A/N: To each and every single person who reviewed the last chapter – thank you :)

Well, this is probably the sappiest (and the longest) chapter by far in this fic. Maybe I should also add that 'Questions' here is a slightly high 'T'.

I thank WendyCR72 for her impeccable beta-ing :)

The 'perfectly' perfect Philippa Gregory quote here is not mine to dedicate, but if I could, I'd dedicate it to Stephy-Lou Clark-Weasley for reminding me how amazing Philippa's works are. May I also add - you are a wonderful writer, and I'm honored to have made your acquaintance here on FFN :)

Of Life and Love

Chapter 5

"When they see us dance. When they see how you look at me. When they see how I smile at you."

― Philippa Gregory, The Other Boleyn Girl

~.~Parenthood~.~

"I'm not sure about this. At all."

Chandler can see the panic in his daughter's eyes as she says it.

His baby girl is getting married. And like her father had on his wedding day, she's now panicking on hers.

"Oh, yeah. Been there, done that. You'll be okay, hon. Trust me," Emma murmurs as she kneels down to smooth the bride's dress. "Uncle Chandler, could you give me a hand with this?"

"Sure," he nods at his niece and kneels down beside her, looking up at his daughter. "It's okay to feel this way, Erica."

"Are you sure, Dad?" she glances down at him worriedly. "Because I'm not so sure. Is it normal to feel like I'm going to pass out any second now?"

"Okay, it's my turn next," Emma stands up and then helps her uncle do the same. "You're really, really going to be fine. All right?" she kisses her cousin on the cheek and mumbles 'I love you' before she rushes away from the three of them to enter the wedding hall as the Matron of Honor.

"Oh, God," Erica fans herself melodramatically.

"It really is okay, sweetie," Monica places a comforting hand on her daughter's shoulder. "You'll be fine. Every bride goes through this. God knows how terrified I was on my wedding day."

"You were?" Chandler asks, surprised.

"You have no idea," Monica shakes her head. "I didn't take off or anything," she adds, smirking, "but I was scared all the same."

"You know I never meant to hurt you, right?" he asks her, suddenly worried. "Actually that was the reason why I took off. I never wanted to hurt you, Monica, and I was scared to death that I'd screw up everything that I ever cared for, if we became the 'Bings'." He sighs, taking his wife's hand in his and pressing a kiss to her palm. "I'm really sorry, Mon."

"I'm just glad you came back, Chandler," she smiles softly.

"Of course I came back, I love you!"

Before Monica can reply, Erica interrupts. "Mom, Dad, I want to thank you two for your unwavering focus on me on my very special day," she smiles at them, a combination of fear and sarcasm lacing her words.

Her parents turn to her, kissing a cheek each in apology.

"You love Will, and he loves you," Chandler says gently, placing a kiss on Erica's forehead. "We know that, we can see that. And you know it, too."

Erica closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Okay, yeah, I do know that, you're right," she nods. After a few short seconds of silence, she looks at her father again. "I won't mess this up?" she asks slowly, and he's suddenly reminded of a six-year-old Erica being terrified that her mother would be mad at her for accidentally breaking a decade old glass vase.

"Can you give me ten reasons why you love Will?" he asks his daughter, smiling when she nods again.

"I can give you more than ten, Dad," she smiles at him, her blue eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

"Well, there's your answer," he grins back.

The profoundness of the moment strikes him at that second. These are the last few moments where his daughter would be just that – his daughter. Tomorrow, she'd be another man's wife. But at this moment, she's his and his alone.

He wraps an arm around the two women who mean more than life to him and brings them closer to his chest, holding them tightly in his arms for one last time before he'd become a father-in-law.

"You have no idea how much I love you," he mumbles to them both.

"I love you, too," they both murmur back as he pulls away from them.

"Okay, this is the big moment!" Monica grins excitedly, her eyes bright and shiny.

