A/N: Just a little warning for this one; it DOES contain some spoilers for the season finale. Now, whether or not they'll turn out to be true, we'll just have to wait and see, but I decided to take some artistic license, anyway. So proceed at your own risk!
Chapter 2: With A Little Help From My FriendsOne year earlier
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"Chandler!"
The shrill voice that rang through the apartment was definitely not a happy one, and I found myself wincing at the sound of my own name. I knew what she wanted, what she had been nagging at me to decide for weeks, and still I wasn't prepared to face her reaction.
Now, as I stood in the bedroom listening to her footsteps march purposefully through the apartment, I knew I should just do the grown-up thing and tell her how I felt. Instead, I dropped the pile of t-shirts I was sorting and lunged for the nearest hiding place.
Pulling the closet door shut behind me, I slid to the floor amongst the shoes and empty duffle bags and leaned back against the wall, wishing for a magical door to open and invite me into the land of Narnia. Or Barbados. Or Blargon 7, for that matter. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and I wasn't picky—just as long as there was no packing.
She entered the room, her footsteps hesitating when she didn't find me. I could picture her frowning at the abandoned t-shirts scattered on the bed and heard her shut the half-open dresser drawer with an aggravated thump as she muttered incoherently under her breath.
Guilt began to set in, whispering accusations that I knew, deep down, were true. 'It's not that I'm avoiding her,' I argued back. 'I'm just…waiting for a better time. When she's not so stressed. When I've had time to think of something more convincing.'
The closet door creaked open. Crap. Now or never. Actually, probably not never. More like now.
"Chandler!"
She was staring down at me with an expression somewhere between irritation and exasperation. I looked up, hoping I could pull off an irresistibly charming grin—and sneezed instead.
"Bless you," she said drolly. "What are you doing in there?"
I attempted the grin again and threw in a boyish shrug for good measure. "Um…looking for this?" Without checking, I extended the first thing I grabbed for her inspection.
Monica rolled her eyes. "Well, now that you've found your jock strap, can we please talk?" she asked, backing out of the way so I could crawl out.
Once I was on my feet facing her, she raised an eyebrow at me, waiting.
'Just say it. Just say it, just say it, just say it,' chanted the personal squad of cheerleaders in my head. I took a deep breath and prepared to make my declaration.
"Iwannakeepit," I mumbled. There. That wasn't so hard.
"What?"
Damn it. "I want to keep it," I enunciated in a volume barely louder, but at least I was looking at her this time.
"Channdlllleeerrrrrrr!" she whined and stomped out the bedroom door.
I had no choice but to follow, justifying myself all the way. "Monica, I just don't see what the big deal is."
"You don't see what the big deal is?" Monica repeated incredulously, her voice again growing shrill.
I struggled to sound calm. "It's just that Joey gave it to me. And now that he won't be around anymore, I want something that reminds me of him and the old apartment."
"It's not like he's dying!" she spat. "He's just moving!"
"Across the country, Monica! God knows how long it'll be before we see him again! Aren't you sad about that at all?"
"Of course I am! I just don't understand why you can't keep a…I don't know…a picture or something. That thing is ugly! And I don't want to haul it across the state when it doesn't even go with any of my…" she caught herself, blue eyes widening, "…our things."
My mind immediately flashed back to variations of this same argument. There had been the once with Rachel, a decade ago, over an admittedly ugly lamp inherited from Mr. Heckles' apartment. And then once with me, more recently, over my prized Barcalounger, which I ended up losing in the end, anyway.
I wasn't going to lose this time, and the memory of my chair gave me the fuel I needed to persist, although I recognized the signs of a major fight brewing.
"Your things? That's what it always comes down to, doesn't it, Mon? You've never wanted anyone else's stuff—no matter how sentimental it is—to get in the way of your perfect decorating scheme," I accused, my own voice rising a few decibels.
"That's not true!" she protested, but I interrupted.
"Yeah, it is! I just want to keep one thing, Monica! One!" I gestured wildly toward the balcony and strode over to the window to point at the object in question—the big white dog sculpture that resided there.
"I know it's big and I know it's ugly! But it's one thing! As opposed to your millions of little things!"
She bristled, fire in her eyes. "Like what?" she demanded, chin jutting defiantly.
I glanced around the room and began to list the first things my eyes landed on, pointing out each item. "Like…candles! And those stupid little boxes that are too small to keep stuff in! And...and... and this damn French poster that you don't even know what it says!"
Monica's eyes had practically bugged out her head by now, but I wasn't done yet. I had remembered something else. Something big.
"Not to mention your freakin' secret closet full of junk we never even use!"
She opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it shut and whirled on one heel, leaving me standing in the middle of the apartment as she slammed the door behind her.
***
I woke to the feeling of cold feet on my leg, many hours later. Groaning, I pulled away and pretended to be asleep. She removed her feet from my leg, but spooned her body around my back and ran her fingers down my left arm, just enough to make the hairs stand on edge in tingling anticipation.
"Chandler? You asleep?"
"Uh huh." I wasn't ready to make up, not just yet. I moved away from her so we were no longer touching.
