A/N Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter and to everybody still reading. This is a bit of a long update - I'm so bad at knowing where to chapter break - I'm sorry! Anyway, we're back in the present and also back in NYC by the end so things should start to get a bit pacier soon.
Just as Monica had predicted, the four walls of the bedroom in their luxury hotel suite had quickly come to feel every bit as oppressive as those of her nondescript hospital room, and her sense of incarceration no less poignant.
That was not to say that Richard's suggestion that the hotel would offer some benefits was entirely inaccurate: The food was certainly more palatable; her bed was soft; she had access to a TV and to a wonderfully grandiose, free-standing bathtub that she was able to access with Richard's assistance; and the sweeping views of the forest from the large bedroom window had indeed brought her intermittent glimmers of peace.
Best of all, there was Tilly.
The thing that had pleased her most about being released from hospital was being reunited with her affectionate little dog.
But Tilly and Richard had been out walking for almost an hour now, leaving Monica all alone, and her chronic levels of boredom were approaching an all time high.
She snatched up the remote control that lay at her side and extinguished the homogeneous drone of yet another daytime quiz show with a frustrated huff, her eyes falling upon the crutches propped against her bedside table as she vaguely considered abandoning her bed in favor of the living area, just for a change of scene.
She was making significant physical improvements every day now, but her doctor had advised that her ankle would require complete rest for at least two more weeks and would most likely hinder her mobility for many more than that, given the severity of the damage to her ligament.
Unfortunately, using the crutches was still proving to be an incredibly uncomfortable experience; excruciating in fact, thanks to the continuing pain in her ribs and wrist; but she had successfully managed to navigate her way to the bathroom or to the telephone with them when the situation had felt dire or pressing enough to require it.
Like this morning for instance, when the bright chirp of their hotel room phone had sounded just seconds after Richard had barricaded himself in the bathroom and allowed the roaring monsoon of the shower to deafen him to the rest of the world.
Desperate to hear a familiar voice and longing for fresh conversation, Monica had grabbed the tortuously painful walking aids with determination, grimacing as she slid them beneath her armpits.
As she eased herself to stand on her left foot and allowed the sticks to bear her weight, she was unable to suppress a yelp, feeling very much like she was driving stakes into her battered ribs.
Nevertheless, she had panted her perseverance, gritting her teeth as she ignored the acute pain that shot through her wrist, propelling herself across the bedroom and into the living area with grim tenacity.
Breathless, her raging body collapsed into the forest green armchair that stood next to the desk, and her eager fingers scooped up the receiver in the nick of time.
Hearing Rachel's voice made the short but agonizing journey from her bed more than worthwhile; in fact, her friend's cheerful greeting sounded to Monica's parched ears as gloriously warm and sun-soaked as the step she used to sit on in the yard of her childhood home; but even so, her felicity was tempered by a morsel of guilt.
She was sincerely and wholly appreciative of Rachel's time and thoughtfulness, and of her uplifting conversation, but before the joy of her old roommate's affectionate chatter had drawn her into what felt like a heartwarming hug from afar, the first thing Monica had felt when she had answered that call was disappointment.
Because fundamentally, Rachel's was not the voice that Monica had been desperate to hear.
Why couldn't she put this down?
After all, Pandora's Box had lain mothballed and dormant, neatly packed away with its lid securely sealed for almost two whole months before this accident happened.
Sort of.
In truth, there may have been one or two occasions, when she had found herself lying in the darkness of her bedroom, drenched in morbid loneliness, when she had given in to temptation and allowed her wayward mind and fingertips to venture towards the illicit boundaries almost crossed; to roam those exhilarating new pastures so very nearly explored; creating ecstatic false memories of what had not quite come to pass.
But late night fantasies and lustfully embellished remembrances are harmless enough, surely?
Normal.
Natural.
Healthy even, so long as never revisited in the flesh.
Largely, Monica had felt that she had everything contained and controlled, and crucially, consigned to the past.