"Yeah," Erica whispers, linking one arm with her father's and the other with her mother's as the three of them begin to walk into the wedding hall and down the aisle. She smiles at her soon-to-be husband and turns to her parents again. "Y'know, I blame you guys for the panic attack." She kisses her mother's cheek and then her father's as they look at her, bemused. "You two have raised my expectations of marriage to ridiculous levels." Before she moves to join her fiancé on the altar, she pulls back and looks at her parents again. "Thank you for showing me how a marriage should be," she smiles. "Thank you for teaching me what love is."

~.~

~.~Questions~.~

"Just so you know, this is not a 'normal' occurrence in my everyday life," he whispers to her, breathless, running a finger along her jaw line to her throat, leaning in to brush his lips against the curve of her neck, noticing how her breath hitches, how she quivers against his touch.

Four times. Four freaking times. And it'd soon be five – they both know that, and that's what he's referring to.

All he can wonder now is why the hell it'd taken them so long to do this.

Shouldn't sex between friends suck? Is it okay to have sex that is this amazing with a good friend? Or are they not good friends?

No, no, that cannot be the case. They are the best of friends. It has to be something else. And maybe that 'something else' would explain this strange, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach.

She laughs softly, even though she knows that his statement wasn't meant as a joke. She pushes him back against the bed and leans against him. "Well, in that case, I can tell you that this is not a normal occurrence in my everyday life, either."

The actual Monica in bed is utterly different from the Monica that he sometimes dreams (fantasizes) about.

The Monica of his dreams (fantasies) is 'in control' and bossy, true to her outside-the-bedroom self that he'd seen for the past ten years, and even she never failed to turn him on.

But this Monica, the one whom he has in his arms now, is soft, warm, giggly and delicious – 'Turned on' cannot even begin to describe what he experiences when they make love.

"How did you get this?" she asks, touching a scar on his shoulder lightly, bringing him back to reality.

He hesitates for a few seconds, watching her as she silently urges him to tell her. He finally relents.

"When I was seven, I hid under a table, wanting to find out whether my parents would search for me if I went missing," he sighs. "They didn't even realize that I was missing. When two hours became three, I started crying, and then I got bored and decided to come out from under the table, but banged my shoulder against the sharp edge in the process." He winces at the memory, and she winces with him. "And, thus, the scar," he finishes, smiling.

"It must have been a really bad wound to have left a scar like this, Chandler," she murmurs, trailing her forefinger along its length.

"It was," he shrugs. He closes his eyes when she leans in to brush her lips against it.

She isn't drunk anymore, he knows that. She hadn't been too drunk to begin with, and now she's completely sober.

The fact that a completely sober Monica has her lips pressed against his bare shoulder takes his breath away.

Placing a hand under her hair, he coaxes her face up to his, and she slides up a few inches and leans down to kiss him on the lips. His fingers trace a path along the ridges of her spine to her navel, drawing light circles on her skin.

She laughs, pulling away. "That tickles," she whispers, smiling.

She peers into his eyes, and he holds her gaze, unwavering. A few shades darker than his own, he sees something in her blue eyes that he doesn't remember seeing in a very long time – she's content; she's happy.

He has made her happy.

A million questions swirl around in his head, a million questions that need to be answered – Where is this headed? Would this night mean anything once the sun rises? Does this mean to her as much as it means to him?

He doesn't know, and at this instant, he doesn't care.

The happiness that he feels at this moment is pure, real, simple. They could answer those million questions later.

This night is about them. Them alone.

~.~

~.~Rugged~.~

"I hate men," she declares, accepting the low-cal soy milk ice cream (which he'd aptly nicknamed 'crappy ice cream') that he offers her. She knows he'd stolen it from her freezer.

Rachel is out on a date with Joshua, Joey is out on a date with the girl-of-the-week, which leaves them both alone together in apartment 20, which, much to Monica's vexation, is now the guys' apartment. Adding to that is the fact that Joey and Chandler are acting as The Hosts. That's her thing – taking care of people. So in addition to stealing her apartment, they'd stolen her title as the hostess, too. Rotten bastards.

But now, she's glad that he's home, that he's ready to act as the host, and that he's willing to provide the attention that she seeks.

"I know wonderful men like me are a rare breed, Mon," he says immodestly, taking his seat at the other end of the couch, "but what did this guy do? I mean, you were really excited about this date."

