Present Day:

"Chandler?" Rachel persisted, pulling him from his haunted memories, "Talk to me."

He stared at her for a moment with unseeing eyes before he shook his head. Turning, he took a step away, both distancing himself from her and dismissing her. He took another much needed drag on his cigarette, cherishing the feeling as he deeply breathed in the toxic fumes, letting them consume him. This was his comfort. This was his solace. He felt the heavy weight of the small whisky bottle currently occupying his jacket pocket…that was his other comfort, his other solace.

"What's going on?" Rachel pressed, a frown marring her features. "What happened last night?"

He said nothing for a while, letting the distant traffic noise fill the uncomfortable silence for him. He heard a few birds and watched as they flew carelessly above him, seemingly mocking him with their freedom. God, he wished he had that freedom, wished he could escape from all this.

"Chandler?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, remaining silent.

"Come on, just tell me what happened last night. What was so bad that you are-"

"Nothing," Chandler lied, swallowing his pain as he interrupted her. He was desperate for her not to finish that sentence. "Nothing happened, Rach, besides you've got enough on your plate."

She was hurting just as badly as he was and he wished she would cut him some slack. He could do without the additional pressure. He didn't cope well with these kind of emotions at the best of times so didn't have a hell's chance of dealing with it right now. He was beyond exhausted both physically and emotionally, and was possibly still a tad drunk. God knows he'd drunk enough alcohol that he should be.

He could feel her eyes on him as he took the last drag of the cigarette before he tossed the butt onto the ground. Part of him got some small satisfaction as he stamped it under his shiny painful shoe, squishing it easily. He stared at it a moment before attempting to kick it away, succeeding only in half burying it amongst the dirt and grit.

It had gone quiet and Chandler was starting to think that she was going to let it drop, that she was going to just let him be. Unfortunately, he was wrong. Very wrong.

"You look like hell," Rachel stated, seeming to want use his problems to distract her from her own. Or perhaps it was true…misery really did like company. "Something must have happened, something big. What is it?"

He shook his head in irritation dismissing her again. He knew he looked like hell. Anyone would after the night he'd suffered. At least he was here though. He hadn't escaped back on the first plane to New York; he hadn't stayed curled up in a pathetic ball in his hotel room and he hadn't kept running until his body had collapsed on some cold alien street. No, he had resisted all those temptations, all his natural instincts to flee and had come here. For Ross.

With a heavy sigh he closed his eyes, trying to forget his anguish but it was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the torturous images which were now engraved into his mind; no amount of cigarettes or alcohol seemed able to erase them. He had to try though. Had to use any vice he could to get through this. He just had to get through this.

Reaching into his pocket he grabbed out the foreign cigarette packet and selected the next victim. Shoving it roughly between his lips he sparked the mockingly brightly-colored lighter.

"God, just how many of those have you smoked?"

~/Flash-back- the night before/~

"3 packets of those ones," Chandler pointed to the cigarettes which stood proudly on display, trying to ignore the way his hands and voice shook. "And a lighter and a couple of those small bottles of JackDaniels."

He hoped it would be enough but doubted it. He was still in shock.

The guy in the off-license looked him over briefly before grunting and turning to grab the requested items. Chandler's fingers tapped anxiously on the wooden counter, his knee jiggling with nervous energy as he watched the disinterested man slowly type his order into the till. Chandler quickly handed him some foreign banknotes, watching as the Queen of England's face was held up to a light to ensure she was genuine.

Finally, he was handed some change, which he roughly shoved into his pants' pockets. He watched the man select a hideously bright yellow lighter, chucking it into a plastic carrier bag along with the cigarettes and alcohol. His hopes of getting through this long painful night were contained entirely in one carrier bag. He grabbed for the bag as if his life depended on it.

Out in the crisp air, he anxiously sought out the first packet of cigarettes, ripping off the plastic wrapping and letting it fall unnoticed onto street below. He was desperate for the feeling that only nicotine could provide.

Lighting it with years of practice, he inhaled the first smoke and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply letting it wash over him. He waited for a beat, praying that his old friend would offer an instant impact or at the very least take an edge off the gut-wrenching pain. It didn't. It was still very much there.

