AN: Once again, a hearty THANK YOU for reviewing the story. Even if it's just a "please continue!" it's good to know that folks are still reading my insane ramblings.
Although I try not to be swayed by reviews, there was a huge outcry for me to break up Chandler and Monica, so that's what I'm gonna do now. KIDDING! There's just no way for silly ol' romantic me to keep those kids apart…or is there? (Laughs maniacally….)
The Theory
Chapter XI
Have I got the strength to ask?
Beyond the window
I feel this fear alone
Until we have
Total honesty
If I tremble or fall
I'm reaching out in this mourning air
Should I feel a moment with you…
("Mourning Air"~Portishead)
A thread of light inched its way across the darkened room, eventually falling across Monica's closed eyes. She squirmed in protest, then reached across the soft, warm bed in which she was entwined.
One eye opened; and then the other. Her head lifted ever so slightly from the pillow, and Monica noted sadly that she was alone. Hazily, she recalled her conversation, and subsequent interaction with Chandler, several hours earlier. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand; the digital red numbers read 6:15. She pulled herself into a sitting position, and wondered if it was 6:15 in the evening, or 6:15 in the morning. The funeral had ended in the early afternoon, but she honestly had no idea how long she'd been out. It had been weeks since she'd slept really well, and she had gotten very little sleep in the past few days here in Las Vegas. She had been determined to make everything as easy as possible for Chandler, but in the end, had felt utterly helpless. Chandler had taken the death badly—and had subsequently closed off tighter than before. Monica's constant concern for her friend, combined with the jet lag, had exhausted her.
Slowly, deliberately, Monica pulled herself up and out of the warm confines of the bed, and began to get dressed. She staggered around in the half-darkness of the room, looking for articles of clothing—the sex had been hurried, and passionate, and consequently, she was having one hell of a time locating her bra. She finally managed to locate it—under the comforter of all places—and proceeded to collect herself, both emotionally and physically. She had no idea what would happen when she stepped through the door.
~**~
The setting sun glared through the living room window with a shocking intensity, reminding everyone in it that yes, they were in the middle of a desert. Chandler stood up languidly, and pulled the thin green drapes over the picture window, dulling the light to a warm glow.
Rachel watched Chandler, as he moved from the window, and plopped back down on the large, overstuffed green sofa. He looked…terribly exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, and his complexion was ashen. But he also looked more relaxed than he'd been earlier. Perhaps it was because the funeral was over; but Rachel had a feeling it was something else. His talk with Monica had obviously gone well; they'd been in there for hours, and just when the rest of them had started to wonder if they should send someone in to mediate, Chandler had emerged from the bedroom, looking disheveled, but calm. He'd told them that Monica had fallen asleep, and that he thought she needed to rest.
But then, so did he.
Instead, he sat down on the sofa, and talked to them about his father, and about the things he'd been doing over the past year. And it had occurred to Rachel, that none of them really knew Chandler. It was like they were getting to know him for the first time; and somehow he knew this, because he never assumed that they all just knew; he spoke to them like new acquaintances—and yet, there was a tentative trust, old and worn, that he relied on fervently. And they wondered aloud, what had changed—why was he reaching out now?
He looked pensive, and sorrowful, as he explained his feelings involving his father; the finality of his death, and the regrets he carried still; and he spoke of trust, and his inability to let go of something he'd worked so hard to find—their friendship. He revealed his deep-seeded feelings for Monica, and the root of the anger he felt over what they had done. He opened their eyes to his world, and his loss.
He looked up at the closed door of the master bedroom—the room that once belonged to his father—the room where Will was currently asleep. He wondered aloud how Will would get by, day-to-day, alone. Chandler felt a gratitude toward Will, for all he had done for his father, and a responsibility toward him, to care for him in his remaining years the way that Will had cared for his father. Chandler quietly revealed that Will too, was dying; eventually, inevitably, AIDS would consume Will the way it had consumed Chandler's father. The thought—the idea, saddened Chandler, but also, in ways that Rachel could not begin to understand, it gave Chandler back strength and a hopefulness that he thought he'd lost.
Eventually, inevitably, Chandler ran out of energy—ran out of words. After he closed the drapes, he sat quietly, taking in the peacefulness that enveloped them. He let the others talk, but it soon became evident that the past few emotional days had taken it's toll. Quietly, slowly, Chandler fell asleep, and his friends were content to simply sit quietly and—watch.
This was how Monica found them, when she finally made her way downstairs.
They flew back to New York four days later. And in those four days, Chandler and Monica had not had one minute alone.
That fact frustrated Monica to no end. Things were strange between them—Chandler looked at her differently, and made it clear that he had not revealed what had happened to any of the others. On top of that, he had been consumed by the legalities and 'loose ends' following the funeral.
Now in New York, she was determined to get some alone time with Chandler—she had to know where she stood, and how he felt—it was driving her mad.
Chandler seemed to have the same idea; he asked Monica to share a cab with him, as the other four piled into another; and instead of going straight home, Monica went back to Chandler's.