"Chandler, it was six months since I had a date, of course I was excited! Hell, I'd have been excited if Joey had asked me out on a date!" She wipes the dribbling ice cream from the corner of her mouth and licks her fingers, watching him as he tries hard not to laugh. "You can laugh if you want," she nods.

That's a trick statement. He knows she'd bite is head off if he laughs. He simply shakes his head, smiling. "What did he do?" he asks again.

She sighs, placing the ice cream on the coffee table. "He took me to Austin Powers," she pauses to look at him, "you know that that's worse than taking a woman to Die Hard, right?"

He bites his cheeks and nods. "Yeah."

"And then he drove me home, walked me up to-"

"Wait, what about dinner?" he interrupts.

"Oh, he bought me a bucket of popcorn at the concession stand," she shrugs. "You really can laugh if you want," she adds, observing that his cheeks are turning pink.

He shakes his head again. "Continue."

"So he walked me up to my apartment," she points at the door.

"My apartment," he corrects her.

"Fine, your apartment!" she snaps, glaring at him. "Anyway," she continues a second later, "he walked me up to your apartment, backed me against the door, kissed me-"

"That doesn't sound so bad-"

"-pushed his tongue into my mouth, and when he pulled back, he asked, 'So, when do I get to see you naked?'."

And that is his breaking point.

Before he can stop himself, he lets out a loud snort of laughter, quickly choking it back when she glowers at him. Taking deep breaths, calming himself down, he meets her eyes, still smirking. "He sounds like a keeper."

She grabs the cushion from behind her and throws it at him, forceful, watching him as he deftly dodges it.

He lifts it from the floor, where it'd fallen near his feet, and places it behind his back, his smirk getting wider.

"I hate men," she repeats, leaning her back against the armrest of the couch.

"Aww, Mon, it'll be okay." He pulls her feet onto his lap, and squeezes them comfortingly. "You know the deal – you have to kiss a few frogs to get to your prince."

"What if I end up with a frog, Chandler," she sighs, reclining on the couch, adjusting her feet on his lap. "Or worse, what if I end up being a lonely, ugly, old lady frog?"

He frowns at that mental image, but turns his attention back to her again. "Now you're just being ridiculous," he says gently. "You're not going to end up with a frog, nor are you going to end up being a frog, okay?"

"I'll find my prince?" she looks at him for reassurance.

He nods, moving to lie down behind her, nudging her to move forward. "Yeah."

She turns around to face him, tucking her head beneath his chin. "I'll find my soul mate?"

"Yes, Mon," he murmurs, pressing his lips to her hair.

"I want what Ross and Rachel had, you know?" she sighs again, lifting her head to look at him. "I want what they both had before they fucked it all up. I want to fall in love with my best friend."

"You want to fall in love with me?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow, looking confused.

She chuckles. "You wish."

"I do wish," he nods solemnly, but smiles a moment later to let her know that he's kidding. "You want to fall in love with Rachel?" he grins lewdly.

"For the millionth time, I really am not into women, gutter boy," she smacks his arm.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you what, you'll find your prince, your soul mate - who's preferably also your friend?" he looks at her for confirmation.

She nods.

"Okay, 'your prince, your soul mate, your friend' is-" he stops abruptly. "Hey, that's kinda neat! You could turn it into a wedding vow!"

"I need to find the guy first, Chandler."

"Yeah, okay, right," he nods. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and assure you that 'your prince, your soul mate, your friend' is out there somewhere, waiting to sweep you off your feet." He wraps an arm around her in a tight embrace. "Who knows, maybe he's even within your arm's reach right now," he winks at her suggestively.

"Yeah, who knows?" she laughs, kissing his cheek. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They remain quiet for several moments before she breaks the silence. "Hey, you know what would really help me through this tough time?"

He knows this tone. He knows it all too well. It's her 'Manipulative Monica' tone.

"What?" he asks her warily.

"Having my apartment back," she gives him a pleading look.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," he shakes his head, pulling away from her, sitting up. "No, no, no, no, no. You're not getting it back this way."

