Sleight of Hand

A/N: Answering stuff I forgot to address before . . . yes, this fic is AU to the point where Rachel didn't know the Gellers in high school. I know, that does change the dynamic a bit, but I kinda like not having to draw within the lines of the show's plot. Having to address that they knew each other and have them play catch-up, well, its a little annoying lol. "Are you Rachel Green?" only stays interesting for so long. I haven't gone outside those boundaries since "Your Ad Here", so I decided to here. I want to be able to have them get to know each other, because its more material to write.

Oh, and the inevitable comparison to Tina Chaves's "Beautiful Release" was brought up. To be honest, for as many times as I've reread that fic, it wasn't in my mind when I came up with this idea. I do realize the possibily similarities though, and I'm gonna work hard to differentiate this story from it. I mean, I adore "Beautiful Release", it's probably my favorite fiction ever next to "Dirty Laundry" by knilb17, but I dont want this to come off as a carbon copy. Hopefully, its different enough that you wont have to think about it while reading this. And Tina, if youre out there, silently reading... I hope you dont think Im copying, lol. Cause I swear on my Friends DVDs, I'm not :-P But I just knew that this would be brought up lol.

6 Months Later...

Ross Geller slammed the door shut behind him as he arrived home after work. He was sick and tired of his collegues continuing to treat him like he was a child every time he tried to develop a theory.

For months, now, he'd been doing intensive sidework outside his duties as a professor at New York University. He'd kept his work secretive, only working on it after hours in his office, when all the other professors went home to their wives and families. He had nothing to invest in like that . . . which explained a lot about why his marriage failed. The incentive to go home just . . . withered away.

After he finally accomplished creating a new theory about the evolution of a specific species of bird, he'd finally become confident enough to share his views with his fellow co-workers. All he had gotten was a laugh, a comrade-ish slap on the back, and the shallow advice that he should, "stick to the supplied material for the class", and quit filling his students' minds with his own garbage that might very well be the exact opposite of the truth.

Since when did science have limits? Since when were you forced to follow a strict code, throwing everything that formed your own mind into the blue? There was no fucking way that any of the paleontological theories he was being told to taught were developed that way. You had to think outside the box . . . which, apparently, he "wasn't supposed to do." They still considered him some little tour guide from the natural history museum, rather than the phD that carried after his title.

He was sick of having to play by the rules. His whole life seemed to be one big "paint by numbers" activity. He was supposed to find the love of his life in college. He was expected to propose. And when that collapsed, he was anticipated to move on and find someone else more suited for him.

Maybe that was the reason that he'd failed at nearly every attempt.

Maybe that was why it had all burned out so quick.

Eh, he wasn't the one to psychologically analyze himself. He didn't give a shit about it anymore. All his mind had been focusing on was the problems in his marriages. Carol was inevitable, but Emily . . . well, it had all gone to hell now. If she wanted to fix things, she'd have to take the initiative. And it had been six months, so he wasn't expecting any "reaching out" anytime soon. Fuck hope- there was no point.

As he went to the bathroom to wash his face, he stared at his reflection. He almost didn't recognize himself. He was no longer the innocent, shy boy he once was, back in his midtwenties. He heart had too many bandages and scars for any of that anymore. While he would normally be expected to be more vulnerable, more susceptable to pain, he was rather becoming more blasé over it. Why put up defenses if it was ultimately gonna turn out wrong anyway? He accepted it now. It was, after all, where his life always led.

Down some dead-ended road.

-----

Lifelessly, Rachel Green-Farber trudged up the staircase to her apartment on the fifth floor. A few fellow neighbors passed her, offering nods of recognition and tentative smiles. She'd attempt a smile back, but she knew they were intimidated by her. Her and her bright Jimmy Choos and the shamble of the life she once knew. And the sob story she never expected to be able to tell.

But anyway, no sense in wallowing in it.

She threw her keys on the kitchen counter, sighing as she looked around. Conditions hadn't changed much, and she still found a cloud of depression hanging over her head when her gaze passed through the apartment. She'd been forced to adapt to so much in the last six months, and she wasn't quite used to any of it. Living in the Village, working as a waitress, being . . . well, alone.

She hadn't seen him in half a year. And, frankly, she almost considered that a plus. She didn't know where he was, she didn't know why he left, but her mind rarely dwelled on these questions anymore. He'd left for a beer, walked out of her life, and . . . she was stuck here. Left to fend for herself. Sure, her parents helped with the bills, but it still was so strange. It was almost like college, just twenty-two years late. At least . . . well, at least he was out of the picture. One worry was gone.

