Joey pushed open the coffee house door, saw Phoebe sitting on the couch, and smiled. This wasn't a chance encounter this time, he had arranged to meet her here. Still, any chance to see and talk to her was a good thing.

He walked around, sat on the couch next to her. Phoebe looked up and smiled. "Hi."

"Hey." Joey looked down at the suitcase and bag at Phoebe's feet. "Are those yours?"

"Yeah. In a couple of hours I'm going to go pick up Mike and head to the airport. We're going to Ixtapa."

"Ix... wha?"

"Ixtapa. Mike says it's the best place to go to in Mexico."

"Mexico?" Joey studied Phoebe. "You haven't told him yet, have you?"

She wouldn't meet his eye. "Not in so many words, no."

"And you're thinking this Mexican place is the way to do it?"

"Uh-huh. I mean, we'll be relaxed and having fun, and he can't run away without me."

"What?" Joey felt uneasy. "Why?"

"Because I'll steal his passport before I tell him."

"No, I mean... why would he run away?"

"Oh." Phoebe pulled on her bottom lip. "Because... because it's, you know, kinda scary."

"It's not scary at all. He wants kids." Joey took Phoebe's hand away from her face, made her look at him. "You know that."

Phoebe's eye kept flicking away and back, as if forcing herself to look at him despite not wanting to. "There's knowing and knowing. I know what Mike says, but I don't know if Mike knows what he knows. And when it hits him, he might not... know what he thinks he knows."

Joey smiled at Phoebe's bewildering logic that still somehow made perfect sense. "Well, I know. He'll be really happy, I promise. Who wouldn't be? Any guy would be lucky to have you as the mother of his child."

Phoebe's gaze steadied and she smiled. "Why isn't it your child I'm carrying? I know what you know, after all."

"If you know me that well, you already know why not." It sounded good, and Joey was slightly surprised that he'd come up with it. Then again, avoiding answering tricky questions was one of his specialties.

"Yeah, I guess." Phoebe squeezed his hand. "So what's this news you wanted to tell me?"

"Oh!" Joey grinned widely, the excitement rising again. "I got a great new agent! And she already got me an audition for a great new television show!"

"Oh, yay!" Phoebe beamed. "What is it?"

"Well, I'm a cop, except I'm a mean, tough, street cop, dispensing justice in my own unique way." Joey almost couldn't get the words out fast enough. "It's a cable show, too, so I can swear and stuff. And there will be naked women! My agent thinks I'm just what the producers are looking for, so if I give a good audition, I'm in!"

Phoebe was still smiling. "That was fast. You must have a good agent."

"She's a shark."

"Really? Neat!"

"Uh, not that kind of shark," Joey said hastily. "She also got me an audition for some medical thing, I don't know if I'd like it, though."

"Oh, this is so perfect for you. Everything you wanted, I'm happy."

"Yeah, me too." Joey decided he had Phoebe as excited as he could get her, then tried to gently lower the hammer. "If I get past the auditions here in New York, I'll fly out in a couple of months to begin shooting."

Phoebe's smile vanished. "Fly out?"

"Yeah. The studio is in Hollywood."

"Oh." Phoebe studied his face. "So you'd fly back and forth all the time?"

"I... I was thinking it would make more sense if I... move out there."

Phoebe's voice flattened. "Move out there."

"Yeah. My sister Gina lives out there, she's already begun looking for an apartment for me."

"An apartment." Phoebe withdrew her hand. "So you're leaving... New York?"

Joey cringed inwardly at the tone in her voice. "I might be. My agent says there are a hundred opportunities in L.A. for every one there is here in New York."

"But... but you have a job here. As Dr. Drake."

"I know." Joey sighed. "But it's... it's not a great job. They're going to get rid of me, I just know it, the viewers never bought in to the whole brain transplant thing. It's time I made my own opportunities, y'know?"

"Yeah, uh huh." Phoebe stood up, grabbed her suitcase and bag. "I need to go pick up Mike now."

"Pheebs." Joey rose to his feet as well. "I'd miss you, you know that, but... you got Mike, and the baby, and everyone else. I'll, I'll never be more than a phone call away, you know that."

Phoebe stared at him a moment, then smiled. It looked a little forced to Joey's eyes. "I do know. Maybe, maybe I'll call you just before bedtime every day and sing you a lullaby."

Joey grinned. "I'd like that."

"Okay. Well." Phoebe moved past him towards the door. "Off to Ixtapa. But you know, I'll be coming back."

"I know," Joey said slightly defensively as Phoebe walked out the door.

