Disclaimer: Leave me alone! We all know it's not mine! Can't you just let me wallow in my misery?
AN: This takes place the following morning. So Monday morning. Not that it really matters.
SFGrl: Well, I remember a scary amount of stuff about quite a few things that I can't even blame my siblings on. Cuz I don't have any…oh well.
LucyGoose: It would be very cruel to write it with a pairing other than Mondler in the end, wouldn't it? Well, keep reading to see how cruel I really am.
LilMondlerLuver: I've already got it planned out (what he's gonna get her). It's not jewelry, sorry, but it's also not a wire coat hanger.
Tilulation: I also love it when he smokes. It's a filthy, cancer-causing habit that I should really hate him doing, but Matthew Perry looks so sexy doing it…sigh
Lupinsmoon12391: My computer also sucks. I am in deep sympathy.
DanielFactoid: Of course I don't mind…love your new fic, btw
Dawn1: Well, it's fun to make fun of Richard through Chandler…and I held back with the "Richard is a big tree" insults that are usually used a million times in fics. I only had one reference to that. I like Colin Firth, but he really helps along the "British are aloof and snobby and emotionless" stereotype.
mistymidnight: Oh, I also liked Richard up until he almost ruined Chandler's proposal…it's just that Chandler doesn't like him anymore- not now that he likes Monica.
Also thanks to: fashion hottie, MCEJBing, Julia, Wendelin The Weird, Lindsey, Chan4Mon4EVA4EVA, and writergal90. You really inspired me to finish this chapter (I suck at writing Monica!) Now on with the chapter!
'Ooh, it's awkward,' The Voice whined. 'It's very, very awkward.'
This was, unfortunately, true, and not just a result of Chandler's paranoia. Monica was staring expressionlessly at her plate, doubtlessly still torn about what to tell Richard, and Ross was staring moodily out the window, still upset about being on sabbatical. Phoebe and Joey had at first been engaged in a spirited argument about whose Scooby Doo impression was better, but had since shut up and joined Rachel in staring from Monica to Chandler and back to Monica in complete fascination. There was no need for Chandler to wonder why they were so spellbound with the two of them. The only question had had was since when had they become the new Ross and Rachel?
'Since you started acting like Ross did in that 'Crystal Duck' phase,' The Voice reminded him snidely. Chandler sighed and tapped out a rhythm on the tabletop, stopping when the measure started to sound too much like the clacking of a keyboard. He had been mercifully spared from that sound all weekend, and really didn't want the tempo beat into his brain one minute earlier than necessary.
"So, uh how's it going at Alessandros?" Rachel asked Monica when the absence of the usual banter had become too much to bear. Monica paused before answering, and Chandler took the opportunity where everyone's was off him to stare at her. Bent over her omelet, with the sunlight coming in from the bay window and glancing off her hair, she looked vulnerable and very fragile. When she finally answered Rachel, her voice was slightly hoarse.
"Horrible," she said, poking listlessly at a bit of egg with her fork. "Someone put a rotting shallot into the tomato soup on Friday, and it tasted awful. I was, naturally, blamed."
Everyone made the obligatory sympathetic noises. Chandler stared at his orange juice. He had always liked pulp, but now it suddenly looked inedible. In fact, everything on his plate seemed nauseating, and he abruptly got to his feet, making everyone else jump.
"Well, I'm off to work," he said brightly, straightening his tie and ignoring the dubious looks. And rightly so; he hardly ever went in before 9:30, and it was barely 8:00 now. "Big report due today. Weekly statistical analyses for the systems," he added, not caring whether or not that made sense. It wasn't like any of them actually knew what he did.
Chandler turned quickly on his heel and left, feeling very conscious of everyone's eyes on his retreating back. Why were they staring at him? Did Ross, or worse, Monica guess that he was jealous of Richard? Did she know that he regretted the 'Not in New York' rule deeply? Had Rachel let anything slip? Why would she do that? Why…why was he actually heading towards work?
