You Are Not Alone – Chapter Three

xx

Nora approached the couch slowly, not quite sure what to make of Monica's distraught state. She'd just returned from dinner with a close friend, sure, maybe it had been set up as a date by none other than Nora herself… but how badly could things have gone? Bad enough to leave her in tears, with a tub of ice cream for comfort? It was almost like the after effects of… a breakup. If that was true (and she really hoped it was, for it would validate the idea that Chandler and Monica were meant to be together) perhaps this would explain Chandler's mood, she considered. Only one way to find out…

Nora sat down on the couch next to Monica gingerly, carefully brushing aside an edge of the blanket covering the other woman, to make room for herself. Maternally, she touched Monica's knee. "Are you alright, darling?"

Monica sniffed, and wiped at her face, futilely attempting to remove evidence of her tears, before looking up at Nora with watery eyes. Nora smiled at her reassuringly, trying to encourage her to open up, but Monica only shrugged, feigning indifference, before quickly diverting her attention to the ice cream on the table in front of her, grasping the spoon and shoving a large spoonful of rocky road in her mouth. "I'm fine, Nora," she mumbled around the mouthful of ice cream.

Nora didn't believe her, and Monica knew it. "You're crying dear," she stated carefully, "Clearly something is upsetting you. I have a feeling that it's the same thing that's been bothering my son. I know I'm not your mother, but I am willing to listen. Maybe I can help."

Monica blinked back more tears at the offer, desperately wanting to talk about it, but afraid of what saying the words aloud would mean.

Obviously aware of Monica's internal struggle, and taking a guess at what was bothering her, Nora said coaxingly, "Chandler does care about you, dear."

A lone tear splashing down her cheek, Monica nodded, whispering almost inaudibly, "I know. But – But.."

"But?"

"But," Monica paused, torn whether to admit her feelings to Nora, "that's it. We're friends. I mean, I'm happy about that, he's a great friend, and I love our friendship, but after tonight… I don't know…" she trailed off, pursing her lips.

Nora smiled inwardly, mentally patting herself on the back. She had known something was there. Chemistry never lied. "I think you do," Nora challenged, "Saying you don't, and lying to yourself isn't helping anyone."

Monica focused glassy eyes on Nora, aware that though the actual words hadn't been said, the older woman knew exactly what she had been thinking. Nora continued, "He feels the same, Monica. He does. Trust me on this, I'm his mother."

"The same as what?" Monica asked meekly.

Nora arched an eyebrow questioningly, folding her hands in her lap patiently, "We aren't really going to play this game, are we, dear?"

Monica sighed, exhaling shakily to steady the adrenaline rushing through her at Nora's admission, refusing to meet her eyes. "I – I guess not. Um, what makes you so sure, Nora?"

"He told me," Nora lied. He felt that way, she was sure of it. What harm could one little white lie do? "He's felt this way for a long time."

Monica shook her head stubbornly, "No. He must have just been saying what he thought you wanted to hear. Tonight he–" she abruptly stopped.

"What happened?" Nora coaxed, gently, squeezing her knee gently, as Monica poked the spoon in the ice cream, avoiding her eyes.

Taking a shaky breath to steady her nerves, Monica admitted stoically, "We almost kissed." She didn't know why, but she had the uncanny feeling that she could trust Nora, even despite her earlier setup ploy.

Nora smiled widely and squeezed her hand, causing Monica to look at her forlornly, not understanding her excitement. Wiping the smile from her face, and taking on a more serious expression Nora asked, "And I'm guessing that he was the one who stopped it?"

Monica nodded wordlessly.

Nora waved her hand dismissively, "That means nothing."

Monica looked downcast, "He didn't just stop it, Nora. He stopped it and ran. Speeding bullets move slower. He didn't want to be anywhere near me, he – he –" she sniffed.