Sighing, Joey sank back into the couch. This was terrible. He couldn't do this, he just couldn't. But he needed to, there was nothing for him here.

Nothing except the most important people in his life.

With a groan, Joey sat back, closed his eyes, and wished desperately he could go back to the day when he'd moved in to a new apartment and started a great new life. A life that hadn't begun by hurting people he cared about so much.

---

Ross rung the doorbell. A few seconds later, it was quickly open and a tired-looking woman smiled at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Just came back to drop off the clothes that Rachel borrowed from you for her interview." Ross handed Monica the garment bag.

She took it, a puzzled frown on her face. "You came all the way out here for that?"

"Well, yeah." Ross looked down at the ground. "And, and maybe, to... ask your advice."

"My advice?" Monica sounded exultant. "You want my advice?"

"Yeah. Look." Before he could chicken out, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a box, and handed it to Monica.

Her eyes widened. She hung the garment bag on a coat rack just inside the door, then opened the small box he had given her and said somewhat breathlessly, "Nana's ring."

"Yeah."

"That Mom gave you."

"Yeah."

"To propose to Rachel with."

"Yes, yes, all of that." Ross snatched it out of her hand. He closed the box and put it into his pocket. "So, so I was wondering... if, if I should, you know..."

"Use it?"

"Yeah." Ross felt defensive and embarrassed.

"Ross, you've proposed like a hundred times. Why do you need my advice?"

He smiled in self-deprecation. "The jokes, they're funny, I went along with them, but... you know, I only really proposed twice. Carol, that was serious, that was thought out, I thought it went all right. Emily, that was rushed, impulsive, I did it for all the wrong reasons. Rachel proposed to me the third time, and we were both so drunk we didn't even know what it meant, how serious it was supposed to be. This one... this one I want to get right. And I want it to be the last one, too."

Monica looked at him, her face thoughtful. "Look, you want to come inside and talk?"

"This is good." Ross looked around, taking in suburbia around them, it felt very much like families. "I have to leave soon, I want to be on the next train and that's in fifteen minutes."

"This isn't exactly a five-minute conversation, you know."

"I know." Ross felt frustration building up, a familiar self-contempt. "I don't even know why I brought it up. This kind of stuff I should be able to work out on my own."

"Yes, you should." Monica considered him a moment. "Okay, quickly, what are your concerns? Why would it be a bad idea?"

"Well, we only got back together a couple of weeks ago."

"You've known her for more than twenty years. Next?"

"Uh... well, I don't know that... I'm doing this for the right reason this time, either. It's like, I want to make our getting-back-together legally binding. It's as if I, I need to manacle her to me in order to, to keep her from... to keep us from breaking up again."

"She loves you, you love her, you two have a daughter for crying out loud. What other proof do you need that you belong together? Getting married just acknowledges the reality of your current situation. And offers some interesting advantages when trying to buy a home, I might add. Next?"

Ross felt a smile of bemusement creeping over his face. The world according to Monica had no problems that couldn't be overcome if one only listened to her. "And, and... I want to... do this right. I want to say the right things to her when I ask her to marry me, and... and I have no idea how to do that."

"Oh, that's easy, I'll make a list..." Monica trailed off, shook her head, started over. "This one you're on your own. I can't tell you things about Rachel that you don't already know."

"But... but do I know... the right things?" Ross shifted slightly on his feet. "There's, there's so much I got wrong over the years. How do I, how do I get the right words out?"

Monica looked around the neighborhood for no reason Ross could fathom, then reached out and put her hand on Ross's chest. "Look, you do know the right words. You always have. When I proposed to Chandler, I had this whole speech prepared, and it all... went out of my head. Just say what you feel. Rachel knows you and loves you, she'll understand what you say even if it doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, well, that hasn't always worked so good." Ross sighed heavily. "Something always managed to... get in the way. Cats, orthodontists, inadvertent proposals-"

"Shut up, Ross!" Monica shoved Ross, sending him back a couple of steps. "What's to get in the way this time? You've got all the issues worked out, every one. You've both got jobs you like, there are no ex-wives or ex-fiances lurking about, no secrets you're keeping from each other, and you have the support of everyone around you. This is absolutely the perfect time. So go do it!"

Ross stared at Monica for a while. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

She grinned. "Not a soul, except Chandler already knows because he's listening from the upstairs bedroom."

From a second story window floated, "I am not!"

Ross chuckled along with Monica. Then he half-turned towards the sidewalk. "Thanks. I have to go, I have to catch a train."

"Let me know how it goes!" Monica was beaming with excitement.

"I, I will."

"I'd avoid mentioning Brits and lesbians if I were you," Chandler's voice added.

