Hey readers!!!  I'm back with chapter 8.  I think there will probably be one more chapter to this story, and probably and epilogue, if I get enough reviewers that want one!  This is a little short but I'm running out of material and I wanted to split the ending into two parts.  I hope you like it!!!

Xoxo,

Maddy.  

                Three days had passed since Monica had walked out of her apartment with zero intentions of ever returning, and the reality had set in that she only had one pair of jeans and an NYU sweatshirt until she did.  She couldn't steal Rachel's clothes forever, so Thursday afternoon, she took a cab back to the Park Avenue pre-war building she had never quite been able to call home.

                "Mrs. Burke," the doorman greeted her, nodding his head with a friendly smile.

                "Hi Steve," she replied, forcing her own tight lipped smile and gathering the strength to stride through the lavishly decorated lobby to the elevator, as she had done every day for years, but now feeling like a stranger.

                It had taken some work to get Monica to agree to moving so far uptown, but Richard had used his recent substantial pay increase to purchase a gorgeous, rent-controlled two story penthouse that no one in their right mind could ever have refused.  She stood frozen outside the mahogony frame of her front door, finally extracting the keys from her pocket and sliding the door open. 

                The living room was a mess, but it didn't even bother her.  This wasn't her home anymore.  Richard's cigar butts littered the ashtry on the coffee table and half empty cups of coffee were left in the kitchen.  The sports page from two days ago was spread on the counter, with toast crumbs and a knife with peanut butter on it covering the headline.  She broke from her trance like state and reminded herself that she was here for a reason. 

                Upstairs in their bedroom, the mess was no better, but she moved around it almost as if it wasn't there.  Two suitcases (from their luggage; monogrammed with both their initials, given to them as a wedding gift from her parents) were quickly filled with her clothes and shoes.  She still left half of what she owned in their closet, but until she figured out what was going to happen, she'd be fine with what she managed to fit in the suitcases.

                As she was about to flip the lightswitch on her way out, her gaze fell upon something white next to Richard's pillow on the unmade bed.  She reached out to investigate, and as she turned over the small white rectangle, she saw that it was a picture.  It was a photograph of her, smiling on a vacation to Bermuda they had taken the summer before, and the sight of it combined with the all-to-familiar surroundings made her feel hot and choking, like the walls were closing in on her.  She fled the apartment without locking the door, flew past Steve ignoring his offers to help with her bags, and ran almost six blocks before hitting something solid, something that grabbed her arms as she began to fall.

                "Mon?" the something asked with concern.  She looked up, out of breath and dizzy.

                "Chandler!" she sighed in relief.  "Hi, I was just… picking up some things," she said and tried to stand, only to stumble into his arms again.

                "Monica, what happened, are you all right?  You're shaking and your face is white as a sheet," he panicked.

                "I'm fine," she said, taking three deep breaths.  She straightened herself off of him and picked up the suitcases that had been discarded in the excitement.  "Really, I'm okay.  I had this sort of… episode, at the apartment, but I'm better now.  Really," she insisted off his hesitant look.

                "If you're sure… here, let me take those," he said.

                "No way, you're going in the opposite direction.  I'll just grab a taxi."

                "I'm going back with you," he said firmly.

                "Chandler…"

                "Mon.  I'm coming back with you.  Let's go," he said, grabbing a suitcase in one hand and her hand in the other.

                "Is she okay?" Joey asked after Chandler relayed the story to the gang while Monica rested in her room.

                "I think so, but she said she got all sweaty and felt like she was being suffocated… she looked like hell when she ran into me," he said, looking to them for reassurance.

                "Sounds like a panic attack," Ross said.  "Our mom used to get them."

                "Poor Mon," Phoebe said.

                "I'm glad she's doing better.  I thought something happened, with Richard, when I first saw her."

                "Richard's a jerk, but he's not a batterer," Rachel said.  They all nodded.

                "Anyone know what's going on there, anyway?" Joey asked.  All eyes fell on Chandler.

                "I really don't know any more than you do," he insisted.  They raised their eyebrows, almost in unison.  "Seriously.  She left him, he's been calling a million times a day, and she went to get more of her stuff.  That's all I know."

                They believed him, even though he wasn't being entirely truthful.  Only Rachel knew that Chandler and Monica had slept together again, and although she said he wasn't the reason, it was definitely a factor that the group would be interested in knowing.

                "My dad's been calling my cell phone about every half hour," Ross said in exasperation.  "Richard's been calling him trying to get him to make her talk, and my dad's not telling my mom until Monica does.  So basically, my mom's never going to know, Monica's never going to see my parents again, and my dad's never going to stop calling me to make sure she's okay."

                They talked for about another hour, about Monica and about other random topics, until everyone got hungry and decided to go out for pizza.  Chandler declined, saying one of them should be around in case she got up. 

                He made her grilled cheese, his specialty, and brought it in with a class of orange juice.  She was sleeping, so he just put it on the end table.  He should have left, but something about the way she looked when she slept had always captivated him.  Instead, he sat on the edge of her bed gingerly, so as not to wake her, and watched her for a while.  It could have been a minute or five minutes that he sat there looking at her body curled up into a ball, the way she always slept, studying the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her slightly parted pink lips and her long black eyelashes.  Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was reaching out and stroking her hair, pulled back from her face loosely in a ponytail.  Her eyelids opened slowly, revealing the bluest eyes he had ever known anyone to have.  He pulled away his hand as if burned and apologized.

                "Sorry… I was bringing you something to eat and I… I'm sorry," he babbled.

                She smiled.  "Thank you," she said, sitting up a little.  "I was dreaming about you," she added.

                He smiled widely.  "You were, were you," he said.  "I dream about you all the time."

                "It wasn't that kind of dream," she said with a laugh, rolling her eyes.

                "How do you know what kind of dream I'm talking about, concieted?" he asked indignantly.  She looked at him pointedly.  "Yeah, okay," he said laughing, looking down at his hands. 

                She reached over and played with his fingers slowly, and without looking up admitted "I have those too," with a shy smile. 

                He squeezed her hand and grinned, then pointed to the food.  "You should eat," he said.

                "I'm too tired to eat," she protested, laying back and closing her eyes.

                "Okay, I'll let you sleep a little more, but then you're eating something."

                "Fine," she agreed, opening her eyes slightly.  "Chandler?"

                "Hm?"

                "Thanks.  For… everything."

                "My pleasure," he said.  He leaned closer, aware that her hand was still wrapped around his, and planted a kiss on her right cheekbone.  Then one on her left cheekbone.

                "Remember that thing you told me, after we… you know?" she asked.

                He pecked her forehead.  "Yeah."

                "Me too," she murmered, because his lips were suddenly on her neck, and neither really knew how they got there.

                "You too what?" he asked, trailing kisses from her ear to her collarbone.

                "I love you too," she said breathlessly, finally finding his lips with her own in a searing kiss.  Her hands wandered over his body hungrily as they let themselves get carried away by the moment. 

                "Are you sure about this?" he asked between kisses as things were escalating.  He prayed to god she would say yes, because he wasn't sure he could stop even if he wanted to.

                "Yes," she said heavily in his ear.  "I'm not sure about anything, but I'm sure about you."