AN: Seriously, I have no time anymore.  I am so sorry!

Also, I have a massive shiner!  I got hit in the face with a softball this weekend…people keep telling me that it looks like I smeared my make-up, ha.  So if there are holes in my story, I am blaming it on the ball hitting my face and erasing my memory.  Hee.

Story Summary: Spring/Summer 1968.  Support for the war, and for incumbent President Johnson is eroding quickly, and consequently Johnson announces his intentions to pull his candidacy for another term. 

On April 4, 1968 Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.  Racial and civil unrest ensues.

Joey has arrived in New York; Rachel, Monica and Phoebe are also back in New York, after Phoebe's boyfriend, a Black Panther named Chris, was assassinated on the steps of San Francisco's City Hall.  Ross is feeling the heat in Saigon, and Chandler is fighting to make his way out of the jungles of Vietnam alive.

The Age of Aquarius

Chapter Seventeen: If You Want to Die in Bed

"If you want to die in bed in times of revolution, when the flag they fly is red, let pride fill up your chest--meanwhile pack a sack and take the first boat heading west."

--Boubil/Maltby, Jr.

New York City

A car horn, and several police car sirens flooded the room, jerking him into consciousness.

Not that he minded.

His dreams were invaded nightly, by vivid, horrifying images—some real, some imagined.

Not that he could delineate anymore.

The hot, sticky air still clung to his skin; the sharp, thin foliage still sliced his exposed arms and chest; and the thunderous simultaneous booming of choppers, with the incessant popping of not-so-distant gunfire still rang in his ears.

He had left Vietnam months ago, but Vietnam had yet to leave him.

He sat up slowly, propping himself up on his elbows, as he let the remnants of sleep fall away.  His eyes scanned the room; a tiny, dank hotel room, with rotting drapes and water-stained walls.  The thin, worn mattress smelled of mildew, and was covered with a stained, threadbare sheet, and his own Army-issue blanket.

This was what he had been reduced to.

He let out a heavy sigh, and pulled his wheelchair toward the bed.

He was half the man he used to be—literally.

It took all of his strength to lift himself into the chair; the entire process was completely exhausting, (More psychologically than physically—not that he would admit to the fact.) and often left him out of breath and slightly dizzy.

Sighing heavily, he wheeled himself across the room, and out of the hotel.

It was the invisibility that irritated him, more than anything else.  He could handle the crude remarks, and even the unintentional (or perhaps they were intentional?) stares, but the way people would just…act like he didn't exist…that was what hurt him most.

And if he weren't so fucking depressed he might laugh at all of this irony.

For he had lost the very thing he had been fighting for—made sacrifices for.

Freedom could be so bitter, when it was nothing more than an aftertaste.

He spent the majority of his days at the Park, staring longingly at the walkers, joggers, runners…the people that were oblivious to him and to how great they had it.

He loathed them all.

He was so lost in thought, he didn't see the woman approaching him, until she landed squarely on his lap.

~*~

Vietnam

He was crouched low, completely invisible behind the long, thick leaves that skirted the jungle floor.  His cerulean eyes followed the movements of the enemy soldiers, as his grip tightened around the handle of his knife.  The men were walking slowly, their weapons extended, their eyes and ears perked.  The first man crossed the invisible wire that covered the uneven pathway.

It was enough.

The trap released, and the sharp bamboo stakes swung through the air, pinning both men to an adjacent tree.  The men screamed, as their weapons clattered to the ground.

For a long, anxious moment, there was silence.  The men scanned the area, wondering if they would starve to death, while pinned to the tree.

Moments later, an American soldier emerged from his hiding place, his eyes cold and lifeless.  The men watched in horror, as the man approached, and kicked their weapons away.

They pleaded with him in Vietnamese, unaware that he understood every word.

But he was beyond reason.  Wordlessly, he pulled his knife, and slit both throats.

He cleaned his knife on one of the dead man's uniforms, and re placed it in the holster on his belt.