Ross waved up at the window, then headed down the road. The train station wasn't too far away, and he'd be back in New York in an hour.

Which would give him more time to think. Because, despite his sister's certainty, he wasn't sure this was the best time to be adding more pressure to Rachel's life. He wanted her so badly but needed to find out if she felt the same way before proposing. And it might take some time to figure that out. If he ever did.

Ross sighed, somehow feeling like he was back in high school watching Rachel from across the cafeteria. He quickened his pace as he headed towards the train station.

---

Joey was going away.

Phoebe bit her lip as she steered her cab rounded the corner, just in front of a limo. Joey was going away. Joey was leaving New York, leaving her. It was too big a concept, and her mind kept shying away from the idea. But there he sat in her mind, nervous smile on his face, talking about California. California.

Joey was going away.

With a vicious twist of the wheel, Phoebe pulled over to the curb. Mike jogged over, dragging various pieces of luggage. He opened the rear door of the cab and quickly loaded all the bags, then got into the front seat next to her. He smiled. "Okay, let's go."

"Okay!" Phoebe hated how shrill her voice was, so promptly stopped talking. Instead she pulled right out into traffic, to the sound of squealing brakes and the blasting of a horn.

"Look out!" Mike said about five seconds too late. He looked over at her, a worried expression on his face.

Phoebe ignored it, mentally plotting her course. All routes were probably equally congested, but she decided on a series of roads that were most likely to have reasonable movement. She needed to take a left, so she spun the wheel and dodged through the traffic to get to the street she wanted to be on.

"Phoebe!" Mike sounded both panicked and angry. "You can't drive like that, we don't even have any seat belts. You have to be more careful."

Probably best not to mention the engine problems. "You'll be fine, Mr. Scaredypants."

Mike didn't respond for a minute. When he did, his voice was a lot calmer. "What's wrong?"

Phoebe tossed her head slightly. "Who says anything is wrong?"

Gently, probingly. "Phoebe, tell me."

"Well..." Not now, not like this. Later, when they were in Mexico and alone. She cast about for a subject. "Joey's moving to California."

"Oh? Why?"

"I don't know! It doesn't make sense, we're here, not there!" The words and the depth of feeling behind them surprised her. "I don't know how he could leave me."

"Leave you?" Mike sounded puzzled. "Where you and he ever-"

"He asked me to marry him once," she found herself saying.

"Uh... he did?"

Phoebe began berating herself. She was baiting Mike and didn't need to. A murkiness was beginning to form around her and it was affecting everything she did and said. She needed to focus on the positive, the healing auras, the lightness. Those were just hard to find. Joey was going away. They were all going away, in one way or another.

The light ahead turned yellow. A muscle in Phoebe's leg twitched and she had to deliberately lift her foot off the accelerator. Gently she stepped on the brake, coming to a stop at the crosswalk as the light turned red.

"He didn't really mean it. He loves me, but not that way." Phoebe turned to Mike. "He proposed to Rachel later that same day if it makes you feel better."

Mike's brow furrowed. "Have I mentioned how odd your friends are?"

Another time, the comment wouldn't have meant a whole lot to her. With the murkiness above her, she suddenly became quite angry. "Don't you dare judge my friends, Mike. They understand me a lot better than you do."

An expression of hurt crossed his face. "I'd understand you better if you'd let me. There's so much you still haven't told me that your friends all seem to know. Why keep me excluded?"

You're wrong, Mike. Even my friends don't know everything. Phoebe kept her mouth firmly shut, determined not to let the murkiness win, determined not to keep arguing. She looked up at the light, saw it turn green, gently pressed on the accelerator.

Without warning. With the cab going less then ten miles an hour.

A tow truck, of all things, sped through the intersection, running the red light. It slammed into the side of the cab, impacting the door next to Mike. He flew into Phoebe, who had already begun her own slide to the left. Her head hit the driver's side window and she knew no more.

---

Monica restlessly paced the living room, looking at it from all angles. It just wasn't right. The living room was much bigger than the one back in the apartment, and she just couldn't fill the space right. She'd tried various arrangements and nothing looked right at all.

Chandler came from upstairs, clipping a baby monitor to his belt. He leaned against the wall, looking as she continued to stroll around the room. "Keep the patrols up, I heard the couch conspiring with the coffee table to attempt the big escape tonight."

Monica didn't even look at him. "We need new furniture."

"Right now?" Chandler shook his head. "Mon, we just bought a house and found out that we have twice the babies to take care of. We don't exactly have a lot of discretionary funds."