Nora smiled again, shaking her head. "Is that what you're so upset about? You think he's rejecting you, darling? You have a lot to learn about men, dear. This is a classic case of men's insecurities and little dating idiosyncrasies. I use this kind of thing as a plot device in my books all the time. My readers eat it up."

A semi-hopeful expression inched onto Monica's face, and she swiped at another tear, "You mean you think he's scared that I might not want him?"

Nora nodded enthusiastically, "You've got it, dear. Now, of course, he's a man, so he'd never admit it out loud, but if I'm the best selling romance novelist in New York City, and you can bet your ass I am, you've hit the nail on the head. He needs a strong woman, Monica. Someone who can take the first step, show him the way."

Monica looked at her helplessly, "So what do I do now?"

xx

Chandler walked heavily up the steps to his apartment, already loosening and removing his tie, though he was several feet away from the apartment he shared with his bestfriend. He balled his tie in one hand, digging in his suit pocket with the other for his keys.

He was so busy with the task, it wasn't until he was right in front of his door that he noticed the folded piece of plain white paper taped to his door, his name scrawled neatly in the centre of it. He stared at it for a moment, trying to identify the writing, but came up blank. It was too neat and girly to be Joey's. Curiously, he plucked the sheet off the door, and unfolded it, only to be greeted with a single line of text reading:

Why did you have to go and leave my world so cold?

He stared at the cryptic message, his brow furrowed, unsure what to make of it. And why was the word cold underlined? Was it supposed to have some kind of special meaning? Whose world had he left cold? Was this some weird joke concocted by an ex-girlfriend?

He flipped the paper in his hands, trying to find something to identify who had left the message and why. Written on the back of the sheet was one more single line of text: find me.

Find me? He scratched his head, flipping over the paper again, and staring at the first line. The underlined word… cold? Was he supposed to find something cold? What was cold? A refrigerator, maybe? He pushed his keys into the lock on his door, twisting the knob, abruptly stopping before the door was open. No. It couldn't be the fridge… who else would have access to his locked apartment? He certainly hoped it wasn't Joey whose world he was leaving cold.

What else was cold? The air conditioner? Maybe, but he wasn't even sure exactly where that was located in the building, though… The ice machine! Treeger had recently had an ice machine installed in the lobby, for tenants' to have cheap access to ice after several complaints. He pulled his keys out of the door, returning them to his pocket, and absently wrapped his balled up tie around his neck, immediately heading back down the stairs he had come up only minutes ago, too curious to bother going home and changing. The piece of paper in hand and his destination firmly in mind, he took the steps down to the lobby two at a time, his adrenaline rushing as he wondered what he would find, and if it was even the right place.

It seemed to take forever to reach the lobby, and he felt his heart sink, when on approaching it he didn't see anyone or anything. Not even another piece of paper. Clinging to straws, desperate to find something, he pulled a dollar from his pocket and inserted it into the ice machine, even though he really had no use for ice at the moment. He pulled open the lid when the lock clicked and peered into the ice machine, grinning widely when he found another note taped to the inside of the chamber. Immediately forgetting about the bag of ice, he snatched the note from its hiding place, and flipped it open, eager to read what else the mysterious sender had to say to him, and desperate for any clues to her identity. He hoped it was a her, anyway.

Whisper three words and I'll come running.

He stared at the sentence for a moment, rereading it several times. Three words? I love you? Who would feel that way about him? Janice maybe? Perhaps she had given up on her stupid marriage? Who else could possibly have those kind of feelings for him? He mentally scanned though his dates from the last couple years, coming up blank. He had been on plenty of dates, sure, even had a few steady girlfriends, but nothing had ever really come of any of those relationships. Nothing to warrant something as grand as this, anyway.

Shaking his head, and figuring the best way to find out who was sending the messages was to get to the end of the trail he studied the message. The underlined word was three… what could that be? The third floor!