He could go anywhere- there was obviously no such report due-the promenade, the marina, the Statue of Liberty…. He could take off work and no one at the office would care; they probably wouldn't even notice he was gone. The last time he'd skived off, he hadn't even bothered to call in sick. Chandler could finally go to all those places he'd never had time to explore before. He could visit the Met, the wax museum, the zoo (The Bronx one if he was feeling adventurous) buy a soft pretzel and masquerade as a tourist…the possibilities were endless.
Chandler shrugged and headed off to Central Perk.
Chandler winced as he spotted Monica sitting on the couch the four of them had claimed as their own years ago. The two chairs beside it had come in handy when the group expanded as first Joey than Rachel joined. Now, however, she seemed to be sitting alone, nursing a gigantic mug (Central Perk's trademark).
'Oooh, smart one. Go where all your friends who don't have office hours (the same ones you just lied to as an escape) go. Brilliant.'
He was about to turn around and leave when Monica happened to look up and catch sight of him. The way her expression brightened immediately when their eyes locked was enough to propel him over to the couch, ignoring the protests of what he would later recognize as 'common sense.'
"Hey, Mon," he said, sitting next to her as his fingers once again protested against the lack of a cigarette secured in their grasp. She smiled back, looking confused.
"Hey, yourself. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"Aren't I always?" Chandler remarked with a short laugh, but one look at Monica's now suspicious face told him that wasn't going to cut it. "Well, I realized the report isn't due until noon," he explained. "I can type fast under pressure, and anyway, I finished most of it working overtime last week."
"Overtime?" Monica remarked skeptically, and Chandler smiled sheepishly.
"Working six hours instead of four," he remarked with a shrug, and she laughed softly. These were the moments he lived for. Sitting here with Monica killing time beat staring at spreadsheets until his brain exploded by far.
'Well, Richard is probably at work right now. He's very responsible.'
Chandler's smile faded. He had actually been starting to consider The Voice as a reliable source of advice. If the stupid thing would stop voicing his worst fears….Then again….
'Right as usual, King Friday,' Chandler remarked cynically. Richard was probably taking prescriptions right now, a James Bond soundtrack playing in the background. And- hang on. Wasn't Monica supposed to be at work right this very minute? Monica the Stickler of the rules, who probably had held the perfect attendance record all through her elementary, middle, and high school years?
"Aren't you supposed to be working, too?" he asked her mock-sternly, and she stared guiltily into her coffee mug.
"Well, I'm pretty sure they can do without me for one day. I've seen them make perfectly horrible appetizers on their own before. And I'm sure they can still find a way to blame me." Her voice grew high-pitched, and Chandler patted her comfortingly on the arm.
"Mon-" he started, but she shook her head impatiently.
"No, it's fine. The pay's good, and some of the crew have started to warm up to me. The Maitre'd has been nice, and that's got some of the others to back off. I just…needed a break, even if for only one day."
"I know what you mean," Chandler said, paused, than corrected himself with a chuckle. "Well, no I don't. I haven't worked a full eight hours since 1995."
Monica laughed again. "We haven't hung out in the longest time, Chandler," she informed him. Not that he needed reminding; the last time they'd "hung out" alone without any awkwardness had been at the rehearsal dinner in London. "Let's do something today. Just the two of us."
"Really?" Chandler asked, momentarily pleased. But then he remembered. Monica had wanted to talk to him about Richard, hadn't she? She was probably seizing the opportunity now. She didn't really want to hang out with him.
But he couldn't very well say no. He was just her friend- someone she could tell all her secrets to. Someone she could confide in about her crushes and relationships, while he sat there with a plastic smile on his face.
That was just the way things were. It wasn't her fault.
Of, course, it didn't help that he didn't want to say no, no matter what hidden motive Monica might have.
"Sure," he said.