Agony, betrayal, bitterness, injustice. He still felt it all.

He stood there alone on the pavement letting the cold night air surround him, as continued to breathe in the poison. He watched as the smoke he exhaled lingered a moment in the bitter air before evaporating into nothing. He had no idea where he was. His feet had carried him out of the hotel as fast as they could. On autopilot he'd walked paying no attention to the route he'd taken; he'd just walked and walked. Through the numbness his instincts had known just one thing- he had to put as much distance as possible between himself and that.

Eventually, the adrenaline had worn off and the enormity of what had happened had hit him full force. He'd stopped abruptly, the shock setting in as he'd collapsed onto the curb. So many emotions had rushed through him, each fighting to be noticed. Pain, fear, horror, resentment.

His gut had twisted and he'd felt his body start to shake from the trauma. That's when he'd realized he couldn't do this on his own. He desperately needed something to help, anything to numb the pain. Anything that would make this nightmare a little more bearable. He wasn't strong enough by himself, he knew that much..

He'd gone in search of some sort of vice, finding the small off-license with its flickering neon sign where he currently stood.

He inhaled again, desperate for the nicotine to offer him the comfort he craved but it still refused to help him. Frustrated, Chandler started to walk again, letting his feet guide the way as he heard the light clink of the fragile bottles he carried. He was oblivious to his shoes as they started to rub. He walked and walked, not caring where he went. He hit the Thames and just stared down at the water as the emotions started to come to the surface again and threaten to overwhelm him.

Anger, frustration, jealously, longing.

He stumbled a few steps backwards and crumpled onto an abondoned bench. He sat with his head in his hands as the pain crippled him wave after wave.

Why was life always out to get him? He always said he was used to his screwed up life. He accepted it, got on with it and played the hand he was dealt. But not this time. How could he accept this? He had never expected this cruel twist of fate, hadn't seen it coming. If he'd even had just an inkling that this was on the cards, then he could have spent time preparing in some vain attempt to protect himself and his battered heart.

But he hadn't. He'd been left vulnerable and it had shaken him to his very core.

Why?

Why the hell did it have to be him?

A stranger in the night he could have coped with; had coped with several times in the past. Sure it hurt and there was always a sadness but he always got past that. Accepted it and moved on.

But why Joey? Why damn it did it have to be his roommate, one of his best friends? The man he saw every day. How was he meant to move past that? Could he move past this?

Joey and Monica.

Monica and Joey making out, kissing, lips crashing hungrily onto lips, hands tugging at clothes. His hand on her breast.

Letting out a half-strangled sob Chandler dove into the carrier bag and grabbed one of the JD bottles. It was one home comfort; here's to the American spirit. Twisting the cap off viscously his put it to his lips and swallowed. He took a long hard swig, then another and another as painful images of his friends filled his mind.

Why?

Joey always got the girl; he was used to that. Joey was the attractive one and he was the funny one. That's how their relationship worked and he didn't mind it. It honestly didn't bother him about the lack of girls or his hopeless relationships because he'd come to realize something...that he only wanted one girl…and now even she had chosen Joey.

He didn't mind strangers choosing the Italian, hell he expected it. But her? He was closer to her than anybody in the whole world. He was closer to her than Joey was. She knew him better than anyone did, knew the real man underneath that awkward and desperate first impression...and even she had chosen Joey.

She'd chosen Joey.

God, how could it hurt so much? He desperately drank some more of the whisky before lighting another cigarette. A smoke in one hand, a bottle in the other, sat on a park bench. What a picture. He was pathetic. How had he ever harbored any hope that Monica would want someone like him? That anyone would want him. He had nothing to offer apart from insecurities and inappropriate sarcasm.

His hand shaking he brought the cigarette to his lips and closed his eyes.

He didn't know how but he had to get through this, he had to move past it.

He had no choice.

A/N- Thank you so much for reading this and for all the reviews. I'll admit I was a little worried that no one would want to read this once you realized what was going on...but as I say, trust me, I'm Mondler to the core ;o) It gets moving a bit more in the next chapter...