Regression

~Turnaround~

Take a step outside yourself

And turn around

Take a look at who you are

It's pretty scary

So silly

Revolting

You're not much

You can't do anything

Charles looked down at the slip of paper in his hand again, then looked up at the green door that stood before him.  He hesitated slightly, still trying to center himself.

To say that he had been shocked by his son's phone call would have been an understatement; after all, he hadn't spoken to Chandler in several years.  Charles was under the distinct impression that Chandler hated him, and always would.

Because of this, Chandler's call did not warm Charles' heart—it scared him.  For Chandler to just…call…for him to quietly ask his father to come out to New York…it sent chills down Charles' spine.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, Charles shook his head, and knocked lightly on the door to apartment 20.

Monica stood up, when she heard the knock at the door.  She glanced at Chandler, who had drifted off to sleep on the sofa, as she made her way to the door.  She opened the door slowly, her head cocking to one side, as she looked at the man that stood on the other side.

The man was tall, slender, and well built.  He was older, perhaps in his late fifties.  He had graying dark brown hair, and striking blue eyes.

Familiar eyes.

After a moment's contemplation, it clicked.

Chandler's father.

"Hi, um," the man started, looking lost and a bit confused, "I'm looking for Chandler Bing?"

"You must be Chandler's father," Monica smiled warmly, and gestured at him to enter the apartment.

"Yes," Charles smiled, and walked fully through the door.

"I'm Monica Geller, Chandler's girlfriend."

Charles looked at the stunning woman standing before him, and smiled inwardly—his son had obviously done well for himself.

"Pleased to meet you, Monica," Charles said politely.

Monica nodded, and walked around the living room sofa, and Charles followed, assuming that they were going to settle in the living room.

He walked around the sofa, and saw that his son was fast asleep, though he looked anything but peaceful.  He was sweating, and his brow was furrowed into a painful scowl.

Monica crouched down next to him, and shook him lightly.

"Chandler, honey, wake up," she whispered softly.

At first, there was no response, but as Monica reached her arm out again, Chandler's eyes jerked open, and he jolted upright.

Charles jumped back slightly, but noted that Monica seemed unfazed by the violent reaction.  He watched, as Monica rubbed soothing circles on his back, and whispered softly. 

After a moment, Chandler seemed to calm down, and he took several deep breaths.  Monica whispered something to him, and he looked up, and over at his father.

Charles didn't know what to expect—he had no idea what was going on, much less how Chandler felt about him at the moment.  He stood stoically, as Chandler took a moment to register his presence.  He was subsequently shocked, when Chandler stood up, and pulled Charles into a tight embrace.

"Chandler, son—uh, how—how are you?" Charles said into Chandler's shoulder.

"Dad," Chandler croaked, but said nothing more.

Charles wasn't sure what to do; so he simply stood there, and held his son.

"Honestly Charles, I wouldn't have called you if it wasn't important," Nora said into the telephone receiver, "But I don't know what to do!  Chandler is wasting away, and he won't talk to me."

"And you think he'll talk to me?  He's still stinging over the divorce, Nora."

"He won't talk to anyone, Charles, he never speaks.  Something happened to him, and I really don't think it was the divorce."

"Do you want me to come out there?" Charles asked hesitantly.

"Actually, I was thinking that we could come out there.  I was thinking that it might be good for Chandler to get away for a while."

"Okay, yeah, it'll be good to see you guys," Charles replied.

"Alright.  It'll be me, Chandler and Harold.  We'll be out on Friday."

"So," Charles said, as Chandler released his hold on him, "What's going on, son?"

"I think you should sit down," Chandler said grimly, and reached for Monica, who immediately moved to his side, and grasped his hand tightly.

"Is this good-sitting down news, or bad-sitting down news?" Charles asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Dad…do you remember Harold, that producer-guy Mom married after your divorce went through?" Chandler sat on the coffee table across from Charles, but kept his eyes focused on the couch cushions next to Charles.

"Yeah, that idiot that came with you guys when you came out to Vegas, right?" Charles shrugged, his only memory of the man being that he had been excessively drunk the majority of the time.

"Y-yeah," Chandler shuddered at the memory of the trip, and closed his eyes momentarily.  As soon as he was centered, he continued.

"Look, Dad, Mom is in some trouble, and it has to do with me.  And w-with Harold."

"What?  What's going on?  Where's Nora?"

"She's…in the hospital until tomorrow…but she is gonna be arrested."

"Chandler, what the hell is going on?" Charles wondered if he was going to be forced to pay Nora's bail.  He momentarily wondered if Nora had somehow coaxed Chandler into getting him here.  The thought fluttered away when he saw Chandler's face contort into a pained expression.

"Mom shot Harold," Chandler said softly, a single tear sliding down his cheek.

"What?  Why?"

"Dad," Chandler looked up at Charles, and the latter noticed that his son looked…old.  He looked worn, and he looked like he'd lost all hope.  Charles sat forward, and looked into his son's eyes closely.