Without another thought, he set to work, re-setting the booby traps.

The sun was setting on the small village, by the time he returned.  He made his way toward his hut, his legs burning from the hours spent crouched deep within the jungle walls.

Chandler had resigned himself to his fate months ago.  Following the incident with the child, the attacks on the village were becoming more frequent, to the point where defending it had become a full-time job.

Even as the attacks waned, Chandler found that it was easier to live under the illusion that the villagers needed him, and that his job was to protect them.

As the months wore on, Chandler continued to work to protect the village, setting up traps, and silently killing anyone who dared to cross the invisible perimeter. 

He became the emotionless, robotic soldier that just might make the US Army proud.

The only problem was, the US Army had left him for dead.

~*~

New York City

The apartment was, for lack of a better word, stifling.

She had agreed to live in Phoebe's apartment—the one her grandmother had willed to her—to help her friend get over the shock and grief that had consumed her since Chris' assassination. 

But the apartment was tiny—and with Monica and Jakob crashing there most nights, it was becoming a bit too much.

She needed an outlet—a way to get rid of her frustrations.

Lately she had found that outlet in daily runs through Central Park.

It was a wonderful time of year to be in New York, and the perfect time of year to be in the Park. 

And it was a great place to meet guys.

She had to admit, that even in the crowded apartment, she felt alone.  She had finally been able to let go of Ross, and now the loneliness that had briefly consumed her in San Francisco was beginning to eat her alive.

It only made her run harder.

She ran harder, and faster, until her legs were ready to give out, and the tears she didn't know she'd shed dried on her flushed cheeks.

She didn't see the man, until it was too late.

She tried to slow, tried to turn, but he was right in her path, and she was too startled to yell.  She tripped over her own feet in an attempt to stop, and she landed right on his lap.

"Oh!  God, I am so, so sorry," Rachel cried, as she clumsily fumbled her way off of the man's lap.

"That's okay," the man said softly, and looked up at Rachel, as she struggled to compose herself.

"I should have been paying more attention," Rachel smiled.

"Me too, I guess," the man whispered, before looking at his hands.

"I-I'm Rachel, Rachel Green," Rachel extended her hand and smiled warmly.

"I'm Joey," the man mumbled, and shook Rachel's hand feebly.

"You look…familiar, Joey.  Have we met before?"

The man shrugged, and a sour look crossed his face.  Rachel stepped back unconsciously, and surreptitiously scanned the area.

"I used to be…taller," Joey finally whispered, and looked up at Rachel sardonically.

Rachel smiled, and shifted uncomfortably.  The man looked lost, and lonely, and her heart went out to him.

Maybe she wasn't the only one that was all alone in the City.

"Do you want to…maybe get a cup of coffee Joey?"

Joey scoffed, and shook his head, "A pity drink for the crippled?  Did you do something to your karma or something?"

"What?  No, I just…I could use a friend," Rachel's brow furrowed.

"Oh," Joey flushed, and looked at the ground.  How could he be so stupid?  A beautiful woman actually asks him out, and he insults her?  He shook his head, and looked up at Rachel, who was watching him curiously.

"Yeah, coffee would be great, Rachel."

~*~

Charles watched from the living room window, as Monica and Jakob emerged from the taxicab.  He made his way to the front door, and swung it open as they approached.

"Monica, thank you for coming," Charles smiled, and immediately took Jakob into his arms.

"Well, hello there, little one," Charles cooed, as he led Monica into the living room.

Charles had offered to let Monica and Jakob stay with him, but Monica had never been totally comfortable with the idea, and had insisted that she needed to be closer to the City, so they had settled on having them stay with Charles on the weekends, and on any other day Charles wasn't working.  But Charles could see that single motherhood was taking its toll on the young woman—she looked much older than her eighteen years.  He would occasionally extend his offer to let her stay with him full time, but the girl was stubbornly independent, and insisted that she was fine.