In the days that had followed Tim's party, recalling her drunken behavior had caused Monica such complete and utter mortification that it had made it easy enough to avoid Chandler both physically and mentally.
Allowing her mind's eye even the tiniest glimpse of her outrageous, clumsy, and ultimately rebuffed attempt at seduction brought forth feelings of such crushing humiliation that any desire to meet those intense aquamarine eyes was swiftly quashed by her shamed mind, knowing full well that she would surely shrivel with embarrassment in the tender warmth of that sweet and guileless gaze.
She had at times wondered what might have happened if she had sought solace elsewhere that night: If instead of manhandling poor Chandler she had drunkenly thrown herself at one of those faceless high-spirited pool players, or even if her other good friend from Apartment 19 had been the one to answer Steve's call.
She imagined that physical rejection would have been less likely in either event, but perversely, a meaningless full-scale hook-up with a less virtuous man might have proven more easily forgettable than her ephemeral moment with her beautiful best friend.
However, she could say with some confidence that she would never have done such a thing.
Monica was not, by nature, a cheat. Of that she was certain.
Surely anybody would agree that there is a world of difference between seeking gratuitously unfaithful bodily pleasure and longing to galvanize an emotional bond so profound that it had felt at that moment in time, essential to her very survival?
Her brush with adultery had never been about sex.
What Monica had been hunting for that night was a sense of grounding, of closeness, and connection; she had been grasping with desperate fingers at those last remaining tatters of her old self, the woman that had been consistently eroded by her quest to assimilate herself into the life of another.
What she had wanted and needed that night was precisely what Chandler had gone on to provide: An emotional anchor when she had felt so hopelessly adrift.
As much as the brief electrifying thrill of his lips and fingertips had stirred something quite indescribable within her; it was the gentle balm of his words, and the sanctuary of his ferocious embrace that had ultimately proven much more difficult to lock away.
Thankfully though, her skin-crawling guilt had allowed her to do just that: To banish the incident from her mind; to dismiss it as a foolish, drunken error; focusing instead on her ultimate goal of achieving the family she had always wanted, and redoubling her efforts to create new life with her husband.
She had stuck out her chin and ploughed resolutely on with the choices and commitments she had made of her own free will, and by which she must now abide.
But as time had smoothed the jagged edges of her humiliation and soothed the scars of that unforeseen burn of forbidden desire, she mainly just missed her friend. She found herself simply craving his kind heart, his silliness, his easy company, just as she always had.
And when he had rushed devotedly to her bedside after her fall he had once again demonstrated an instinctive ability to be all that she needed him to be.
Chandler had brought with him no awkwardness, no judgement, no resentment about the fact that she had been avoiding him so cruelly. He had made things blissfully straightforward, and the two of them had slotted effortlessly back together in a manner that had left her feeling wonderfully light of heart in his presence.
He had been her same old friend. And he had made her feel like her same old self.
So where was the feeling of relief now?
Where was the restored sense of balance?
Why was she completely incapable of severing the dangerous cords that were dragging her heart in such a reckless and indecent direction?
Why was she so desperate to hear his voice?
There was no reason for her to think that he would call at all.
After all, he was most likely receiving regular updates on her recovery from Ross, and the two of them had only left her side a few days ago.
Knowing Chandler, he had probably not even found the time to unpack from his trip yet, much less begin a pathetic and obsessive campaign of pining to match her own.
She could just take the bull by the horns and call him, of course.
In fact, she had been itching to do just that, ever since she had discovered that reaching the phone independently was a physical possibility.
But something about it felt perilous.
Pro-actively seeking Chandler out, even with something as seemingly benign as a friendly phone call, felt weirdly like she would be crossing some sort of invisible, unsafe line; and so far she had managed to resist. The pain that she knew would be inflicted by those evil crutches had certainly helped her out in that respect; she ought to feel grateful to them for that.