She scooted closer, resting her head on my shoulder, and sighed heavily, but was otherwise silent.
I could feel my resolve crumbling, especially when I felt the dampness of her tears soak through my t-shirt.
"Mon..."
She began crying harder, but made no move to wipe away her tears. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "You can keep the dog."
I rolled over to face her and hugged her close, letting her cry out the rest of her tears into my chest. When they subsided, I kissed the top of her head and answered her.
"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have gotten so mad."
She took a ragged breath. "It's not just tonight. I know I've been really moody lately, and I'm sorry for that, too. I'm just so tired, with the move and everyone leaving. I guess I'm not handling it very well."
"No one is," I murmured soothingly.
She pulled back abruptly to look at me. "What are you talking about? Everyone else is! Phoebe and Mike didn't have any trouble moving in together! Even when Mike asked her to get rid of some of her weird stuff, she didn't even care! And…and Joey's almost completely packed! Even Rachel hasn't even asked for my help!"
I searched my mind for something helpful to say. "Well, honey, she probably sees that you've all ready got enough on your hands…"
Monica interrupted, her voice rising in desperation. "That's just it! This is usually my thing! I've always been the best at packing! And now, just when everyone is in the middle of moving, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by my own!"
The fact that the utter distress evidenced on her face was caused by packing, of all things, would have been comical if she wasn't absolutely right. I felt the first real twinge of alarm travel through me as I realized that Monica hadn't been herself lately—hadn't felt up to sorting through our own belongings, much less jumping at the task of supervising everyone else's moving activities.
I tried not to let my concerns play out on my face. Suddenly feeling very tired myself, I simply promised her that I'd take care of everything and then rubbed her back until we both drifted into oblivion.
***
True to my word, I followed through on my promise the very next day by enlisting Phoebe, Mike, Joey, Ross, and Rachel to help pack. Monica's mood still hadn't improved by the next morning, and after snarling at my repeated suggestions that she take a nap, she finally slipped into a deep sleep. Needless to say, when I opened the door to admit Rachel and Ross, I was more than ready to greet some smiling faces.
I was out of luck—at least with these two.
"We can't stay long, Chandler," Ross was all ready admonishing as he stepped into the apartment. "My mom is taking care of Emma for the day, and Rachel wants to spend as much time with her as possible before she leaves."
Rachel followed him in, almost meekly, I thought, observing the cautious look she gave Ross before speaking herself. "It's not a big deal, Ross. I want to spend time with these guys, too."
Ross nodded curtly and strode to the refrigerator, yanking the door open with a violence that made me flinch.
Both Rachel and I gazed after him before I turned to her with a sympathetic smile.
"He's still not taking it well, I see." It was more a statement than question.
Rachel shrugged listlessly and averted her eyes from mine in a failed attempt to hide the sudden glimmer of tears.
"He keeps accusing me of abandoning Emma," she admitted, her voice low. "But I know what he's really thinking—that I'm abandoning him."
I stole a glance at Ross, who was staring impassively out the living room window, beer in hand and shoulders rigid.
"It's not like it's permanent," I protested, still maintaining confidential tones. "You're not moving to Paris forever. It's just for…what? A year?"
I blushed, realizing that I hadn't stated anything of which she wasn't all ready painfully aware. But she only nodded contemplatively.
"Yeah, that's what I keep telling him—that it's just a year," Rachel confirmed. "But then, I think…oh, god, Chandler...a year is a really long time. I mean, when I think of all the new things that Emma does in just a year and that I'm going to miss all that…"
Her voice trailed off and a single tear broke free and raced down her cheek. She absently reached to brush it away and continued, her eyes finally meeting mine in a desperate search for guidance.
"Answer me honestly," she implored. "Do you think I'm being entirely selfish?"
I didn't know what to say.
But thankfully, I was saved by Joey, Phoebe, and Mike, who arrived in a burst of chaos and lighthearted banter that even stirred Ross from his unseeing watch over the balcony.
I moved to greet them, feeling guilty that I had avoided Rachel's question, but as I glanced at her in concern, I realized that she was all ready the perfect picture of casual breeziness, making me wonder if I had imagined her anguish just moments before. But then, she caught my expression and threw me a rueful smile over Joey's shoulder as he engulfed her in a hug.
"We brought all our empty boxes," Phoebe was saying. "Although I did have to deconstruct Mike and Joey's fort to do it."
She threw a tender smile at her husband, who was busy fielding a high-five from his fort-building accomplice.
"Anyway," she continued, "where's Mon? I'm all a-ready to start label-makin'."
"She's taking a nap," I told her.
"No, I'm not."
The six of us turned to see Monica emerge from the bedroom, tugging a sweatshirt on over her tank top. I started at her appearance—beyond looking simply disoriented from her nap, her face was pale and drawn. Truthfully, she looked more exhausted now than she had before falling asleep.
The thought crossed my mind that it was just my own paranoia, but looking around, I could tell the others noticed, too, judging by their collective expressions of alarm. Rachel was the first to conceal hers and moved toward Monica with a surprising air of tranquility, considering her previous state.