Okay, so maybe Chandler was being needlessly paranoid. As it turned out, Monica was taking advantage of his tree-hefting skills instead of his "friendly advice" ones. Monica had dragged him on a wild goose chase to find the biggest tree ever. Wild goose chase because the "biggest tree ever" turned out to not fit into the apartment. They were forced to raid Joey's toolbox and hack off the top of the tree, since Monica refused to take the tree back and face the smirking salesman who had advised they buy the small spruce in the first place.
Then there had been the problem of actually putting up the stupid thing. The fancy metal stand Monica usually used proved to be too small for this year's trunk. They had to make do with the crude wooden one Kip had left behind when he moved out. It had a broken prong, and the tree tilted dramatically to the left no matter how tightly he tried to secure it.
"To the left Chandler! It's still tilting! No, not that far- about an inch or two. An inch, not a whole foot!"
Did Monica realize how hard it was to judge how much "an inch or two" was when you were kneeling awkwardly on the rough carpet, prickly pine branches scraping your face and arms, and fingers clenched painfully from their lock on the large trunk? Not to mention his burning palms scraping against the rough bark, and something dripping from somewhere into his collar!
"Now you have to move it back to the right," Monica informed him, voice tinged with impatience. "We'll do this slowly- a little bit at the time. Right. A little more. Right. Right. Right! Right!"
Monica's voice rose in pitch and volume with every 'right,' and Chandler was quickly growing frustrated. His suggestion that they go out and buy a new stand was met with derision: Monica had waged war against the uncooperative stand, and throwing it out and getting a new one would mean that she had lost.
"No! Not that much! About an inch to the lef- no, the right again. To the right! To the right!"
"What do you think I'm doing!" he roared back, nose itching from the strong scent of pine.
"Well, I don't know Chandler! But it's certainly not-"
At this point, Chandler's grasp on the tree slipped, and he barely had time to dive out of the way as it came crashing down, along with the last meager scraps of his holiday spirit. It narrowly missed the kitchen table, but as Chandler got to his feet slowly, he bumped his head on the end table and knocked over a lamp. Chandler tried not to look at Monica; she was probably having an embolism right about now.
He took a deep breath in preparation to deliver an incomprehensible babble of an apology, but was interrupted by Monica's gasp. Was she having a very delayed reaction or something?
"Chandler!" she exclaimed in horror. "Your hands!" He looked up, first at her worried face, then followed her shocked gaze to his hands. He was mildly surprised to see that his were palms raw and red from his (literal) brush-up with the tree.
"Here, let me get some antiseptic, okay?" Monica instructed, leaping into Florence Nightingale Mode. She gestured toward the couch (presumably meaning that he go sit on it) before racing off to the bathroom like a gold medal depended on it.
Chandler peered worriedly after her as he sat down on the couch, a siren blaring in the background. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, wincing at both the pain in his hand and the pine needles that became dislodged with the motion.
'You must've looked like an idiot,' the Voice sniggered.
'You. Are. Me,' Chandler thought exasperatedly.
'I (unfortunately) can't control the things that you do or the words that come out of your mouth, so I might as well not be.'
Chandler scowled at his hands. He didn't see why Monica was making such a fuss; they didn't look that bad. Well, they did, but it wasn't as bad as it look-well, that wasn't true. They hurt like hell.
Maybe he should just let her apply the antiseptic before he had to get them amputated.
Speaking of which, what was taking her so long?
Chandler's eyes were drawn to a gaudily-wrapped box lying next to the tv set. Since when did Monica leave presents in such careless places? There was never anything lying next to the tv set. Even the remote and tv guide were housed in the cabinet below. Curiosity getting the better of him, Chandler stood up and moved in for a closer view. The box was about the size of the one his Gameboy had come in, although more flat. He leaned over to squint at the tag, starting back as though he had been burned when he made out the tag: With love, from Richard.
'Oh dear God,' The Voice groaned. 'Here we go again. At least we managed to get through this afternoon without one Richard thought. And that's a miracle, considering the opportunity for some 'Richard-tree' comparisons.'
