said, exhaling heavily once they had reached the end of the Delaney walkway. He laughed.
"That much fun, huh?" She groaned. "I always wondered what the appeal of those parties was. I mean, I saw enough of them when I worked there. Heaven knows those people throw at least once every two weeks."
"Don't remind me," Monica said, and he laughed again. After a moment of silence, Chandler spoke nervously.
"So, uh, I don't know what you want to do about this, but your parents aren't expecting you home until about a quarter of eleven, so did you just want to tell them you left early? They didn't see me leave," he explained. "I didn't know if you'd want to tell them that you snuck out early." Monica looked at him carefully.
"Would you mind if we stalled a bit? I'd much rather not go home until I absolutely must." Chandler smiled slightly, fighting back the much larger grin that lingered behind the slight smile.
"Sounds fine to me," he said quietly. She smiled appreciatively and sighed.
"What a beautiful night," she said after a moment. Chandler nodded in agreement.
"Lots of stars," he said. She looked up and sighed again. "That's one of the reasons I love walking at night." She turned to face him.
"You go out walking at night often?" He shrugged.
"Sometimes. Mainly on nights like this. Clear, breezy, lots of stars... it's just so peaceful. A good time to gather thoughts."
"I wish I could walk alone at night," Monica said wistfully. "But, as was made quite clear by this morning's conversation, that's apparently out of the question." She was silent for a moment before speaking again. "What kind of things do you think about?" He turned to face her for a moment, and she looked at the ground quickly. "I'm sorry, that's personal, I understand." Chandler grinned as he once again recognized the tension between her unbridled curiosity and her refined upbringing.
"No, it's fine. I think about everything. Although, come to think of it, I haven't gone for a night walk since I moved to your place."
"Why not?" He shrugged.
"I don't know. Although some nights I've been busy with the book trade." Monica reddened and he laughed. "I just haven't yet, I suppose. Although I will pick up with it soon enough, I'm sure. There's just something about being out alone at night. It feels almost... magical." She smiled, nodding her agreement. He suddenly stopped and scratched his head.
"What?" Monica asked.
"Would you like to see something?"
"Of course," she replied, following him as he turned off the road and walked through a small wood. Suddenly they were at a clear patch that dropped off into a small brook no more than ten feet below. The water babbled soothingly below while the clear moon sent a soft glow over the area and made the surface of the black water shine.
"This is where I'd come a lot when I used to walk," he explained.
"I can understand why," she said after a moment. "It's beautiful." He nodded.
"A good place for reading during the day. Almost as good as your beloved tree," he added after a moment. She felt the blush once again creeping toward her face and he laughed warmly. "I'd invite you to sit, but I'm afraid I don't have anything for you to sit on." Without a second thought, Monica promptly sat down on the cool grass and looked back up at him boldly. He grinned and joined her. "Well, I definitely should have seen that one coming." She turned to face him curiously.
"Meaning?"
"Well, just meaning that you're not one for the frills and everything. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were one of us."
"One of us?" Monica repeated.
"You know. As opposed to what you are."
"Oh, of course. And what exactly am I?" Monica asked, her annoyance mounting.
"You know what you are," he said carefully, aware of the fact that he'd probably offended her.
"Yes, I do, actually. I know who I am far better than you do, thank you." She made a move to stand up, but stopped when she felt his hand grasp her arm.
"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately. "I didn't mean anything by that. I just... I guess... I've just never known anyone like you." Monica softened, knowing that he'd meant no offense.
"I know... I'm sorry, as well. I tend to be quick-tempered sometimes and... well, I apologize for flying off the handle."
"No apology necessary, Mon," he replied. Monica grinned when she heard him use his nickname for her.
"It really is beautiful here," she said after a moment.
"Yeah, it is," he answered. "I guess that must be why you fit in so well here." She turned to face him, surprised. He blushed and continued to stare out at the water, not having the courage to meet her eye. He hadn't meant to say it, but when the thought had entered his mind it was as if he lost all control over his mouth, and the words had escaped.
"You think I'm beautiful?" she asked after a moment. He cast a sideways glance at her before answering.
"You're far more than beautiful, Monica. Many girls can be beautiful. You're... fire."
"Fire," she repeated carefully. He looked at her nervously for a moment, silently arguing with himself over whether or not he should explain and eventually realizing that he couldn't very well shut his mouth now.