"Hi, honey," Rachel addressed Monica as if nothing were abnormal. "We're ready for you to put us to work."
Monica stretched her arms over her head, yawning deeply before answering. "Thanks, you guys, for coming. You didn't have to, you know."
"It's not a big deal, Mon. We're happy to help" Joey piped up next to me, his voice offhandedly cheerful. I wondered if I was the only one that could sense the undercurrent of worry in his words. "Besides, someone's gotta help Chandler here lift all the heavy stuff," Joey added, with a teasing sideways glance at me.
"Thanks, man," I said wryly, relieved to see Monica smile along with everyone else.
She walked toward us, carefully skirting the stack of boxes next to the couch. "Well, in that case," she began in her best drill sergeant voice, "what are we waiting for?"
***
The day passed quickly, in a flurry of cardboard boxes and packing tape, and before I knew it, my stomach was protesting loudly in anticipation of dinner. We had taken a brief pizza break early in the afternoon, but several hours had passed since then. Ross and Rachel had departed long ago to pick up Emma and have dinner with Jack and Judy Geller, and Mike and Phoebe left soon after, with genuine apologies that they had previous plans as well.
Seeing the fatigue in Monica's eyes after everyone had left, I had gently suggested that she lay down for a little while, to which she had agreed easily. So only Joey and I remained, struggling to dismantle the bed frame in the spare room.
We worked in amicable silence for a time, the extent of our conversation consisting only of a series of volleyed grunts. Then Joey spoke up tentatively.
"Is everything okay?" he asked simply, as if he'd been contemplating the wisdom of saying anything at all.
I looked over to find him studying me carefully, eyebrows furrowed in concern. A zillion flippant remarks ran through my head, but as I took in his expression, I realized that this was my best friend and that there was no way to ease his apprehension without being completely callous.
I shrugged and raked my fingers through my tousled hair absentmindedly. "Honestly? I'm not sure, Joe. At first, I thought maybe she was just upset about moving and about all of us going our separate ways. But now…" I hesitated and looked thoughtfully at the wall that divided this room from the one where Monica slept. "I think it's something else. Something worse."
"Well, I have something that might cheer her up."
Turning abruptly, we found Phoebe framed in the doorway of the spare bedroom, a gift bag dangling from one finger and a grin on her face.
Joey and I exchanged confused glances, then looked back at Phoebe and spoke simultaneously, our words colliding in mid-air.
"I thought you had plans."
"What's in the bag?"
Phoebe's grin only grew wider, and she motioned for us to follow her as she left the room.
I looked Joey with uncertainty, thinking he had a better handle on Phoebe's oddities than I, only to find that the perplexity on his face mirrored mine. Seeing that I apparently had no other choice, I walked into the living room, Joey right behind me, just in time to see Phoebe open the door to the bedroom Monica and I shared.
"Wait," I called after her. She paused to look back at me and I crossed the room in four long strides. "Monica's asleep," I explained, the thought occurring to me that maybe Phoebe wanted to perform one of her healing rituals to cleanse the apartment's aura or something. Whatever it
was, despite Phoebe's good intentions, I was fairly certain that Monica wouldn't appreciate being woken from a sound sleep.
"I know," she responded, pushing the door open fully and entering the room.
A wave of slight irritation passed over me and I laid a restraining hand on Phoebe's arm. "Pheebs, I'm sure I appreciate whatever is you're going to do, but.." I paused, searching for the most tactful refusal, "...I just don't think..."
Phoebe leveled a tranquil gaze at me, stopping me in mid-sentence. "Chandler. Trust me," she stated with soothing confidence.
I looked back at Joey helplessly, but he only shrugged and followed me into the bedroom, where Phoebe was gently shaking Monica's shoulder. Monica stirred, her eyelashes fluttering.
"Monica. Wake up," Phoebe urged softly.
Monica peered up at Phoebe through half-open lids. "Pheebs?" she mumbled drowsily. "Is something wrong?"
Phoebe held up the bag she carried for Monica to see. "Gotcha a little present," she said in a singsong voice.
That woke Monica up; she loved gifts of any kind. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she noticed Joey and I, hovering in the doorway, for the first time.
"Did you know about this?" Monica directed at me curiously.
I shook my head and stepped closer to the bed as Monica eagerly accepted the gift from Phoebe. Opening the bag, Monica peered into its depths. Joey and I leaned forward in anticipation as Phoebe looked on with a knowing smile.
Monica stared, transfixed, at whatever it was for a full minute, her expression first registering confusion, then anxiety, then realization, and finally, joy. I almost screamed in frustration as ever so slowly, Monica reached into the bag with both hands, withdrawing the gift, and held it up for my inspection in her trembling fists.
She showed me two items, but it was solely the one in her left hand that made my heart nearly stop. As it was, I stumbled backward into an equally shocked Joey, the many indications hitting me in one moment of startled clarity.
Meanwhile, Phoebe was observing our open-mouthed reactions, delighted that her gift had had the desired effect. She giggled, with barely-suppressed glee, before addressing Monica.
"Just don't mix those up," she advised with a certain air of superiority. "You could really ruin that lollypop."