"This is all wrong, though." She gestured at the chairs. "They don't belong. We need something to fill this place."

Chandler walked up to her, gently putting his hands on her shoulders, which made her stop pacing and turn to face him. "We'll get you what you need, but not right now. We have too many other expenses to worry about."

"I know, I know." Monica sighed. "It's just... I want this place to feel like a home. A real home, not just a copy of the apartment."

"We'll get there. I promise."

Monica looked up at Chandler's face, heard his soothing voice, and smiled. Chandler was far from perfect but he could rise to the occasion, and do so magnificently, saying and doing just the right things to make her feel good. She put her arms around his neck, began to draw him in.

The phone rang. Monica made a face and moved away from Chandler towards the den. Chandler sighed in obvious disappointment, which for some reason made Monica grin. She picked up the phone and turned to face him as she spoke. "Hello?"

"Monica Geller?" The voice was female, professional, unfamiliar.

"Uh..." Monica blinked, decided not to worry about the accuracy of last names, a feeling of fear and dread beginning to settle over her. "This is Monica."

"You're listed in our records as an emergency contact for Phoebe Buffay."

Those records must be old. Phoebe's last name was wrong, too, and she'd certainly list Mike now as her contact. Monica wondered how this woman had gotten her current phone number, then realized she must have called the apartment and gotten the phone company's message that the number had changed. And all this speculation was her way of trying to avoid asking the next question. Steeling herself, she got her mouth to speak in a surprisingly calm voice. "Is something wrong?"

"Ms. Buffay has been in an automobile accident. She's been admitted to this hospital and is undergoing treatment."

Monica reached out with her free arm, clutched Chandler's hand tightly. "Is she all right?"

"I'm sorry, I don't have any more details at this time."

"Was... was her husband in the cab, too?"

"Uh... a Mike Hannigan has been admitted as well."

"Oh God." Monica released Chandler's hand, grabbed a pen from the desk the phone was resting on. "Tell me where the hospital is."

She got directions and hung up. Chandler immediately blurted out, "What is it? What's wrong? Is it Phoebe? Is she hurt?"

"Calm down," Monica snapped. She picked up the phone again and began dialing. "I'm going to call my parents and ask them to come over and watch the babies. You call everyone else, tell them Phoebe and Mike have been in an accident. Tell them to meet us here." She thrust the pad at him.

Chandler looked at the paper, his face ashen. "Are they hurt bad?"

"I don't know! We won't know until we get there! Mom?" Monica spoke into the phone. "Hang on a sec, Mom. Chandler, start calling them. And I mean right now, mister!"

Chandler gaped at her for a moment, then suddenly came to life. "Yes, of course, sorry." He grabbed his cell phone from the charger and walked out of the room as he began his own dialing.

"Mom." Monica tried to control her racing thoughts. A terrible, awful fear was threatening to choke her but she had to get past that, had to keep it together. "I need your help."

---

Phoebe's next awareness was sitting propped up in a bed. She wasn't certain if she had lost consciousness or not. Just suddenly the world was there, and a man in a white coat was writing on a chart at the foot of her bed.

Her head hurt. Phoebe reached up to touch her temple, encountered bandages instead. She looked down at her body, discovered she was wearing a hospital gown although she had no recollection of putting it on. Her whole body was sore, inside and out.

The man was still scribbling. To find out if he was real, Phoebe called out, "Hello?"

The man looked up. "Ah, you're awake, that's good." He hung the chart at the foot of her bed and took a step closer to her, looking into her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts." Phoebe tried to think back. What had she been doing? Mike... Mexico. Planning to go there, tell him, to let him know. The cab, arguing, murkiness. The crash, the sound, the feeling of impact.

Phoebe looked at the doctor, her throat closing. "How's Mike?"

"Let's talk about you first. Follow my finger." He moved it from side to side in front of her face.

Confused, Phoebe tracked his finger as it moved around, then blinked and looked at the doctor again. "I want to know how my husband is."

"You've suffered a mild concussion, but I think you'll recover." It was as if he hadn't heard her. "You have some other bruising and contusions, but nothing serious. However, you went into shock which induced a spontaneous abortion."

"A..." The words, they couldn't possibly mean what she thought they meant. "A what?"

The doctor took her hand. "Give me your strongest grip. Stronger, as strong as you can. Good. You had a miscarriage. I'd like to keep you in the hospital overnight for observation, and possibly schedule a D&C while you're here."

Phoebe stared at the doctor as he extracted his hand. He walked back to the chart, lifted it and made a couple of quick notations, then replaced it. "The indications are that you'll have a complete recovery. I'll check in with you tomorrow morning. Ring the nurse if you need anything."