"Harold…abused me, when I was young.  I just…I just recently remembered, and I told Mom, and she freaked out.  I didn't mean for this to happen, I—" Chandler broke down, and Monica pulled him into her arms.  She looked at Charles, and though he looked shell-shocked, she continued what Chandler could not.

"Harold molested him, and he blocked it out.  He's dealing with it, but…he needs help," Monica whispered.

"That was what was going on, when you came to Vegas," Charles said flatly, as the memories came back to him, "that's why you weren't talking, that's why you jumped from the banister.  It wasn't school kids, it was Harold?" Charles felt his own tears well up, as Chandler pulled away from Monica and looked at his father.

"I'm sorry," Chandler stuttered, as Charles pulled Chandler to his chest.

"No, son, I'm sorry," Charles whispered.

Chandler sat on his father's front porch, his hand idly playing with a loose string on his sweatshirt.  He'd forgotten how cold the desert could get once the sun disappeared.

But then, he was always cold these days.

He felt himself descending into his protective cocoon, his mind closing off the sounds of the desert night.

It was strange, being in a new environment, but with the same fears coursing through him.

His father had been pleasant, but guarded, and was clearly at a loss over what to do with a son that refused to speak.

In his own mind, Chandler was certain that he had disappointed his father as well.

The screen door swung open with an ominous creak, and Chandler was suddenly accosted with a horrible stench of whisky.

"Chandler, it's a little cold out here," Harold's voice was saccharine-sweet, and it sent shivers up Chandler's spine.  He didn't move—he was sure that if he sat still enough, Harold would just disappear.

Harold placed a heavy hand on Chandler's shoulder.

"You sure have caused a lot of trouble," Harold's voice kept it's jovial tone, despite the heavy accusation.

Chandler closed his eyes, and let his mind shut down.  He barely registered Harold's voice, when he called into the house to inform Nora that he was taking Chandler for a walk to clear his head.

He dug deeper into the safety of the darkness, as Harold guided him out into the desert night.

He was barely conscious, when Harold dragged him back to the house an hour later.

He never let them know that two of his fragile ribs had been re-fractured.  That his mind refused to acknowledge what was real.  That he was on the brink of losing control completely.

"Dad," Chandler said quietly, after several minutes of crying and apologies had transpired, "why are you dressed like that?"

"What?" Charles asked, flustered by the odd aside.

"I thought you—"

"Oh, right, the drag," Charles chuckled, and relieved some of the tension that had built up in the room, "It's easier to pack men's clothing," he laughed.

In truth, Charles wanted to get back into his son's good graces, and hoped that by appearing 'normal', Chandler would feel more comfortable.  Ironically, it took Chandler several hours to even notice.

"Oh," Chandler smiled slightly, and looked up at his father, "How long can you stay?"

Charles looked down at his son, and absorbed all of the pain, frustration, guilt and shame that lined his eyes—eyes that mirrored his own.  The blueness—it was simply startling.  He cupped Chandler's face in both of his well-manicured hands, and smiled warmly.

"As long as you need me," he whispered truthfully.

Chandler wrapped his blanket around him tightly, and tried desperately to ignore the throbbing in his side.  He stifled back tears, and froze, when he heard his bedroom door open slowly.

"Chandler, what's going on son?" Chandler had never been so happy to hear his father's voice.

Chandler sat up, and looked at his father.  Charles still had traces of makeup on his eyes, but was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt.  Chandler looked down at his blanket, and frowned.  He couldn't find his voice, even if he wanted to.  It was buried deep within him, with everything else.

"You can talk to me," Charles said softly, "I know you don't agree with what I do, but that doesn't mean I stopped being your Dad," Charles reached out and placed his hand on Chandler's shoulder, but pulled away when his son flinched at the contact. 

Charles saw the action as a rejection, and it hurt him deeply.  He sighed deeply, and stood up, leaving the room without another word.

For Chandler, the sudden contact brought back memories that he was working to repress.  In that moment he hadn't seen his father, he'd seen Harold, and it frightened him to his core.

By the time Chandler realized what had happened, Charles was gone, and Chandler was once again, all alone.

He wrapped himself inside his cocoon, and vowed never to emerge.

Take a step outside yourself

And turn around

Take a look at who you are

It's pretty scary

So silly

Revolting

You're not much

You can't do anything

Take a step outside the city

And turn around

Take a look at what you are

It is revolting

You're really nowhere

So wasteful

So foolish

Poppycock

Who said don't look back?

Don't believe 'em

Go for that crazy sounding restaurant

'Cos they're gonna try and get behind you

Don't you let them do it

You know what I'm talking about?

You hear me talking?

You hear me talking?

It's pretty scary it's so revolting

Turn around and around

Take a look at where you are

It's pretty scary

(Turnaround, by Nirvana)