Anyway, she and Richard would be traveling back to New York in the next couple of days and no doubt she would see all of her friends then. She could wait that long.
Surely.
She was in the midst of expelling a deep sigh of self-despair when Tilly came skittering into the room and leapt up onto her bed, landing painfully on her rib-cage in a flurry of soft floppy ears, chilly brown nose nuzzles and hot frantic licks; her chocolate-colored coat fragrant with the earthy scent of the forest.
Monica let out a groan of discomfort but she was predominantly just relieved to have her mind wrenched away from her confused yearning, no matter how roughly.
"Hey Baby Girl!" she greeted fondly, giving the little dog's back a firm scratch that caused her to flop back blissfully into her owner's arms, paws in the air, "Did you enjoy your walk?"
Richard appeared in the doorway that separated the bedroom from the living area of their suite, his hair tousled and his cheeks flushed from the fresh air.
"How are you feeling? I'm going to make some coffee, would you like some?"
"Yes please" she smiled as she pressed her lips against Tilly's silky head.
Richard disappeared from view to as he headed for the coffee machine in the living room. He gathered up a couple of shallow white mugs ready to prepare their drinks as he told his wife about a new forest trail he and Tilly had just discovered, ensuring that he was speaking loudly enough for his voice to carry through to the bedroom. But his description was suddenly cut off by the ring of the phone.
The shrill sound caused Monica to jump, a flutter of excitement passing through her chest as she strained to discern who had called, struggling to hear Richard's suddenly low voice over Tilly's panting breath and the distant gurgle of the coffee machine.
She snatched fragments of a muffled one-sided conversation, but the snippets she identified were so bland that it could really have been anyone on the other end of the line.
"She seems much brighter, she can almost use her crutches now, so that will help"
"Yes, I'll pass that on"
She eyed the crutches once again, considering another painful hop to the next room in order to investigate further, but decided to check first whether it was worth her while by calling through to Richard "Who is it? Shall I come to the phone?"
Richard did not answer immediately but soon reappeared in the doorway.
"Michelle," he told her "She sends her love. I'm pretty hungry after that walk, I thought I might order a sandwich. Would you like one?"
Monica's face grew wistful as she twirled a tuft of Tilly's fur between her fingers, her far too readily excited heart sinking back into its plodding rhythm of boredom.
"I'm OK, thanks" she quietly declined.
Ross had just kicked back with a cold glass of milk and a magazine he had taken from work, and he was all ready to immerse himself in an article about a recent discovery of a near-complete fossilized dinosaur skeleton in Argentina, when his apartment door flung open with a crash.
He looked up in alarm as Chandler strode into the room, his gait particularly jumpy, his expression brooding and his fingers massaging his jawbone in a gesture that suggested both deep contemplation and self-comfort.
"What's up?" he asked, with a concerned frown.
"I'm worried about Monica", Chandler declared bluntly, causing Ross to rise immediately from the armchair he had been relaxing in.
His sister had barely been absent from his thoughts since her accident and this smallest sniff of bad news brought back the awful surge of dread that had engulfed him following Richard's frantic call.
"Why? What happened?" he demanded with anxious eyes.
"Well, I've tried to call her hotel room about five times now, and every single time Richard has made some lame excuse as to why I can't talk to her: She's sleeping, or she's taking a bath, or they're waiting on a call from the doctor, or on a call from her Mom.."
"OK.." Ross's eyes were questioning; clearly unsure as to why any of these entirely plausible justifications should represent cause for alarm.
"But just now? Richard told me she was sleeping and then I heard her speak! She was asking who was on the phone, and he just stammered something incoherent and then hung up on me!" Chandler looked expectantly into his friend's eyes but Ross neither spoke nor reacted.
Unable to fathom this calm acceptance of his revelation, Chandler's perturbed voice rose a fretful octave as he explicitly delivered his conclusion.
"He's lying, Ross! And he's trying to stop me from speaking with her!"