"Need..." Phoebe shook her head, a mistake because of the pain it caused. "My husband. Tell me what's happened to my husband."

The doctor hesitated. "I'll have someone come down and speak to you." He left the room.

Phoebe looked around. Another woman, much older than she was, lay in another bed in the room, asleep or unconscious. No one else. No one was here. She was alone. Outside and inside.

It hurt, it hurt too much and she shied away from it. Mike, all that mattered was Mike. Slowly, with deliberation, she lifted the sheets away. Her left leg was ugly with bruises and didn't want to be moved, but she still managed to lift it out of the bed and stand up. She felt dizzy, and waiting didn't seem to make it pass. Carefully, her leg screaming agony with every step taken, she walked to the door, opened it, found a hospital corridor.

Phoebe considered each direction carefully before turning to her right. She still felt dizzy but was able to manage a respectable speed. Almost normal walking with barely a limp. No one talked to her, tried to stop her, even seemed to notice the cloud of murkiness she dragged with her, clinging to her like an oil spill.

She reached the elevator lobby. Phoebe considered the directory. She was currently on the fourth floor. The emergency room was on the first floor. Intensive Care was on the second. The morgue was in the basement.

She pressed the down button and waited. Eventually the elevator doors slid open. She stepped inside, past two normal-looking people and a doctor. They seemed to ignore her as she examined the buttons thoughtfully. She lifted her hand, hovered them over the buttons. She could not press B, that was not an option, she could not ever press that button, that button did not exist. Her forefinger caressed the 2, pressed it, caused it to light up as the doors slid closed.

A few seconds later they opened again and Phoebe stepped out. There were other people moving around doing things, but Phoebe had no interest in details, no interest in them. She read the signs and found one that pointed towards Intensive Care.

Again trying to simulate a normal walk, she moved down the corridor. After some distance she came to a set of double doors, beyond which she could see a nurse's station. She pushed the doors opened, which drew the attention of a small, dark woman sitting on the desk. "Miss, you can't come in here."

Phoebe walked over to the desk, forced her eyes on the woman, spoke in a quiet voice. "I want to see my husband. Mike Hannigan."

The nurse's eyes danced over Phoebe, probably taking in the bandages, gown, and bruises. After a moment, the woman looked down at a computer screen, tapped a few keystrokes. "He's in room 218."

Phoebe drew a breath, mildly disappointed that she didn't feel more relieved that a trip to the basement wasn't necessary. "I'm going to go see him."

The nurse looked back up at her, then grimaced before her face softened. "All right. No more than five minutes, then I want you to go back to your room."

"Thank... thank you." Phoebe turned and walked past the station. The room wasn't far, second on the left, the door open.

The room was far more crowded than she realized. An older couple were sitting on chairs, intently watching a man lying on the bed, tubes coming out of his mouth, I.V.'s going into both arms, his eyes closed, his face slack.

The couple looked up as she came in, and their expressions hardened. Phoebe cringed, then walked slowly up to the bed, looking down at the face of her husband. "How is he?"

"He almost died because of you!" The woman's voice was shrill, almost hysterical. "Did you come here to finish the job?"

The man clutched the woman's hands. His voice was more low-key but no less hostile. "He has four broken ribs and a punctured lung and liver. They brought him out of surgery an hour ago. What did you do?"

"I got pregnant." Phoebe reached out, put her hand on Mike's cheek.

"Don't touch him!" The woman surged to her feet. "You've done nothing but tried to destroy him from the moment you met him! Leave my son alone!"

Phoebe let the words wash over her. They were becoming noises anyway, just random sounds without meaning. The people making them weren't real people, either. Just images, just shapes. Just like her mother - her real mother, the one who had raised her - towards the end she had become nothing but a distant voice, and even being shown the shape of her mother kneeling on the kitchen floor hadn't made her any more real. After that her mother's image had gone away, had never returned, and although Phoebe had sometimes missed that, she'd learned to keep going.

Now she had no reason to. The images and sounds around her were trying to tie her down, keep her where pain and horror and sadness floated overhead like a dark cloud that covered everything with despair and loss. She didn't want that, she wanted the murkiness to go away. She wanted to lift free, to leave it all behind. And while she would miss the image of the man on the bed, and while it would be hard not to hear his sounds again, she knew it was for the best. For him, for everyone.

Phoebe removed her hand, smiled widely at the images, the spirits that were glaring at her, then turned away towards the door. "Mother?" she called out. "I'm coming, Mother."

Anticipation growing, Phoebe left the room.

---

(to be continued)