"You... you remind me of this character I made up," he began. "You see, I was writing this story. Well, trying to write this story. I never really got around to finishing it... well anyway, it was a love story. Kind of. The love story was at the heart of it, anyway. The woman was... well, when I created her, I guess I was subconsciously writing about the type of woman that I've always seen as perfect. Anyway, she reminds me of you... and the word that I always kept in mind when I wrote about her was 'fire.' Everything she did, she did fervently. She was passionate about everything: her thoughts, her emotions, her beliefs, her lover... everything in her was like another spark that ignited a new flame." He quieted for a moment. "Well, that's... that's just kind of the way I see you, I guess."
"Funny," she said after a thoughtful moment. "That's how I feel. Like fire. Except sometimes... I feel like it's either going to consume me or be put out. I mean, it's almost like I have to choose: a raging blaze or ashes. If I live life my way and turn away from my family, that fire will be all I have. If I don't... well, if I don't, the blankets of my parents and Peter Becker will eventually extinguish the flames, and then what will there be?" She was suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. Chandler immediately moved closer to her without really realizing it, and he placed his finger under her chin.
"I find it hard to believe that anyone, even a Peter Becker, could extinguish that flame of yours," he murmured. Monica smiled and took a deep breath, suddenly realizing how close they were. Chandler moved away slightly and looked back out over the water. As she gazed at him, she realized suddenly that she had found the type of love that she had always wanted. Since the day he'd moved in, she had become consumed with watching him and wanting to be around him. From their shared interest in literary works to the magnetic power of his sky blue eyes, she felt comforted, empowered, and invigorated by him in a way that she'd feared would never exist. The realization came as a shock to her, for although she'd known she liked him, she had no idea how deep it ran. With the sudden insight, however, she felt a combined sensation of fear, joy, and love take over her and as she gazed at his profile she knew she had to know if he felt the same for her -- if the love he had so passionately spoken of was a love that he could ever find in her. Before she was even aware of it herself, she had placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers and was gazing intently into his eyes, almost as if she could read the answer in them like she read his books. He stared silently back at her, wishing with all his heart that he had the courage to lean in and kiss her. They continued to gaze into each other's eyes wordlessly, each dying to know what the other was thinking, but neither willing to break the mysteriously charged silence between them.
A million thoughts were rushing through Chandler's mind, from how much trouble he would get into if he was seen in such a situation with Monica Geller to how he simply didn't care, as long as he got to kiss her.
Monica felt a shiver run down her back as he slowly reached up and ran his fingers gently over her cheek. "This is going to be a problem," he murmured, looking adoringly into her eyes. She shrugged slightly.
"What fire isn't?" He half-smiled and leaned in for the tender kiss he had awaited for so long.
OKAY... THINGS GET COMPLICATED IN PART THREE, COMING SOON!!! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK, AND THANKS FOR READING! :-)
Chapter Two
As she watched him sawing the lower branches off an oak tree near the edge of her father's property, Monica couldn't help noticing how strong and capable he looked. His white undershirt was damp with sweat, and although she was too far to see for herself, she could picture the beads of sweat that surely glistened in the warm May sunshine. She watched as a branch crashed to the ground and Chandler jumped down from the ladder, dropping the saw to the ground and running his forearm across his brow. She tried to picture someone like Peter Becker sawing off branches, and she found that not only was it relatively impossible, the notion in itself was almost amusing. The idea that such a man as Mr. Becker would ever resort to doing manual labor was absurd; such tasks were of course suitable only for people of lower status. In Monica's mind, however, a man who could cut wood and paint sheds was far more interesting and certainly appealing than a man who sat around talking of nothing but banking and horseracing, and the type of man who wanted his women to listen but not to speak.
