The next day…

Monica paused outside the door to Chandler's room and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.  She could feel her hands shaking when she finally reached for the doorknob. 

This was it – Chandler was awake.  Really awake after almost thirty hours of brief spells of consciousness, and he had been for almost half an hour.  Monica had decided it was only fitting; she had finally relented and left the hospital to shower and change clothes at their hotel, and Chandler had picked the few minutes she had been gone to revive himself.

And he had asked for her.

Monica didn't allow herself to feel disappointment or remorse that she hadn't been waiting just outside his door when he asked to see her, but she wondered if it would have been better if she had.  Maybe then she wouldn't have had the chance to overthink the upcoming confrontation and completely psych herself out.

Shaking her head slightly, Monica finally pushed open the door, not even realizing she was holding her breath until she was inside.  Immediately, every eye in the room turned toward her, but Monica focused on only one pair: the blue eyes that were more familiar than even her own.  They still made her heart skip a beat, even after all this time. 

            The connection was immediate and magnetic, and at that moment, Monica thought that she might be able to forgive him everything.   As Nora and Mark stood up and made a speedy, yet discreet, exit, they just stared at each other.  Drawing a shaky breath, she hesitated slightly before making her way over to him and pulling a chair up close to his bed. 

            "Hi," she whispered, her voice sounding almost too loud in the quiet of the room.  "How are you feeling?" 

            Chandler smiled slightly, though his expression remained uncertain and his eyes continued to search hers.  "Okay.  I probably have enough painkillers coursing through my blood right now to keep me high for a few weeks."

            "You had us worried," Monica admitted quietly, resting her hands on the side of his bed and then nervously removing them to her lap.  "Really worried, Chandler."

            "I know," Chandler told her, his voice catching.  "I'm sorry."

            An awkward silence fell over them as they both struggled for words.  There was so much to say – too much to say – but there didn't seem to be a good place to start.  Finally, Chandler sighed and turned to look Monica in the eye.

            "Mon…why are you here?"

            Monica glanced up, startled.  "Well, your mother called Joey after the crash – "

            "No," Chandler interrupted, shaking his head.  "That's not what I mean.  Don't get me wrong, Monica, I'm so happy all of you came.  You can't imagine how much it means to me.  But why?  After everything I've put you through, why are you here now?"

            Monica swallowed hard and looked down, concentrating on the wrinkles in the sheets on the bed.  Finally, she brushed the tears away from her eyes with one hand and looked up at him.

            "Because you are," she whispered, and those words were the first thing to make sense to her in a long time.  "I'm here because you are."

There's a moment,
That we all come to.
In our own time and in our own space.
Where all that we've done,
We can undo,
If our heart's in the right place.

            Two hours and a paper cup of pills later, Chandler was sleeping again, exhausted by the string of visitors that had been steadily entering and exiting the room one by one, and the emotions that had accompanied each one.  And through it all, without any words being said, Monica could feel him asking her to stay, as surely as if he had grabbed her hand and held her there.  So even as their friends greeted the prodigal son for the first time in months, reminding her with each entrance that her relationship with Chandler was a thousand times more complicated than she was allowing herself to admit at the moment, she stayed, reveling in the tranquility she felt with him by her side.

And now everyone else had retreated to the waiting room or to the hotel for some rest and still she stayed, holding his hand while he slept, her eyes focused on his peaceful face but her thoughts a million miles away. 

For the hundredth time, she visualized the look on Chandler's face the first time he woke up; how his eyes had frantically traveled across the room until they rested on her and how he had whispered her name before slipping away again.  She contemplated the depth of emotions she had read in his eyes, in his face, in that split second.  It had almost been like seeing the old Chandler: her friend, her boyfriend, her love.

It was so easy to look at Chandler now, bruised and broken and lying helpless in a hospital bed, and think about how simple it would be to forgive and forget and try to get on with life as they had known it before. 

            But it wasn't simple.  She couldn't help thinking about how she had felt when she saw him in the airport – betrayed, lost, broken.  She had meant it when she told him to stay away from her.  She'd been sure at that moment that any contact with Chandler would lead to hurt and misery, as she had experienced since the day he had left her.  

            So what was different now?  Was it just because Chandler was hurt, because he had almost died, that she was suddenly wondering if there was still a chance for them?  Or was it more?  Did he really still love her?  And if so, then why had he ever left her to begin with?

            Or maybe she was wrong about everything.  Maybe her perception had been influenced by Chandler's injuries and her own emotions…maybe he wouldn't even give her the opportunity to make the choice.  Maybe she was wrong.  Maybe he didn't love her.  Maybe he never had. 

            She didn't believe that.  God, she so desperately did not want to believe that. 

            Her thoughts had occupied her so completely that she didn't notice that Chandler was awake again, studying her conflicted expression.  She didn't see the shadow of guilt in his eyes, and wasn't aware that he was sorting through his own doubts.  When her eyes finally fell on his face, he squeezed her hand.

            "I guess it's time for us to talk."

            "I'm…I'm not even sure where to begin, Monica.  You asked me at the airport if I was going back to New York to tell you I still loved you.  Well, the truth is, maybe I was.  I was miserable here.  All I wanted was to be with you, but I'd done a pretty damn good job of making sure that wasn't possible.  There are no excuses, Mon.  I was a childish, insecure bastard, and there's nothing I can do to make that right.  You don't know how much I hate that, but it's true."

            Chandler paused, and Monica finally found her voice.

            "Don't…not now, Chandler.  I don't care about that right now.  You can tell me all of this later, when you're not in the hospital and I won't feel guilty for yelling and screaming and throwing things."

            "Fair enough," Chandler agreed, fighting to keep from smiling as he imagined trying to defend himself from Monica's wrath in his present condition.  "So what do you care about?  What were you thinking about so hard a minute ago?"

            Monica bit her lip, looking down at her hands.  "Well…what happens now?  I just…I don't know where we stand, Chandler.  I don't know what you're feeling, or even what I'm feeling.  I'm so confused, and I don't know what to think, or believe."

            Chandler remained silent for a moment, then reached over to take her hand. 

            "Do you believe that I wish none of this had happened?  That I had stayed with you in New York and never gone away?"

            Monica hesitated, then nodded slowly.  "I think so."

            "Do you believe that if I could go back and fix it, I would?  I'd take it all back, Monica.  In a second."

            Monica sniffed, then nodded again.  "I believe that, too."

            Chandler hesitated for a moment, started to speak and then stopped again.  He was tempted to make a joke, to ask for an aspirin or something other item in an attempt to break the tension, but the moment was too delicate, his next words too important to trivialize with one of his inopportune comments. 

            "I love you," he told her, his voice quavering with emotion.  "I know that I've done pretty much everything I can to prove otherwise, Monica, but I do.  I don't think I can remember a time when I didn't.  If there's anything you can believe in, it's that."

            Monica studied his face, let her eyes bore into his.  He looked back at her, unflinching, begging her, pleading with her to understand how much he meant it.  The moment of truth…did she?

            "I believe you," she finally whispered, leaning forward to wrap her arms around his broken body.  "Maybe I'm crazy, but I believe it."

And again I see my yesterday's in front of me,
Unfolding like a mystery.
You're changing all that is and used to be.

~"When You Come Back To Me Again (Brooks/Yates)

(Song continued from last chapter.)

AN:  As always, sorry for the delay, but this was a struggle.  And as one reviewer said, "real life" has been getting in the way lately.  ;)  Anyway, thanks for your patience!