He rushed back up the stairs, taking several at a time. When he reached the third floor stairwell he looked around, desperate to find her, but it was just as empty as the lobby. He opened the door to the third floor, and looked down the hallway, only to be met with nothing out of the ordinary. No additional note, no people, nothing.

Feeling a surge of disappointment, he wondered for a brief second if someone was sending him on a wild goose chase to make him look like idiot. Maybe it was stupid, seeing as all he had were two handwritten notes, but he had an instinctual feeling that that wasn't the case.

He looked back down at the note in his hand. What else was three? Apartment three? Wait… he knew the person who lived in apartment three. Lowell from his office. Maybe someone from the office had included him in this? Maybe the mystery sender was someone from work who had enlisted Lowell's help? Hope rising within him at the possible lead, Chandler practically skipped back down to the first floor where Lowell lived, and knocked on his door impatiently.

Lowell answered the door with a wide grin and Chandler immediately knew something was up. A flash of horror shooting through him, Chandler wondered if the mystery sender he was chasing was Lowell himself. He was flamboyantly gay and proud of it. What if somehow he had unwittingly sparked Lowell's interest? Making a mental promise to any higher power willing to listen, Chandler promised he'd never make another joke at his friends' expense if only it wasn't Lowell… Please, please don't let it be Lowell…

Unsure how to state his unusual request, and still worried it was Lowell himself sending the notes, Chandler stuttered, "Uh, hey, um, Lowell. This is probably going to sound really weird to ask, but, uh…"

"Yes?" Lowell asked with an faux innocent lilt and a face-cracking grin, giving himself away.

Chandler scowled at the bad acting. "Look, Lowell, do you have anything for me by any chance?" he asked awkwardly.

Lowell nodded, clearly enjoying Chandler's discomfort. "Maybe. Someone might have dropped something off for you," he claimed cheekily. At Chandler's annoyed expression, Lowell extended another piece of white paper to him, from behind his back, with a flick.

Chandler grinned and accepted the note, pleased to see the handwriting matched the style of the previous two. Too curious to resist, he asked uncomfortably, "Hey, um, Lowell? This isn't from you, is it?"

Lowell laughed loudly at the suggestion. "Honey, you might be cute, but you're definitely not my type."

Chandler flushed in embarrassment and relief. "Do you know who left this, then?" he persisted, "It was woman, right? Was she pretty? Does she work with us?"

Lowell shrugged, "My lips are sealed, buddy. I've been told not to say anything. Seeya at work tomorrow," he claimed sunnily, quickly shutting the door in Chandler's face. Even with the door between him and Lowell, Chandler could have sworn he heard his coworker mutter 'lucky bitch' through the door.

Shrugging it off, Chandler opened the note Lowell had given him, reading it so quickly that the words didn't register in his mind until he had read it two more times.

Just the other night, I thought I heard you cry.

Night. That was his clue this time. It was night everywhere. Where could the next note possibly be hidden. A clock perhaps? But what clock? There were no clocks that he knew of located in the building.

Staring at the note, Chandler read the word several more times. Night? Mentally playing the quick thinking game he had played with Phoebe so many times, he passed several words through his head.

Dog… Cat.

Umbrella… Rain.

Carrot… Vegetable.

Fun… Boring.

Lamp… Light.

Joey… Ross.

Night… Sky.

Sky?

Wait… the sky! The roof! He could see the night sky from there! His adrenaline pumping, his heart pounding in his chest as a result, Chandler made his way up to the roof, scanning the abandoned area for someone, anyone, who might have written the notes, but the area was empty. Only a few abandoned lawn chairs littered one corner. Chandler sighed in disappointment, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

He looked around the rooftop dejectedly one last time, deciding he must have gotten the wrong locale, when he spotted a flash of white on one of the rusty old lawn chairs. He hurried over, carefully picking up the piece of paper, unable to help but feeling a little let down. Part of him had been hoping this would be the end of the trail. A roof top reunion under the 'stars' (not that you could see many in New York City) would be romantic, and it had been the third note. Three was always the magic number in fairytales. Was it so much to want a real life fairytale?