As he arched his aching back, Chandler caught a glimpse of her sitting under what he assumed was her favorite tree, and as he did so he grinned without being able to help himself. It almost seemed as though she were trying to be within seeing distance of him at most opportunities, but it was a thought that he quickly pushed away. Monica was a Geller. She was one of those girls who could have any man she wanted. She would undoubtedly marry a man just like her father and would end up living just like her mother. Chandler shook his head, feeling strangely sad at the thought. While he often wished that he and his mother had more money, more for her sake than his own, he was rarely if ever jealous of the type of people for whom he worked. He'd never been envious of the type of life lived by the Ross Gellers and the Mark Delaneys of the world. Never, that is, until he realized that they were the ones who got to marry the Monica Gellers, and at that realization he was suddenly filled with envy. It was an envy that he almost felt was ridiculous, given the circumstances of its cause; after all, in what world would a man like him ever have a chance with a woman like her? Yet, at the same time, he knew that in some way he could offer her more than Peter Becker could. He could give her the chance to be a true person, and not simply an arm ornament for her husband. He would never allow the fiery spirit within her to be tamed -- instead, he would nourish it, being that he found it to be one of the characteristics about her that he loved the most. He knew all too well that the type of man she would undoubtedly be expected to marry would most certainly see her as an animal to be broken, thereby killing the fire in her heart and the sparkle in her eyes that made her what she was. He sighed again and bundled the branches together with twine, holding them under one arm and grabbing the ladder with his other. He made his way back toward the house, and each step took him closer to Monica, who was once again looking intently at the book in front of her.
"How is it?" She looked up shyly and closed the book hesitantly, keeping her finger marking her page.
"Wonderful." Chandler grinned as he hoisted the ladder higher on his hip.
"I'm glad you like it. Well, I'd best be getting back to the house. Work is never done." He smiled again. "See you later, Monica." She simply nodded and watched his retreating figure, sighing. She was somewhat annoyed at her father for giving him so much to do -- he never had a free moment to talk. She shook her head, suddenly feeling foolish. Of course he had work to do -- that was his JOB. She silently rose and picked up the blanket she had been sitting on and the hat that had been beside her and made her way back to the house, pausing and sighing when she saw her best friend sitting in the kitchen talking with her mother through the window. While she and Rachel were almost close enough to be sisters, her friend's shallowness sometimes irritated her the same way that Ross's did. Rachel loved the parties and the socializing and didn't hold any of the same opinions as Monica. Yet, despite their numerous differences, Monica loved her, which was one of the reason that it didn't bother her much that it looked like Ross and Rachel would eventually be married. Mr. Green had spoken with Jack Geller about marrying Rachel to his son, and being that the Gellers were quite fond of Rachel, the proposition had gone over quite well. Ross had also been happy, given that Rachel was both beautiful and elegant, and Rachel had been happy because Ross was both well-off and distinguished. A perfect match, it seemed.
"Hi, Rach," Monica said as she entered the kitchen.
"Monica!" Rachel greeted as she rose from the table.
"Monica, where on earth have you been?" her mother interrupted.
"I was in the garden reading," Monica replied simply. Judy sighed and shook her head.
"Honestly, there are so many things you could spend your time doing, why do you waste so many hours with your nose stuck in some book?"
"I suppose I simply don't see them as wasted hours," she replied, and turned to Rachel, eager to escape the conversation. "Let's go into the sitting room," she suggested. Rachel nodded and turned to follow her.
"You're going tomorrow night, right?" Rachel asked once they were seated in the other room.
"To the Delaneys'?" Monica asked skeptically.
"Yes. Oh, do come, Monica, it'll be fun."
"Fun? A night spent with Katie and Ashley Delaney?" Rachel sighed.
"Please? It won't only be them, there will be lots of people there. Peter Becker is going." Monica rolled her eyes.
"Another reason not to go," she replied shortly.
"Oh, Monica... I know you're not too fond of him, but you should at least give him a chance. Especially when, chances are, you'll probably end up married to him." Monica shook her head defiantly.
"I will NOT marry someone I don't love," she said hotly.
"Monica, how many people do you know who married someone they were actually in love with?"
"Bessie and her new husband." Rachel rolled her eyes.
"Yes, well, the poor can afford to marry for love." Monica looked at Rachel incredulously.
"Well, in that case, I'm envious of the poor." Rachel stared at her for a moment, and realized that she would never win an argument with Monica, especially not one dealing with a topic that she knew her best friend felt strongly about.
"Okay, well, anyway, you are coming tomorrow, right?" Monica sighed and nodded.
"Yes, Mother already told them to expect both Ross and me." Rachel smiled.
"Good. Well, I'd best be going, I told Daddy I'd be home in an hour. I'll see you tomorrow!" Mon nodded sullenly and let Rachel out, leaning against the door dejectedly. The idea of a night spent amid such superficial people filled her with a sense of dread, and she tried desperately to think of a way to get out of going, but she knew all too well that no excuse short of severe illness would save her. She sighed again and headed up the stairs to finish her book.