It occurred to her, as they stepped into his building, that she had never been to Chandler's new place. She was fairly sure that none of them had. She wasn't quite sure what to expect, as she followed Chandler into his place. He flipped on the lights, and pulled their bags inside. Monica scanned the apartment, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was clean; and unlike the apartment he'd shared with Joey, this place seemed more…grown up. The sofa was a deep olive green, with a matching cherry wood coffee table and end table. A small, wooden table sat in a rounded breakfast nook in the far corner; a Salvador Dali reprint hung over a red brick fireplace, and a monstrous picture window framed a to-die-for view of the city.
"Chandler, your place is…amazing," Monica said quietly.
"Thanks," Chandler smiled, as he shook off his jacket.
"It looks…nothing like I expected," Monica smiled.
"Yeah…" Chandler replied distantly, then stood, in a trance-like stare, for several long seconds. He snapped out of it suddenly, and looked at Monica. "Drink?"
"Do you have Scotch?"
"Yeah," Chandler turned and made his way into the kitchen.
"Uh, on the—"
"Rocks with a twist, I know," Chandler called out, making Monica smile.
She wandered toward the window, her eyes falling onto the small cherry wood, roll top desk that sat next to it. On the desk, she spotted a small, neatly wrapped box, adorned with a fantastically gaudy silver ribbon. She reached out, and brushed her hand over the top of it—and suddenly, a dark thought occurred to her; what if Chandler was seeing someone? It was certainly possible. Was the gift for her? She straightened, and backed away from the box, as though she were repulsed by it. She turned slightly, when she heard Chandler re-enter the room. He approached, and handed Monica her drink.
"Chandler, I, um, never asked you…if you were, uh, seeing anyone?"
"Um, no—no…you?" Chandler shifted uncomfortably.
"No," Monica watched Chandler shift his weight, and her eyes once again fell onto the gift.
Chandler followed Monica's gaze, then smiled knowingly. Her question had terrified him—he thought she was trying to tell him she was dating someone else. He walked over to the desk, and picked up the box, running his fingers over its smooth, firecracker red paper gingerly. He extended his arm, putting the gift within Monica's grasp. She looked at him questioningly, and he chuckled, easing the tension that had been wrapped around them since Las Vegas.
"It's for you. Happy belated Birthday, Monica."
Monica took the gift, eyeing Chandler warily. She set down her drink, and inspected the package. For the first time, she noticed a small, red card, attached to the top; she flipped it open with her index finger, and smiled, when she saw her name, scrawled in Chandler's long, neat script. Hungrily, she ripped open the package, and pulled the top off of the small white box.
Inside the box, was another box, midnight blue and made of velvet. Taking a shaky breath, Monica opened the hinged box with a creak.
Inside sat a platinum bracelet, adorned with tiny daisy-like flowers. In the center of each flower was a shimmering, deep blue sapphire.
Monica remembered this bracelet. She had tried it on, three years ago. It was at Christmastime, and she had dragged Chandler out to Rockefeller Center for some last minute shopping. They had spied the bracelet, and Monica had gushed, saying sadly that someday, she would either be rich enough to buy it, or in love enough to receive it. It had all been a joke, of course, because she really never had any intention of ever seeing the bracelet again.
"Chandler," Monica whispered, astounded.
"I saw it, a few months before I started dating Kathy. I was actually going to give it to you last year, but…" Chandler laughed uncomfortably.
Monica felt her throat close up, as she ran her fingers over the bracelet.
"I…I can't accept this," Monica said suddenly, and shut the box.
"What?"
"I…I don't deserve this," Monica whispered, "After all that's happened, how can you give me something this…amazing."
"It's just an object, Monica. It's...it's not a promise, or a resolution. It's just a birthday gift."
"It's…too much."
"Well, it's yours."
An uncomfortable silence formed between them, as they realized that they had much to discuss, and that the extravagant gift brought with it new complications.
"Monica, if you feel uncomfortable accepting the gift, then I'll hold onto it longer. But—"
"No, it's fine…thank you," Monica smiled.
"I guess, since all of this other stuff has happened…it makes things…weird, huh?"
"A little," Monica nodded.
"I…I never told you…in Las Vegas, how much what you said meant to me."
Monica nodded, but said nothing.
"I think…if we take it slow…it could work," Chandler said quietly.
"I think so too," Monica whispered.
"Let's…let's see what tomorrow brings, okay?"
Monica nodded, "I—I should go. You look tired."
"You…you don't have to," Chandler said.
"No…but I probably should."
Chandler nodded, and gathered her bags.
"See you soon, then," he said.
"See you…soon," Monica echoed, as she made her way to the door. She opened it, and turned to look up at Chandler, who was studying the floor.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Happy birthday," he whispered back, and kissed her softly and briefly, on the lips.
She smiled, and walked out of the apartment.
Chandler closed the door, and turned to see the bracelet, sitting where he'd left it.