Ross's uneasy shuffle of his feet still was not the outraged response Chandler had envisaged, and his panicked impatience began to overflow.
"Hello? The guy took your injured, bedridden sister out of hospital; he couldn't wait to get us away from her and pack us off home to New York; he has her holed up in some hotel in the middle of nowhere; and now he's screening her calls? You've seen "Misery", right?"
Ross rejected Chandler's fraught rant with a wry roll of his eyes before making a quiet attempt to allay his friend's concern, "Look, Monica's fine, OK? I've spoken with her every day. And so has my mom; and I think Rachel has too."
"OK, so you're saying that it's just me Richard's lying to?" Chandler inferred, "That's still weird right? I mean, I only want to talk to her! What the hell's his problem?"
Ross looked back at his friend uncomfortably, his lips pressed closed into the kind of rigid line that indicated to Chandler that there were words there ready to spill that he was hesitant to release.
"What is it?" Chandler demanded testily.
Ross's eyes grew thoughtful and he spoke with caution.
"Look, I think the reason that Richard might be trying to... keep you at arm's length... is because I get the impression that he's been feeling a little... insecure... about your friendship with Monica."
An unsettling concoction of emotions churned in Chandler's stomach, and it took considerable effort to keep the guilt from his face as he guessed with a mumble and a light scoff, "What? Because of the night of his son's party? That was months ago. Is he still on that?"
Chandler knew full well that he was a fine one to talk on that score; and he could virtually hear a sneer of self-rebuke from his own inner monologue.
"It's not just that," Ross eventually admitted, his tone hushed and confidential, "Look, don't say anything OK, but when Richard arrived at the hospital after Monica was first taken in, the nurses started calling him Chandler..."
Chandler began to shake his head in confusion before Ross clarified, "When Monica was slipping in and out of consciousness, apparently she was asking for you, and they obviously all assumed she wanted her husband... "
Ross's divulgence brought that illicit cocktail of intense feeling that had been quietly brewing inside Chandler's core for longer than he cared to acknowledge, to a brisk and exhilarating simmer; the idea that it was his name on Monica's lips in her hour of need causing a rush of impermissible glee in his heart.
He hoped that Ross could not see the glow of satisfaction that he could feel shamefully enveloping him, causing his cheeks to flush and leading him to wonder if perhaps he lacked any semblance of a moral compass whatsoever.
"I pointed out to him, that she'd hit her head; she had hypothermia; she was totally out of it on drugs; the fact that she'd said your name obviously didn't mean anything" Ross continued rationally.
Chandler managed only the smallest of nods, as he unsuccessfully tried to ignore the libertine inner voice that willfully contradicted his friend and asked more provocative questions:
It might have meant something...
What do you want it to mean?
"You can understand why Richard might feel a little strange about that, right? So, maybe just cut him a little slack?" Ross proposed softly.
Chandler took a deep breath, feeling completely unable to address Ross's disclosure in a way that would not betray his deeply inappropriate thoughts, so instead he gruffly asked the more important question that was on his mind.
"How is Mon, anyway? You said you spoke to her, is she alright?"
The tables had turned, and now it was Ross's turn to feel unsettled by Chandler's response.
Given the man's previous agitation and his evident disgruntlement with Richard, Ross had fully expected his friend to scoff; to ridicule the absurdity of Richard getting so worked up over nothing; and his curiosity was immediately piqued by Chandler's composed neutrality.
He examined his face for a moment before answering, "She's OK. Physically she's improving, but she's struggling with being so immobile; she sounded crazy bored and frustrated. But they're driving home tomorrow so... "
"Tomorrow? Richard told me they wouldn't be back until next week!" Chandler's voice became high-pitched once again, and he shook his head furiously as he deduced, "Because he doesn't want me to visit! Did he really think I wouldn't find out that she was home? Does he actually think he can stop me from seeing her?"
Ross continued to study his friend, his eyes darkening as he probed hesitantly, "I have to say man, you're acting a little crazy about all of this. What's going on? Has something happened?"