Chandler sighed as he pulled off his shirt and looked at the scrape across his shoulder that he'd gotten from a branch that had snagged him on the way down. He gingerly touched it and immediately winced. He wondered where the Gellers kept clean rags and ointment as he dabbed it with his balled-up t-shirt. Suddenly there was a knock on his door and he opened it slightly to reveal Monica on the other side once again. She blushed slightly when she realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt, but hid it by smiling and extending his book toward him.
"Finished already?" Chandler asked with a smile, only half-surprised. He'd only given it to her three days ago, but he knew how difficult it was to put a good book down. She nodded silently and smiled again. He opened the door a little bit wider to indicate toward his shelf, but before he could offer her another book, she noticed his shoulder.
"Oh, Chandler, what happened?" she asked, the concern in her voice making it sound as though he'd lost his whole arm. He couldn't help grinning as he answered.
"Branch. Wasn't too happy about being cut off, apparently." He shrugged nonchalantly, but was grateful when he realized that he could ask Monica if they had any clean rags.
"Come with me, we should clean it."
"Oh, don't worry, I can do it if you can just tell me where there are some rags and maybe some ointment." She looked at him evenly.
"It reaches to between your shoulder blades. If you can reach that, you should be in a circus, not working our land." She smiled slightly and nodded toward the hallway. He followed her wordlessly, thankful that she had shown up.
"Okay," she said a few moments later. "This may sting a little, but the alcohol will prevent any infections. Ready?" He nodded, immediately wincing as she poured the alcohol onto the wound. He turned his head away so that she wouldn't see the pained expression on his face. Knowing that it was burning, she leaned in and gently blew across the scratch, and as she did so he felt a shiver run down his spine. Once she had finished drying it, he felt her small fingers gently rubbing ointment in.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"It's no problem," she replied as she put the cap back on the tube and covered the cut with gauze. "Does that feel okay?" He nodded as he turned to face her. He stared at her for a moment, allowing himself to get lost in her clear blue eyes, slightly saddened when she turned away and focused on wiping her hands on a clean rag. He smiled slightly.
"You're going to be a good mother someday," he said quietly. "Must be that basic woman's instinct." Monica stared at him, surprised. His comment seemed so personal, and yet it didn't seem at all offensive or inappropriate.
"Thank you," she said blushing, and then sighed.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, rising from the kitchen table. "That was rude of me."
"No," she said, looking up quickly. "Not at all! It's not that." He sat back down slowly, gazing at her.
"May I ask what it is?" he asked gently. He felt as though he were prying into her privacy, but at the same time he knew that if there was something that she didn't want to tell him, Monica Geller would most certainly tell him to mind his own business. She sighed again and, after a moment of silence, looked at him evenly.
"It's just... the idea of children isn't exactly a happy one when I imagine being married to someone I don't love." He stared at her, completely clueless as to what to say.
"Someone in particular?" he asked carefully. She was silent for a moment as she looked at him, almost as though she were sizing him up with her eyes, debating whether or not he was worthy of her story.
"Peter Becker," she answered eventually.
"The banker Peter Becker?" he asked. She nodded, and he sighed. It was exactly how he had imagined it -- Monica, beautiful, lively, intelligent Monica, was to be married to dim-witted, dull, and arrogant Peter Becker.
"I WON'T marry someone I don't love," she said boldly. Not knowing what to say, Chandler remained silent. In that moment she had revealed her fear, her strength, and her fire to him, and he wanted so badly to wrap his arms tightly around her, kiss her, and show her the love that she would never find in someone like Peter Becker, but he knew he couldn't. He played absently with the tube of ointment as his mind whirled, and he spoke quietly after a moment.
"Love is the dream," he confessed in a voice barely above a whisper. Monica looked at him, a combination of surprise and confusion playing on her beautiful face. He licked his lips before continuing. "I saw my parents, and I don't think they were ever really in love, but I've seen people in love and it's got to be the most powerful thing in the world. People are willing to do any multitude of things for love. It consumes, it nourishes, it comforts. It causes sublime happiness and dull despair. And yet, despite all of the difficulties that it inflicts upon us, it is still the single strongest emotion we hold within us. It's the one thing that can save us from the hell of true life. It's the fairy tale possibility within our own hearts." Suddenly he stopped and looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly after a moment. "I get a little carried away sometimes."