His friends, in the beginning, had said he was "clearing his head", whatever the hell that meant. She stopped caring. Barry could take care of himself, she'd take care of herself, and everything would just . . . continue that way.

She was tired as shit. Almost immediately after scoring her waitressing job at a local burger joint, Rachel had found that she wasn't very good at her job. Why the hell they kept her, she didn't know. Maybe her appearance made them look good. Either way, she suffered complaints nearly every day, and had a particularly angry one this evening. She was wiped.

Stepping into her bedroom to undress, she caught her reflection in the mirror on her dresser. Bags under the eyes, golden highlights growing out. Was that a wrinkle at the side of her mouth? She quickly averted her attention, focusing on pulling her pajamas on. Who cares if she was only thirty and a half years old? She felt like she could be fourty, with the amount she'd been through. If only she'd known then.

Too tired for a shower, she climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. Her mind wandered, thinking of just what her place in life currently was. She was legally still married, with a husband she hadn't seen in six months, living a shitty life in her small Village apartment, earning seven bucks an hour waitressing at a place where she rarely got tipped.

This couldn't be it for her.

But . . . and even the thought made her cringe. But what if this was it?

---

He saw her enter out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly, he got his mailbox key out and opened it as quick as he could. As he got his mail out and pretending to keep his attention on retrieving the mail, he glanced peripherally at her. She moved to her own mailbox on the other side of the room, getting her own stuff out. Not even giving him a second look.

She kept her back turned to him, probably reading the front of the envelopes in her box. He took the opportunity to look at her fully. Her golden hair, while thrown messily up into a wavy ponytail, still caught the light in the room. He got the impression that she must have once been someone who highly regarded her appearence, but most have lost reason to. He wondered why, and he also wondered how much better she could possibly look on a day that she tried.

Every so often, since a few weeks after he moved into the building, he'd run into this elusive stranger in the mail room downstairs. They'd never speak, let alone regard each other's presence. Several times their eyes had met, if only briefly. Hers were electric blue, the kind that would leave him staring after her when she exited. They'd always led him to want to know more about her, whoever she was.

All of a sudden, she closed her mailbox, and turned to leave. He quickly tried to look engrossed in an advertisement he'd recieved, causing her to shoot him a quizzical look. He felt her gaze on him, even as she moved across the room. He could do nothing else but look up.

And, for a brief moment, their gazes locked.

Wordlessly, she turned from him and left. Just like every other time. And, following in suit, he still stared after her. He'd seen it, the thing that always kept him thinking. There was such a sadness behind those eyes, like she'd gone through much more than she'd let on. Even in the few seconds he'd spent staring into them, he always felt a small part of himself connect with her. Maybe she was just like him; someone who'd fallen victim to inevitable failure. Caught up in a game of neverending disappointment.

Nonetheless, he knew these chance encounters were growing into something he looked forward to. It put a small butterfly in the pit of his stomach everytime he checked his mail, even if she didn't turn up. The chance was always there.

For once, something was catching his attention that didn't make him loathe his life.

-----

Even as she walked the staircase back up to her floor, her mind was on him.

Every once in a while, she'd enter the mailroom to find the same neighbor checking his mail. He had dark hair, sometimes spiked a bit in the front, sometimes messy and sticking out at awkward angles. His clothing would either be formal, as if he lectured at big business meetings, and sometimes it was overly casual. He was an endearing person, and she always found herself secretly watching him as he watched her.

But then, the few times she'd gotten a look at his eyes . . . wow. Everytime she saw them, she was taken aback at the intensity. There was so much she'd never be able to guess behind those deep chestnut irises, she could tell. He seemed almost tortured, vulnerable . . . and yet, in some strange way, in control. It was an odd paradox, and it enchanted her.

She reached her level, nearly continuing to the next flight of stairs as she was lost in thought. As she stopped in front of her door to retrieve her key out of her purse, she realized her heart was beating a bit fast.

God, it had been so long since something had done that to her.

She didn't know his name, or even which apartment he lived in. All she knew was that, somehow, he was the first thing in six months that she wasn't indifferent about. And he was the first thing in years that interested her at this level. She wanted to know about who he was, what his own sob story could be. She was almost sure that he had to have one as well. Seeing him sometimes made her feel like, with his sullen demeanor, she was almost looking into a mirror.

She made a mental note to check her mail at the same time tomorrow. Maybe she could get a closer look.

Maybe this odd man could keep her company in misery. After all, didn't everyone say that was better?