"Like what?" Chandler challenged, scowling in annoyance, "I just don't like being lied to, that's all!"
"Chandler..." Ross warned, suddenly certain that his oldest friend was holding something back from him.
"OK!" Chandler snapped angrily, "If you must know, that night Monica stayed over, she told me how sad and lonely she was feeling; how she'd been feeling cut off; how much she missed her friends. She didn't seem like she was in a very good place, and I doubt this accident has helped, so the idea of Richard deliberately keeping her friends away from her doesn't sit easy with me, alright? And it shouldn't sit easy with you!"
Ross's brow knitted in concern as he considered Chandler's words. He had of course known that Monica and Richard's struggle to start a family had caused tension between the pair, but he felt suddenly guilty that he had apparently underestimated his sister's feelings of isolation.
Chandler paused to wonder if his own avid attempt to persuade Ross that his ire towards Richard was both credible and purely driven, might also signal a need to convince himself of the same, but either way, his impassioned rant was not quite done with yet.
"I couldn't care less about Richard's butt-hurt feelings, OK! Monica's my friend, and if she needs me, then she's got me. And that's the end of it!"
He picked up a discarded newspaper from the countertop, folded it in half and slapped it back down on the surface, for no apparent reason beyond punctuating his fury with dramatic flourish.
"You don't need to get so worked up about this Chandler, nobody's going to stop you from seeing her", Ross gave a faintly withering sigh.
"Damn right they're not." Chandler affirmed stoutly, picking at an invisible mark on the counter with an agitated index finger.
Ross's deep brown eyes were solemn as he continued to regard his markedly ruffled friend with scrutiny and tried to impart some gentle advice.
"Listen man, I know it's not your fault that Richard's feeling insecure..."
Chandler swallowed hard and scowled at the floor as Ross continued,
"But, he is Monica's husband, and nothing good is going to come from winding him up. I mean calling five times seems a little excessive... Maybe you should consider... easing-off a little? Just for now? Let the dust settle..."
"No, I won't ease-off. Not unless Monica wants me to." Chandler rejected simplistically, his tone calmer but his eyes still smouldering and his jaw firmly clenched as he made his way towards the door to leave.
He turned only briefly as he reached the hallway, casting a severe glance in his friend's direction and demanding gravely "You tell me when she gets back, because I'm going to head round there and see her, OK? I mean it, Ross: I don't care what he says. When she gets back, you'd better tell me."
Despite having given the impression that their return to the city was still a few days away, Richard was not particularly surprised to lock eyes with Chandler when the doorbell rang less than 24 hours after he had escorted his injured wife back over the threshold of their home.
It had not been Richard's original intention to lie to Chandler: The first couple of times he had called the hotel to speak with Monica, the reasons Richard had given as to why his wife was unavailable had been genuine.
But Chandler's consequent impatience and ready antagonism had irritated Richard, fueling the wrench of unease that had been twisting in his gut ever since Chandler and Ross had appeared at Monica's hospital bedside, and compelling him to stamp out the annoyingly persistent attempts at contact.
However, Richard had never really believed that his light deception would keep Chandler at bay.
As soon as Monica had mentioned that Ross and Rachel were due to call around for a visit, Richard had known that there was every possibility that they would not arrive as a duo. News always traveled like wildfire between that tight-knit little group of six and there was little hope of keeping anything secret between them.
Friendships as intimate and substantial as those Monica enjoyed with her inner circle were entirely alien to Richard.
It was not as though he was friendless himself: He had always enjoyed an active social life, and as well as having no shortage of people with whom to enjoy a neighborhood barbecue or a round of golf, he also had a smaller group of much closer friends too; a select few trusted confidantes that he and Barbara had always been able to rely on for help and support.
But still, it was nothing like the fierce bond that Monica shared with the quasi family unit she had constructed for herself in the city.