Monica swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat as she'd been listening to him. "Don't apologize. That's... that's it. Perfect. That's what I want. That's why I don't want to marry someone like Peter Becker. I could never find that love with a man like him." Chandler looked back up at her, grateful that she'd been so understanding and surprised that she understood what he meant. After a moment, she rose from the table. "Well, I'd better be getting to bed. I have to attend another one of the Delaneys' parties tomorrow night," she explained with a sigh. He smiled half-heartedly.
"Well, on behalf of my former employers, I apologize for the boredom that undoubtedly awaits you." She smiled. "Thanks again for fixing me up, Mon." She grinned.
"Mon?" He blushed.
"Sorry, Monica."
"No," she said, smiling and shaking her head. "Mon. I like it." He grinned again. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Chandler."
"Goodnight... Mon." She smiled and turned away, heading for the stairs. Chandler sighed and leaned his elbows on the table and placed his forehead in his hands. What a pity is was that the love he'd wanted for so long and that he'd always dreamed of was one he managed to find in someone he could never have.
"Monica, there's a slight problem with the plans for tonight," her mother said carefully as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
"Oh?" Monica asked, raising her eyebrows hopefully.
"It seems that Peter Becker will be unable to attend, as he's had to go to a conference in Philadelphia."
"Strange, that doesn't seem to be a problem in my opinion," Monica muttered.
"Monica, it's not very ladylike to mutter, especially not such sarcastic comments."
"Sorry," Monica replied, only halfway meaning it.
"Anyway," her mother continued, "Ross won't be able to bring you home, as he'll be Rachel's escort for the evening."
"That is a shame," Monica said in false earnest. "Well, perhaps the best thing to do would be for me to stay at home tonight, then." She looked at her mother hopefully.
"Of course you can't miss the Delaneys' party," Judy said, appalled at the suggestion.
"Well, then, I can just bring myself home," Monica replied simply.
"Oh, Monica, you know you can't very well be walking alone after dark."
"Why? They don't live THAT far away."
"Dear, what in heaven would people think if we left our daughter to walk home in pitch black like some... unrefined peasant?"
"Mother, it's almost the 20th century. There's no such thing as peasants anymore," Monica said.
"Monica, don't speak to your mother in such a tone," Jack interrupted.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she replied. "I just don't see my lacking an escort to be quite the crisis situation you see." She turned as she heard Chandler clearing his throat from the other end of the kitchen where he had been putting a nail in the wall to hang a painting.
"I don't mean to be rude," he said, glancing at Monica, "but I couldn't help overhearing your dilemma. If it would be of any help, I would gladly go to the Delaneys' this evening to pick her up if you can find no better solution." Judy offered a tight-lipped smile.
"Well, thank you Chandler, but I don't think that will be necessary."
"Oh, Judy, that's a wonderful idea!" Jack countered. "After all, Chandler is familiar with the Delaneys and the way to their house." He turned to face him. "Thank you for the offer, Chandler." Chandler nodded, smiling slightly, and returned to hanging the painting. Monica took a sip of her water to hide the smile that played upon her lips, glad that she wouldn't have to put up with the boring small talk that always took place on the walks home with Peter Becker. Facing the wall, Chandler also grinned, pleased at the opportunity to retrieve Monica from the party and to have the time to talk with her alone without the danger of shirking his responsibilities.
"Who's Mark Twain?" Monica had to fight from rolling her eyes. Sarah Taylor, one of the more intelligent girls at the party, or so Monica had thought, had proven otherwise.
"Never mind," Monica said dejectedly. She found herself wishing that Chandler were with her so that she would have someone to talk to that would make the party interesting. She stole a glance at the grandfather clock in the hallway. 9:30. Only thirty minutes until he would show up to take her home. Her parents had told him to get her at 10:30, but she'd taken him aside that afternoon and begged him to pick her up half an hour early so that she wouldn't die of boredom. Now, however, it looked as though that danger lurked in the not-so-distant future. She looked around for Rachel, eventually spotting her in the opposite corner of the room talking with Ross and a few others. Monica made her way over to them, hoping, if nothing else, that their familiarity would offer some comfort. "I don't believe it!" she heard Rachel say once she was within earshot. She joined their circle and looked on curiously.
"Don't believe what?" she asked politely.
"You remember Anne Franklin?" Monica nodded. "She's... well, she's in a 'delicate condition.'" Monica frowned.
"I didn't know she was married."