Well, at least he had found the right place, he thought with a sigh. He opened the next note reading the clue that had been left:

I am here with you, even when you're far away.

Chandler read the note, feeling his blood run cold, as a conversation he had had with Monica a few months ago rushed to mind. A conversation about fairytales of all things.

"Why do all fairytales start with the words: 'Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away?'" Chandler wondered. The question seemingly coming, out of the blue, Monica stared at him for a moment, in confusion.

He waved a book with a collection of fairytales he had snagged off Monica and Rachel's bookshelf at her, in explanation. "This book has, like, 20 different stories in it, but they all start the same way and end with 'happily ever after.' Don't fairytale writers have any imagination?"

Monica shrugged. "You're asking me? Fairytales are old, as old as the oral tradition. Besides maybe they did happen far, far away?" she teased, "I don't imagine you've seen too many princesses and knights on white horses running around New York City recently?"

"Okay," Chandler conceded, "Maybe not, but any good writer should know to leave the audience with some hope for the future. What's the point of reading fairytales if they're only going to happen far away, never where you live? Or that they only happened once upon a time? Are those authors saying fairytales and that kind of love is extinct now?"

"Yeah," Monica giggled, "Didn't you hear? Chivalry is dead."

"Haha," Chandler deadpanned, "Seriously, though."

"Seriously?" Monica shook her head, and laughed at his persistence, "Seriously, you have far too much time on your hands to think about these things, buddy."

Chandler shrugged innocently. "I'm just sayin' someone didn't think that through," he said, closing the book and studying the cover, "Hey, what do you and Rach have a collection of fairytales sitting around for anyway? You saving it for your future kids, or what?"

"No," Monica laughed, "I took a class on literature and fantasy in college as an elective. I kept all my books."

"Oh, so you know all about the far, far away debate, then," Chandler said, his tone serious. Monica cracked a grin and punched him in the arm, causing him to smile at his quip, which resulted in them both bursting into laughter.

Chandler sighed shakily at the memory, running his tie through his fingers nervously. Monica. It had to be Monica. Far Away. It couldn't just be a coincidence. What else could far away be, anyway, without actually being far away?

With a definite sense of purpose, Chandler headed back down into his apartment building, clenching the collection of notes tightly, desperate to talk to his friend, and find out what it all meant, and why she was doing this.

He didn't even bother to knock on Monica and Rachel's apartment door, letting himself in, knowing it would be unlocked. He would have to remind them that leaving their door open all the time was dangerous, he mentally noted.

He was disappointed to find the apartment completely empty. Cautiously, he made his way through the living room towards Monica's room, his footsteps on the hardwood sounding unnecessarily loud in the silent apartment. He was half-expecting her to burst out from behind her bedroom door crying it was all a joke, but it didn't happen. He turned the knob, and was greeted with a bedroom that was just as empty as the rest of the apartment. Her bed was neatly made (in a very Monica fashion) and the room was spotless, not even a pair of shoes out of place, or an abandoned watch on the night table to indicate she'd been home after work.

Taking a deep breath, his heart beating wildly in his chest, almost to the point of pain, Chandler headed for the bookcase. There, lying on the top of a pile of books was the collection of fairytales that had incited the whole conversation.

Chandler swallowed the lump in his throat, desperately trying to steady his nerves enough to pick up the book. Reaching out a shaky hand, he picked up the volume and flipped open the front cover. Empty. Feeling his heart sink, he flipped the pages idly through his fingers, even turning the book upside-down and shaking it out. He'd been wrong. It wasn't Monica, after all. Feeling an overwhelming sense of rejection, he moved to close the book, when a piece of paper fell out of the dust jacket. He could have sworn he felt his heart stop. He didn't even dare look down at the floor, where the paper had fallen, attempting to prepare himself for the possibility that it was just a library slip, or something equally benign.