When he had first started seeing Monica, Richard had found their group dynamic intriguing and intimidating in equal measure, and being introduced to her inseparable gang had felt like a daunting prospect indeed.
He had already met both her brother and her roommate, Rachel, on many previous occasions of course, given that they, like Monica, had grown up alongside Richard's own young family in Long Island; but rather than being able to derive any comfort from this familiarity, their shared past had only served to reiterate how problematic his new relationship actually was.
Memories of watching ten year old Ross, with his big brown eyes and scuffed, knobbly, little-boy knees bombing into the Burke family pool; and of attempting to distract a tiny bawling Rachel Green after a topple from her little pink bike by talking with her at length about her favorite Barbie doll; had caused Richard to ask himself many troubling questions about the appropriateness of his attraction to a woman he had known since she herself was a child.
But even beyond this uncomfortable soul-searching, Richard was nervous about being re-introduced to Ross and Rachel as Monica's romantic partner and he knew that it was imperative that he gained their approval.
It was highly apparent that whilst Monica was happy enough to risk the wrath of her parents by dating one of their contemporaries, the views of her friends were a different matter: Their opinions counted, and their acceptance of any new relationship was of vital importance to her.
Meeting the remaining members of the group had thankfully felt far more straightforward; Chandler and Joey were easy-going enough, Phoebe was a positive delight; and despite the universally raised eyebrows caused by the large age gap and historical familial links between Richard and Monica, all had welcomed him into the fold with surprisingly little judgement or animosity.
Funnily enough, back then Richard had no issue whatsoever with Chandler. In fact, as hard as it was hard to believe it now, it had actually been the platonic closeness he had witnessed between Monica and Joey that had initially caused him a mild inkling of threat.
Richard had female friends, of course, but as was commonplace in his social circle, he had always maintained a respectful distance both physical and emotional; so walking into the coffee house to see his girlfriend standing at the counter with her affectionate arms draped around the handsome young soap star, or arriving at her apartment during movie night to find the two of them sitting close enough to share a blanket on the sofa had felt jarring to say the least.
It had taken Richard a little time to fully accept that he had nothing to fear from the floppy-haired Italian with the heart-throb good looks, glamorous career, and astonishing notoriety as a ladies-man.
And fool that he was, it had taken him even longer to spot that there was a far more powerful attachment that ran deep and unacknowledged between his girlfriend and another member of the pack.
The idea that Richard might ever have felt intimidated by Chandler would have been laughable in the beginning.
Hapless, awkward, terrible with women: Chandler had manufactured quite the benign reputation for himself within their little group, and Richard had warmed to him with ease, appreciating his self-deprecating humor, clever witticisms, and secretly enjoying the barely disguised awe with which Chandler had greeted him.
In those early days, Chandler, and Joey too in fact, had been open in their admiration for the older man's relative sophistication, unashamedly wowed by everything from Richard's car, to his mustache.
Richard and Monica had laughed together about the boys' endearing wide-eyed reverence, and Richard had never found cause to view Chandler as anything other than harmless.
The fact that Chandler, like Joey, also enjoyed an easy and ready physical affection with Monica had flown completely beneath Richard's radar in the beginning, as had the private wry smiles, the in-jokes, and frequent knowing glances that should have sent out smoke signals, alerting him to the shared sense of humor and deep-rooted connection that had been subtle enough to go unnoticed at first, but had gradually revealed itself as a force to be reckoned with.
The first time Richard had even considered the possibility that Chandler's feelings towards Monica might have strayed beyond the purely platonic had actually been on the evening of their wedding.
The day had been drawing to an end, and the bride and groom were lovingly entwined on the dance-floor, surrounded by other couples but absorbed entirely in each other, existing in their own bubble of newly-wedded bliss.
The two of them were swaying softly to the music, their bodies moving as one, her head resting dreamily upon his shoulder as he whispered sweet-nothings in her ear.
It had been a moment so perfect that Richard had imagined himself virtually blind to anybody else in the room, until his eyes had somehow come to rest upon Chandler.