"She's not," Ross said simply. Monica's eyes widened slightly. She had always gotten on quite well with Anne, considering that she was an upper-class girl. Yet she'd been far less superficial than most, and for that reason Monica had found her far more tolerable.
"If she's not married, then what of the father?" she asked inquisitively.
"That's the strangest part. Seems it was some blacksmith or something. Her father was irate, as you can imagine. After all, he was planning on her getting married to someone of a much more respectable status." Rachel shook her head pityingly. Monica rolled her eyes.
"Well, it's quite bad form to gossip, really," one of the girls said.
"Perhaps she loved him," Monica argued, ignoring the interruption. Everyone listening looked at her, surprised.
"Why would someone like Anne love someone like that?"
"Why not?" Monica challenged.
"Oh, Monica, honestly, could you ever see yourSELF with someone of a lower class than your own?" Rachel asked. Monica froze and blushed as the image of Chandler swept through her mind. "There you are." She opened her mouth to argue, but could find nothing of value to say. As she heard the Delaneys' doorbell chime, she glanced at the clock. 9:50. She silently prayed that it was Chandler who had finally arrived to rescue her from the dreary world of condescension.
"Miss Geller."
"Thank you, Arthur," she said to the Delaneys' butler as she walked into the entrance hall. She smiled when she saw Chandler shifting nervously in the doorway. He grinned back.
"I'll get your coat," he offered as he walked toward the hall closet.
"Thank you," she said after he'd found it and helped her on with it.
"My pleasure. Shall we?" He said, offering his arm. She smiled again, taking his arm and allowing him to escort her out of the house.
"Oh, thank you for rescuing me!" She said, exhaling heavily once they had reached the end of the Delaney walkway. He laughed.
"That much fun, huh?" She groaned. "I always wondered what the appeal of those parties was. I mean, I saw enough of them when I worked there. Heaven knows those people throw at least once every two weeks."
"Don't remind me," Monica said, and he laughed again. After a moment of silence, Chandler spoke nervously.
"So, uh, I don't know what you want to do about this, but your parents aren't expecting you home until about a quarter of eleven, so did you just want to tell them you left early? They didn't see me leave," he explained. "I didn't know if you'd want to tell them that you snuck out early." Monica looked at him carefully.
"Would you mind if we stalled a bit? I'd much rather not go home until I absolutely must." Chandler smiled slightly, fighting back the much larger grin that lingered behind the slight smile.
"Sounds fine to me," he said quietly. She smiled appreciatively and sighed.
"What a beautiful night," she said after a moment. Chandler nodded in agreement.
"Lots of stars," he said. She looked up and sighed again. "That's one of the reasons I love walking at night." She turned to face him.
"You go out walking at night often?" He shrugged.
"Sometimes. Mainly on nights like this. Clear, breezy, lots of stars... it's just so peaceful. A good time to gather thoughts."
"I wish I could walk alone at night," Monica said wistfully. "But, as was made quite clear by this morning's conversation, that's apparently out of the question." She was silent for a moment before speaking again. "What kind of things do you think about?" He turned to face her for a moment, and she looked at the ground quickly. "I'm sorry, that's personal, I understand." Chandler grinned as he once again recognized the tension between her unbridled curiosity and her refined upbringing.
"No, it's fine. I think about everything. Although, come to think of it, I haven't gone for a night walk since I moved to your place."
"Why not?" He shrugged.
"I don't know. Although some nights I've been busy with the book trade." Monica reddened and he laughed. "I just haven't yet, I suppose. Although I will pick up with it soon enough, I'm sure. There's just something about being out alone at night. It feels almost... magical." She smiled, nodding her agreement. He suddenly stopped and scratched his head.
"What?" Monica asked.
"Would you like to see something?"
"Of course," she replied, following him as he turned off the road and walked through a small wood. Suddenly they were at a clear patch that dropped off into a small brook no more than ten feet below. The water babbled soothingly below while the clear moon sent a soft glow over the area and made the surface of the black water shine.
"This is where I'd come a lot when I used to walk," he explained.
"I can understand why," she said after a moment. "It's beautiful." He nodded.
"A good place for reading during the day. Almost as good as your beloved tree," he added after a moment. She felt the blush once again creeping toward her face and he laughed warmly. "I'd invite you to sit, but I'm afraid I don't have anything for you to sit on." Without a second thought, Monica promptly sat down on the cool grass and looked back up at him boldly. He grinned and joined her. "Well, I definitely should have seen that one coming." She turned to face him curiously.