"Thank you again for letting us stay with you, Mr. Bing," Monica smiled, but kept her eyes on Jakob.

"Monica, I told you, call me Charles.  And you know that you are welcome to stay for as long as you need to."

Monica nodded silently, and sat back on the large, white sofa.  Exhaustion soon began to overwhelm her, and she felt her eyes drooping.

She was asleep within moments.

She awoke several hours later, to find that she had been covered with a blanket, and given a soft pillow.  She sat up slowly, and noticed a note sitting on the coffee table in front of her.

Monica,

There are clean towels in the guest bathroom.  Please help yourself to anything in the fridge.  Jakob and I went for a walk; we'll be back soon.

Charles.

Yawning, Monica made her way upstairs, toward the bathroom.  As she ascended the staircase, she studied the photos that lined the walls of the corridor.  She had been in this house many times, and had never really looked at the photos.  Most of the photos were of people Monica had never met, but it was clear that they were family members.  There was a large photo of Chandler's mother, and another of her with Chandler, when he was a child.  Monica ran her hand over the photo gingerly, and felt tears spring to her eyes.  Jakob looked so much like his father.  She sighed, and looked up at another photo, more recent, from Chandler's high school graduation.  She smiled, as she realized that she had met him not long afterward.  He had the long, shaggy hair sitting in his eyes, and a stoned smile on his face.  She recalled the way he used to blow the hair out of his face, and the way he would run his hand through it, when he was nervous.  She bowed her head, and walked toward the bathroom.

Once inside the shower, she let her mind wander again to the photo of Chandler, and the months they spent together before he was sent to Vietnam.  She let the hot water consume her tears, and wondered why her heart was hurting so badly today, more than ever.

"Having fun?" Chandler smiled, as he sat back down on the blanket.

Monica nodded vigorously, then looked over at Joey and Phoebe, who were now doing much more than kissing.

"I thought they were just friends," Monica said slowly.

"They are.  It's, you know, Free Love baby," Chandler laughed.

"Oh," Monica said, tearing her eyes from the scene.

"Between you and me," Chandler whispered into Monica's ear, giving her involuntary chills, "I don't know how they do it.  I could never really, you know, share."

"Me neither," Monica said absently.

"I'm happy you came tonight, Monica," Chandler grinned, "and really happy I got to see your bra!"

Monica blushed, and bit her lip.  She turned away from Chandler, embarrassed by her embarrassment, but suddenly realized that she was once again, looking at Joey and Phoebe, now in the throes of passion.

"Sorry," Chandler said softly, "if all this makes you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," Monica said suddenly, though it was evident by her tone that she was.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

Monica thought for a moment, and though her mind was hazy, she knew that she had never felt so free and grown up in her life.  She was determined to hold onto that feeling, no matter what.

Charles was seated on the sofa when Monica finally emerged from the bathroom, clean and in fresh clothes.

"You're back!  How was your walk?" she asked, as she circled the sofa.

Charles looked up at Monica, his face pallid, and his eyes bloodshot.

Monica felt her heart lurch, as she sat down next to Charles, and took Jakob from his trembling arms.

"What?  What is it?" Monica asked, panic lining her every word.

"They—they came by," Charles said quietly, as he reached into his shirt pocket.

"Who?"

"The Army," Charles whispered, and unfolded the letter slowly.

"Wh-what did they say?" Monica felt her heart drop into her stomach.

"He's MIA.  That's what they said, MIA."

"What is that?  What's MIA?"

"Missing in Action.  They—they think he might be dead."

Monica closed her eyes, and saw his image, clear as day.  His bright blue eyes were smiling at her, telling her that it was going to be okay.  Telling her that he was coming home.

"They're wrong, Charles.  He's coming home."

AN: I re-read this, and realized that nothing really happened here…sorry about that.  Let's just call it a filler chapter, huh?  Anyway, please review!!!!!!!!!