Inhaling deeply, he glanced down, retrieving a piece of white paper, just like all the others that he had collected so far. Tentatively, almost as if scared the note would burn him at any moment, he unfolded it.

You are not alone, for I am here with you.

No underlined words. But the same writing. Yes, it was definitely the same writing, he decided, holding one of the previous notes side by side for comparison. He stared at the paper for a moment, in complete shock. It was Monica. The last few days had been awkward to say the least. They had hardly spoken, except for their friends' benefit, awkwardness ensuing after their almost date and almost kiss. What had changed?

He looked at the sentence written on the paper, trying to find some sort of definitive next step. Where was he supposed to go now? He scoffed at the irony. The note said he wasn't alone, but it seemed like he was pretty damn alone at the moment, he thought, looking around the empty apartment. Was she somewhere waiting for him, if he just knew how to find her?

A little upset at himself for being unable to figure out this final piece of the puzzle, he kicked the bookshelf, which only resulted in a throbbing toe. He plopped down on the couch, reading the note for the twentieth time, looking for something he had missed that would give him a hint.

Should he wait here for her until she got home? Or maybe she was at the coffeehouse? Or work? But, then he'd end up running around the city, when maybe she was waiting for him somewhere.

Maybe he should call her. Deciding that was his best option, he punched in her cell phone number on his. No answer.

He glanced at the note again. Still nothing came to mind.

Frustrated he balled up the note, angrily. Running a hand through his hair to calm his nerves, he decided if he was going to sit here waiting on pins and needles, he needed a beer. Anything to make the wait a little more bearable. Knowing the girls wouldn't have any beer in their fridge, he headed across the hall his own apartment, unlocking the door with a little more force than necessary and letting himself in. He was so upset with himself that he didn't even notice Monica sitting on one of the barstools at his counter until he'd already retrieved a beer from the fridge.

"Monica!" He exclaimed, embarrassed. Had she been here the whole time? He scowled, trying to make the connection between her location in his apartment, and the note, but could find none. Half in a daze, he set the cold beer on the counter, unable to tear his eyes away from her.

She smiled at him, "Hi, Chandler."

He held up the notes still in his hand, including the balled up one sheepishly, admitting quietly, "I got your notes."

She nodded, a slight smile present, "You didn't like the last one," she half-asked, half-stated, quietly, a touch of sorrow in her tone, and he knew she was assuming the worst.

Not wanting her to get the wrong impression, he admitted, shyly, "I couldn't find you."

A half-smile ghosted across her face, her tone tentative, "Looks like you just did." Their eyes met and they stared at one another nervously, unsure how to break the strange tension between them.

Chandler took a step closer to her, sitting down on the stool next to her, taking her hands in his, wordlessly, not breaking eye contact. She stared boldly back at him, begging him to make the first move and let her know exactly what he was thinking, even though his compassionate stare should have given it away.

The last thought that crossed his mind before he pressed his lips against hers was that with the combination of vulnerability and strength radiating from her sapphire blue eyes, he couldn't remember them ever looking more beautiful. They both melted into the kiss that they now knew they had been waiting for since long before Nora had ever decided to put her matchmaking skills to work. The intensity built as they allowed the gentle contact to express their feelings for one another in place of words, their tongues brushing, lips colliding expressing everything that they needed to know in that moment. Talking could come later.

When they finally pulled away, it was Chandler who spoke first, his hand still cupping her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, "I liked your notes a lot."

Monica looked down shyly and shrugged, "I didn't know how else to say it."

"Except with a Michael Jackson song?" he teased, gently, knowing from her soft smile, and the happiness absolutely radiating from her that she wouldn't be offended.

A wider smile broke out across her face and she nodded, playing with his fingers, where they were still holding hands, "I told you he was cooler than George Michael," she said with a smile.