He was leaning against the wall on the periphery of the dance-floor, his hair and tie boyishly disheveled, quiet, alone, and swathed in shadows that rendered him invisible to most.
His affectionate gaze was fixed firmly on the beautiful bride as she twirled obliviously in her new husband's arms, a wistful half-smile of devotion playing on his lips.
Weddings are of course, always loaded with emotion, and Richard had never doubted Chandler and Monica's mutual fondness, so a quick glance in her friend's direction might not have revealed anything strange or inappropriate.
But in that moment, Chandler seemed completely incapable of seeing anything beyond Monica, immune even to the heavy stare of intrigue being returned by the man in her arms. In turn, Richard had found himself similarly transfixed; unable to tear himself away from the glaringly obvious truth that he suddenly realized had been staring him in the face all along.
As he gazed from the darkness at his best friend's just-married luminosity, an unconfessed grief bled from Chandler's eyes; and Richard could see with absolute clarity an aching pain that told the story of an unspoken mourning for a dream that would now dance forever out of reach.
But Richard had nothing to fear.
Back then his marriage had felt unbreakable, and Monica's devotion to him entirely unwavering. Any yearning from afar, from Chandler or from any other man, would remain just that.
He had actually felt sorry for the kid.
Things were different now though: There was a weakness in Richard's relationship with Monica that was ripe for exploitation.
And something had changed within Chandler too.
When he looked into those defiant blue eyes that shone back at him from behind Rachel, Richard could see that Chandler was both aggrieved and undaunted by his attempts to keep him away, and there was no doubt that he would seize advantage of any vulnerability that Richard was foolish enough to reveal.
He could hardly bring himself to turn around and observe Monica's reaction to the arrival of the trio, the warm honey that dripped from her voice as she greeted them was enough to allow him to picture her limpid eyes and soft smile, and he feared he knew only too well where her Bambi-like gaze would be lingering longest.
Fortunately, he was able to focus his attention on his daughter who had also been visiting and was getting ready to leave.
"Well, it looks like you guys have a full house, I'll get out of your hair," Michelle dispersed a thin smile around the room as she waved her departure.
"I'll see you out," Richard told her as followed her through the door, exchanging a cool glance with Chandler as he passed him.
As they began to descend the stairs he addressed his daughter affectionately, "Thank you for calling around to check on the place while we were gone, honey. And for the casserole too. We do appreciate it".
"That's alright, I might not be Monica's number one fan, but I still wouldn't wish your cooking on her," Michelle quipped with a smirk, before recalling "Oh, I forgot to mention, a Dr Caroline Palmer called a couple of times for you while you were away."
Richard's head whipped around rather too fast as he clarified "She called here?"
"Yeah" continued Michelle, the trace of alarm in her father's voice causing her to eye him with interest, "She said she had tried your direct line at work a few times, but she wanted to check that her messages were getting through. Who is she anyway? Is everything OK?"
Richard gave a dismissive shake of his head "Oh, she's just another ophthalmologist. She's been after a job at our practice for a while now. Persistent to the point of annoying".
As they reached the front door Michelle wrapped her arms around his shoulders and planted a farewell kiss against his cheek before Richard remembered a favor he had meant to ask.
"I don't suppose you'd be able to pop around here to walk Tilly tomorrow afternoon would you? I'm going to have to put in some seriously long hours he next few weeks to clear my back-log after taking so much time off from work. I'm sure Monica would be grateful for a little company too".
In reality, it was highly unlikely that Monica would be in any way appreciative of Michelle's companionship, but for Richard's self-preservation he had to remain positive that one day his wife and his children might get along.
There was no way that Michelle was going to allow herself to be roped in to spending time with her father's dog though, and much less his wife, so her expression was duly apologetic but highly assertive as she told him "I'm sorry Dad, I have way too much on with the kids this week."