"Oh, come on..." she whines, also sitting up. "If you think about the whole thing, it's kinda been like a vacation for all four of us. You guys now know what it's like to live in a great apartment, and Rachel and I now know what it's like to live in a shitty one. I think it's time we ended the vacation and went back to our respective apartments," she nods persuasively.

"Mon, honey, you're really, really not gonna break me," he pats her head, smiling.

"I can't do it any longer, Chandler," her whining intensifies almost instantly. "I cannot stand the fact that my door is cut in half. I cannot stand the fact that I find a dead, decaying animal or a rotting vegetable every time I open a drawer. I hate that most of the switches there do NOTHING. I hate it that I have to take a cold shower every morning. I hate the-"

"Mon-" he tries to stop her, even though he's amazed that she's got such a long list prepared.

"I hate the singing guy from the next building," she continues, unperturbed. "I hate that I have to sleep in your bed; I sleep on the floor most nights. I hate-"

"Whoa, whoa!" he exclaims, stopping her rant insistently. "Why did you say you hate sleeping in my bed?!" he asks, offended.

"Chandler, it's not the bed," she shakes her head. "It's the mattress. You took my mattress, and your mattress..." she trails of, shrugging. "It smells like boy!" she cries.

His expression clears, and he nods understandingly. "Okay, I can give you back your mattress if you want. And," he pauses, raising an eyebrow, looking at her seriously, "I'd prefer it if you used the term 'man' instead of 'boy'."

She frowns. "Why, what's wrong with 'boy'?" she tilts her head to one side. "'Boys' are cute. 'Men' are not."

"CUTE!" he exclaims again, looking even more offended. "You're giving me 'cute'?!"

"Again now, what's wrong with 'cute'?" she looks perplexed.

"Nothing..." he shrugs, suddenly finding the texture of the couch very fascinating. "It's just, I'd prefer 'handsome, rugged, hunky man' to 'cute'. I mean, 'men' are not 'cute'. They're supposed to be 'rugged' and 'handsome'."

He's kidding. He has got to be kidding.

Oh, God, is he serious?!

She snickers, but stops when he looks at her sharply. "How about 'handsome, rugged, chunky man'?" she asks, smiling sweetly.

"Hey!"

"What's wrong now?"

"You called me 'chunky'!"

"I also called you 'handsome' and 'rugged'," she points out, watching him as he frowns at her.

She cannot hold it in anymore. He can be so adorably cute sometimes.

She laughs, leaning forward to hug him tightly. "You are not hunky, Chandler," she shakes her head. "You're not rugged, either."

"I'm not?" he asks, shocked, stroking his lightly stubbled cheek.

She shakes her head again.

"You just know the right things to say to stroke my ego, don't you?"

"You're handsome, though," she nods.

"Oh, yeah?" he grins at her widely, suddenly looking pleased with himself.

"Yeah," she murmurs, nodding. She places her feet on the floor and stands up. She bends down, framing his face in her hands, and presses her lips against his forehead. "You're not rugged, you're not hunky-" She cuts him off as he starts to protest again. "But you're cute, you're sweet. You're my Chandler, and I love you," she smiles down at him, her smile getting wider when his own lips curve into a genuine, heartwarming smile. "Isn't that better than anything else?" she asks rhetorically.

He nods.

Yes, it's better than everything else.

~.~

~.~Savor~.~

"Pretzel," Monica murmurs to her sleeping husband, "the baby wants a pretzel."

"Hmm." His eyes still closed, Chandler turns on his side to envelope his wife in a bear hug, pulling her closer to him.

He is somewhere between being awake and asleep - that moment where everything seems perfect and comfortable, and you don't want to move even a single muscle – but he still cannot help smiling widely when the slight swell of her pregnant belly presses gently against his abdomen.

First-time pregnant and nineteen weeks along - They'd made a baby together.

"Soft pretzel," she adds as an afterthought. "And maybe some banana pancakes. The baby loves your banana pancakes."

"I love you, too, honey," he mumbles sleepily, making her frown.

"I said, 'The baby loves your banana pancakes'," she pokes him in the side in an attempt to wake him up, "not 'I love you'."