Chandler laughed, "I guess you did. But, what made you think of that… of all things, as a way of telling me? You could have talked to me, you know, we're best friends. Not that I'm complaining, I've never had anyone do anything like that for me before."

Monica flushed, "I – I guess I thought it was romantic, and your Mom–"

Chandler groaned at the mention of his mother, interrupting, "My Mom? Seriously? My Mom put you up to this? Even after her earlier botched matchmaking scheme? That woman really doesn't know any bounds."

Monica's blush deepened, "Not exactly. She just sparked the idea is all. I, um, I sort of confessed to her what happened the night she set us up, when we almost… you know, kissed, and she suggested something big to let you know how I felt. I wanted you to know without saying the words, just in case you didn't feel the same way about that night," she explained unsurely.

He could sense the melancholy in her tone, and guessing why, he admitted, "I didn't stop that night because I didn't want you Monica, I stopped because it would have been wrong. You were drunk out of your mind. If – if anything was ever going to happen, I wanted to do it the right way."

Monica smiled faintly again, "I understand. So what do you think, did we do it the right way?"

Chandler kissed her cheek gently, letting her know his answer, explaining, "No one has ever done anything that cool and – and romantic for me before. When I got the first note I was desperate to find out who was sending them. I had no idea it was you until I saw the words 'far away,' and then, I just knew. It was definitely the 'right' way."

Monica smiled wider, "I'm glad you liked it. I wanted it to be special."

Chandler smiled back, "I've just got one more question. What did the last note mean? How was I supposed to find you, I mean? I was killing myself trying to figure out where you were!"

Monica squeezed his hand apologetically. "The night before your Mom showed up, after Heckles died, you were looking through his photo box, I promised you that you were not alone, and that I was there for you," she explained, "We were sitting right here. In this same spot. I thought it would be a romantic place for the start of us, what with you not being alone anymore."

Chandler nodded, understanding dawning, even as frustration with himself for not making the connection set in, "That was really clever," he said, "I found you by accident. I came over here to get a beer to calm my nerves."

A smirk twitched on the corner of her mouth, "Maybe it was fate."

"Maybe," Chandler agreed, a smirk to match hers growing on his face, "Do you remember that night, before you promised me that I wouldn't be alone, and you were talking about 'dream guy?'"

"I remember," she nodded, her eyes clouding in confusion, unsure why he was asking.

"Well," he drawled, with a grin that let her know a joke was coming, "Do I fit the bill?"

Monica looked at him appraisingly, pretending to think, "Hmm, yeah, you know what, I think you just might. I'll train you well."

"Whatever gets the happily ever after, right?" he teased back.

Monica arched an eyebrow, teasingly. "I thought those only existed in fairytales, not big bad modern day NYC?" she asked, jokingly.

"Maybe I was wrong about that," he admitted with a grin, before standing up from the stool he was seated on and grabbing her hand, pulling her towards his barcalounger. He sat down, pulling her into his lap, causing her to giggle. He brushed his lips against hers, again, reveling in that fact that the feeling was already becoming familiar to him. Familiar, but new and electric at the same time.

He couldn't remember ever feeling less alone in his life.

xx

Annnd that's a wrap. Took us (a.k.a me) long enough to get here for something that was originally supposed to be a oneshot.

Thanks for reading, and I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter, because I had a blast writing it :) I had a ton of fun with the concept, which honestly, I had no idea I was going to do until I wrote it. In case anyone was curious, all of Monica's notes feature lines, with a tweak or two to fit the story, from the fic's title song You Are Not Alone by Michael Jackson (as Monica mentions).

As always I'd love it if you'd leave a review. I'm open to the possibility of an epilogue, but I don't really think this needs one, honestly, so I'm open to opinions on that, too :)

I've been a little busy recently, but I'm hoping to get a couple chapters done on Everything You Want before I go to Europe with some friends in a couple weeks. We'll see :P