"That's alright" Richard assured her as he waved her off, "There's a dog-walker just down the street that I can call. Give those kids a squeeze from their Grandpa, OK?".
When he re-entered the living room he had braced himself: Convinced that he was about to see Chandler sidling up to his wife. He was relieved then to see that Rachel was the one to have physically commandeered Monica on this occasion, sitting close by her side and stroking her hair as she gently fussed around her best friend and inspected her various remaining injuries.
"You know, you really can't tell that you fractured your nose, at all," she told Monica comfortingly as she peered closely into her features, "It's still totally straight!"
"Yeah I'm pretty relieved," Monica agreed with a chuckle, her hand moving instinctively towards her face to trace an affirming index finger down the smooth bridge of her nose, "It was hard to tell at first because it was so swollen, but I think it's actually OK."
She smirked as she added, "It didn't help that Chandler told me I looked like a Picasso painting when he saw me in the hospital..."
Chandler ignored Rachel's tut and scolding glare, returning a soft smile of rueful amusement to Monica instead, their blue eyes locking together like magnets.
"Monica", Richard drew his wife's attention back towards him with a somewhat curt interjection, "Do you know where the number is for that dog walker we used before? Michelle's busy this week so she's not going to be able to help out with Tilly."
"It's in the drawer next to the fridge I think," Monica recalled, throwing her husband a bright enough smile.
"I can walk Tilly if it helps?"
Richard felt the muscles in his back ripple and his shoulders tense, knowing immediately that this innocuous offer was really something he should have predicted.
"I can call round and take her out in my lunch break?" Chandler reiterated helpfully.
"Are you sure?" Monica asked, just the barest hint of breathlessness in her voice, "I don't want to put you to any trouble.."
"We can't ask you to do that, Chandler." Richard dismissed firmly, "I'll call the dog walker. Thank you for the offer though."
"No really, it's no trouble at all" Chandler insisted, "I could use the exercise. I know it's probably hard to believe when you look at this physique, but I've let my strict health regime slip a little lately."
Monica flashed him a smirk from beneath her lashes before turning to her husband.
"It would be nicer for Tilly if Chandler took her. The dog walker also takes care of that huge German Shepherd from down the street, and Tilly's not so fond of big male dogs..."
"Me and you both, Tilly! " Chandler remarked, reaching out a hand to encourage the little spaniel towards him, addressing her in the kind of babyish tones that made her whole body wriggle with joy "We won't go within 100 yards of anything larger than a miniature poodle. I promise."
Monica's eyes grew misty and the corners of her lips curved as she watched Chandler pet the dog, but Rachel threw him a doubtful frown of amusement.
"I've gotta say, I never pictured you as a dog walker"
Chandler gave a mild shrug as he continued to ruffle Tilly's soft fur. "What can I say? Me and Tilly have an understanding these days."
"Thank you Chandler," Monica smiled with soft gratitude, before her face melted into a coquettish sideways glance with eyebrows lightly arched, "I guess you do owe Tilly a favor: She did scare that hotel serial killer away and save your life, after all."
Chandler returned a roguish grin as her gaze gripped his once more.
Richard smiled stiffly as he headed wordlessly towards the kitchen.
He paused at the sink for a moment, his hands clutching the rim and his expression pensive, before walking slowly towards the fridge. He slid open the drawer that was situated just to its right, taking in the neat piles of random stationery, address books and business cards within.
His eyes lingered briefly on the number for the dog walker that lay at the top of the pile, just as Monica had suggested, but he left it exactly where it was. For now. He sighed as he rooted instead to the bottom of the pile, extracting a small white card upon which he had, at some point in time, handwritten a telephone number alongside the name "Dr Caroline Palmer".
Richard's somber eyes glazed over and he pressed his lips together thoughtfully, the card resting lightly between his thumb and forefinger.
A sudden convivial peal of laughter rang out from the living room, loud enough to turn his head and bring him back to the here and now, and he slipped the card into his back pocket, closing the drawer with a firm and decisive shove.