"Ow!" he yelps in pain, finally fully awake, his eyes snapping open. "God, woman! Don't you know that I bruise like a peach?" he rubs the spot, moving away from her slightly. "And you don't love me anymore?" he asks her after a few seconds, his glare turns into a pout.

"Aww, honey," she murmurs, smiling, leaning in to kiss him on the lips. "Of course I love you." Her lips move along his cheek and jaw line as she places a series of sloppy, wet kisses. "I mean, you make the best banana pancakes in the world. How could anyone not love you?"

"Do you realize that you're French kissing my cheek?" he asks, amused.

"Mm hmm," she sighs. "I'm fantasizing about my soft pretzel. You're my soft pretzel."

"You're hungry," he observes, watching her as she nods.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she says, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, kissing the exposed skin.

"You're horny," he laughs.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she repeats.

"Maybe we should something about either?" he asks, placing her hand on her belly, caressing it gently.

"Maybe," she murmurs, continuing to unbutton his shirt. She glances at the clock on the nightstand, and it reads 4:33. No wonder the twins are still asleep.

The thing about closed curtains is that it helps you lose all sense of time. She wonders why she's awake at four-thirty in the morning; why he's awake at four-thirty in the morning.

Well, probably because she'd woken him up.

"It's so quiet with the kids asleep," he murmurs, pulling her closer to him, his hand firmly pressing against her abdomen.

The baby had kicked for the first time a week back, and she still remembers the euphoric grin that he'd worn the entire week.

As though knowing that its mother is thinking about it, the baby kicks again now, and she watches as his grin returns. She smiles back, placing her own hand over his.

"Baby's kicking," he whispers giddily, slipping his hand beneath her nightshirt. They stare at each other as they feel their baby move restlessly inside of her. "How does it feel to know that there's this tiny, tiny person growing inside of you?" he asks her in the same hushed tone, his words tinged with awe.

She laughs lightly. "It's okay, I guess," she shrugs. "Most times, it's incredible. Sometimes, it's overwhelming." She watches him quietly for a second.

He is overwhelmed, too. The fact that he is responsible for four lives other than his own sometimes makes him pause and reel. But he would have it no other way. He knows she wouldn't, either.

He removes his hand from her belly and wraps his arms around her, pulling her even closer.

She sighs contentedly, closing her eyes.

These are the moments that she relishes the most - where the boundary of what they are becomes unclear and fuzzy - they are husband and wife, they are lovers, they are each other's confidant, and they are best friends, all at once.

They are a couple in every sense of the word.

She wants to make this moment last; she wants to savor it for as long as she possibly can.

But the baby apparently has other plans for them. "The baby wants a pretzel. Soft pretzel," she repeats after several seconds of silence when she feels the baby kick again.

He chuckles. "Aren't you supposed to be horny?"

"I'm actually predominantly hungry," she murmurs back.

"That's a pretty impressive vocabulary at four-thirty in the morning," he comments as he moves to get off the bed, his half-unbuttoned shirt hanging loosely on his shoulders.

"Where are you going?" she reaches for his arm and clutches it tightly. "Don't go."

"Banana pancake, honey?" he reminds her.

She nods, letting go of his arm reluctantly. "Banana pancake," she repeats.

"Don't fall asleep, though, okay?"

"'Kay," she nods. "Chandler?" she calls out to him, just as he's about to leave the room.

"Yeah, Mon," he returns to her side and kneels down beside the bed.

"Soft pretzel?" she asks worriedly.

"Once the sun rises," he promises, smiling.

She turns on her side, wrapping an arm around his neck. She giggles softly, her eyes childlike and playful. "You love me," she whispers.

He smiles back, kissing the tip of her nose. "Why do you think I'm making banana pancakes at four-thirty in the morning?"

~.~.~

A/N: God, I love writing pregnant Mondler.

Anyway, ever since I posted that last chapter of If it's Love, I've received at least 25 emails for author/story favorite and/or alert for one story or the other – which is very flattering, believe me. But if you could maybe show the same kind of enthusiasm towards reviewing, Cynthia would be eternally happy. Two minutes of your time - not too much to ask, I hope.