'Well, of course he's gonna get her a Christmas gift,' Chandler told himself, still staring at the present. 'I shouldn't be so surprised….Much better wrapped than I could manage,' he added sulkily.
'Well, at least we know it's not an engagement ring,' The Voice said dryly.
'Unless, it's one of those things where he tries to throw her off. So he puts the box that holds the engagement ring in a bigger box, and then he puts that box in a bigger box, and then he wraps that box and gives it to her and she suspects a scarf! And then it turns out to be a million-caret ring and she's so happy and-'
'Where the hell did that imagery come from?'
'Lifetime movie.'
"I've got Preparation H. I don't know how good it is; it's never been opened. Joey hasn't had some sort of accident in a while, has he?" Monica said from the bathroom, tearing Chandler from his thoughts. "I've never tried this brand before but it's got petroleum, so…." Monica continued, walking into the living room with a small tube in he hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw Chandler standing by Rachel's door, staring blankly at Richard's present.
"Oh that-that's a gift…from Richard," Monica said lamely, circling around the couch and the tree to approach him. "Here, let's wash your hands before we put this on."
"I know," Chandler said stiffly, letting her lead him to the sink. "It's…very nicely wrapped."
'In the future, just don't try to fill the silences.'
To his surprise, Monica blushed, avoiding his gaze as she stuck his hands under the spray of warm water, squirting some liquid soap onto his palms. "Actually, I wrapped it. I wanted to see what it was, but then I- it looked so messy, unwrapped, when I knew I wasn't supposed to open it until Christmas, so I just…rewrapped it."
"…oh." Chandler said vaguely, hissing in pain as Monica wiped his hands dry with a towel, and at the same time trying to ignore the way his hands could perfectly enclose her smaller ones.
As she carefully applied the ointment, Chandler looked around, not sure what he was supposed to do; where he was supposed to look. It felt weird and awkward to look at the ceiling, but even more so to look down at his hands; at her hands gently caressing his…no! No! Not caressing! Smoothing on healing balm. It was all very clinical.
He tried looking down at her bowed head, but found it was impossible to do so without being fascinated by how every single hair on her head was a different, unique shade of brown. A prism of color, and up close, it looked more reddish than almost black.
Monica glanced up, and Chandler tried desperately not to think about the fact that she was the perfect height for just bending down a little bit and capturing her lips-
"There," Monica said breathlessly, before stepping quickly back and washing her hands. "You don't need bandages or anything; just try not to…touch anything for at least 10 minutes."
"Righto," Chandler said weakly.
'Righto?'
'Yes. Yes, I know. I'm an idiot.'
"You want something to eat?" Monica asked, staring almost desperatly at the refrigerator.
"I'm good."
There was a strained silence. Chandler exhaled heavily.
"So…what'd he get you?"
Monica blinked. "Wha-what?"
"C'mon, you have to give me credit for waiting this long to ask. What'd Richard give you? You said you opened it."
"I did, didn't I," Monica said, almost to herself, before plunging ahead. "He got me a cookbook."
In a grand display of maturity, Chandler waited a whole half-hour, until he was back in the hall between Apartment 19 and 20, before executing his infamous "Chandler dance."
AN: So many things took place in this episode. Chandler finally has a conversation with Monica, we find out what Richard got Monica (hope that makes up for you still not knowing what Chandler's getting her) and The Voice returns! Leave comments on any of the above things (and anything else) in a review. I especially want to know how you think I characterized Monica. Constructive criticism much appreciated on that front.
Oh, and if anyone missed why Chandler is so relieved that Richard got her a cookbook, here's an excerpt from chapter one:
"Maybe he'd get her a cookbook; she'd like it, and it would just be safer.
Except that she wouldn't like it. Her mother always gave her cookbooks, and so did the rest of her family (excepting Ross), so Monica had grown to see the recipe book as a sign that someone either didn't know what to get her, or were giving her a subtle hint to improve on her cooking."
Please review!