"Meaning?"
"Well, just meaning that you're not one for the frills and everything. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were one of us."
"One of us?" Monica repeated.
"You know. As opposed to what you are."
"Oh, of course. And what exactly am I?" Monica asked, her annoyance mounting.
"You know what you are," he said carefully, aware of the fact that he'd probably offended her.
"Yes, I do, actually. I know who I am far better than you do, thank you." She made a move to stand up, but stopped when she felt his hand grasp her arm.
"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately. "I didn't mean anything by that. I just... I guess... I've just never known anyone like you." Monica softened, knowing that he'd meant no offense.
"I know... I'm sorry, as well. I tend to be quick-tempered sometimes and... well, I apologize for flying off the handle."
"No apology necessary, Mon," he replied. Monica grinned when she heard him use his nickname for her.
"It really is beautiful here," she said after a moment.
"Yeah, it is," he answered. "I guess that must be why you fit in so well here." She turned to face him, surprised. He blushed and continued to stare out at the water, not having the courage to meet her eye. He hadn't meant to say it, but when the thought had entered his mind it was as if he lost all control over his mouth, and the words had escaped.
"You think I'm beautiful?" she asked after a moment. He cast a sideways glance at her before answering.
"You're far more than beautiful, Monica. Many girls can be beautiful. You're... fire."
"Fire," she repeated carefully. He looked at her nervously for a moment, silently arguing with himself over whether or not he should explain and eventually realizing that he couldn't very well shut his mouth now.
"You... you remind me of this character I made up," he began. "You see, I was writing this story. Well, trying to write this story. I never really got around to finishing it... well anyway, it was a love story. Kind of. The love story was at the heart of it, anyway. The woman was... well, when I created her, I guess I was subconsciously writing about the type of woman that I've always seen as perfect. Anyway, she reminds me of you... and the word that I always kept in mind when I wrote about her was 'fire.' Everything she did, she did fervently. She was passionate about everything: her thoughts, her emotions, her beliefs, her lover... everything in her was like another spark that ignited a new flame." He quieted for a moment. "Well, that's... that's just kind of the way I see you, I guess."
"Funny," she said after a thoughtful moment. "That's how I feel. Like fire. Except sometimes... I feel like it's either going to consume me or be put out. I mean, it's almost like I have to choose: a raging blaze or ashes. If I live life my way and turn away from my family, that fire will be all I have. If I don't... well, if I don't, the blankets of my parents and Peter Becker will eventually extinguish the flames, and then what will there be?" She was suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. Chandler immediately moved closer to her without really realizing it, and he placed his finger under her chin.
"I find it hard to believe that anyone, even a Peter Becker, could extinguish that flame of yours," he murmured. Monica smiled and took a deep breath, suddenly realizing how close they were. Chandler moved away slightly and looked back out over the water. As she gazed at him, she realized suddenly that she had found the type of love that she had always wanted. Since the day he'd moved in, she had become consumed with watching him and wanting to be around him. From their shared interest in literary works to the magnetic power of his sky blue eyes, she felt comforted, empowered, and invigorated by him in a way that she'd feared would never exist. The realization came as a shock to her, for although she'd known she liked him, she had no idea how deep it ran. With the sudden insight, however, she felt a combined sensation of fear, joy, and love take over her and as she gazed at his profile she knew she had to know if he felt the same for her -- if the love he had so passionately spoken of was a love that he could ever find in her. Before she was even aware of it herself, she had placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers and was gazing intently into his eyes, almost as if she could read the answer in them like she read his books. He stared silently back at her, wishing with all his heart that he had the courage to lean in and kiss her. They continued to gaze into each other's eyes wordlessly, each dying to know what the other was thinking, but neither willing to break the mysteriously charged silence between them.
A million thoughts were rushing through Chandler's mind, from how much trouble he would get into if he was seen in such a situation with Monica Geller to how he simply didn't care, as long as he got to kiss her.
Monica felt a shiver run down her back as he slowly reached up and ran his fingers gently over her cheek. "This is going to be a problem," he murmured, looking adoringly into her eyes. She shrugged slightly.
"What fire isn't?" He half-smiled and leaned in for the tender kiss he had awaited for so long.
OKAY... THINGS GET COMPLICATED IN PART THREE, COMING SOON!!! PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK, AND THANKS FOR READING! :-)
