Disclaimer: I do not own "Friends".

With a contented sigh, Monica dried her hands on a tea towel. She had cleared away the last of her stuff from the catering job and was dead tired now; the only thing left to do was to take out the trash.

When she came back upstairs, she heard an sound coming from the guys' appartment. Stopping in her tracks, she listened, and there it was again: a thumping noise of sorts. At first, she backed away: who knew what Joey was up to. And yet- something seemed odd. Hesitantly, she knocked on the door: "Joey? Chandler?"

The answer was a muffled mumble.

"Everything all right there?" Monica asked.

"No. 's okay though." That was Chandler's voice, and he definitely sounded drunk. Which was strange, since he hadn't been drinking at the wedding, and they had been home rather early. He had had a cup of coffee at her place, nothing more.

"I'm coming in," Monica announced and opened the door.

Chandler was sitting on the floor and holding his left hand with the other, his forehead was bloody.

"My God, Chandler, what happened?" Monica knelt down in front of him and immediately smelled the alcohol. "Are you drunk?"

"A li'l," he replied, "an' I sprain' my wrist."

"How did this happen?" Monica asked, reaching for a tea towel to wipe away the blood and better see the injury.

"I fell. I thought there's a step. But there wasn't one. I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid. Where's Joey?"

"Makin' whoopee. He got a call from the one. The one womm who wasn't a lesbian at the weddin'."

Monica let that statement go by; Chandler was far too inebriated for an argument. "Okay. First things first. I don't think this needs stitches, but I need to clean it. Can you get up?"

"No."

"Oh, come on- let's give it a try, okay?"

"'kay."

Somehow, Monica managed to get Chandler to his feet and onto the couch, then she got some ice to rest his wrist on. He lay back against the cushions and closed his eyes while she fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom.

Carefully, she began to clean the wound with an antiseptic.

Chandler grimaced: "Nobody likes me."

"What?" Monica paused.

"I'll die alone, like Heckles."

Not that again, Monica thought. Out loud she said: "You're not going to die alone, Chandler, and it's not true that nobody likes you."

"Yet you all think I'll be the last of us to get married."

Monica thought back to this afternoon, remembering how... depleted Chandler had looked, all but lying in her armchair with his jacket for a blanket, as though needing something protective.

"But that's just us joking around," she said somewhat lamely. She hadn't expected for him to take it that hard. "I don't actually think that you're not going to find someone."

Chandler snorted: "Really? Mos' people think I'm gay."

"So what?"

"An' I'm difficult. My mom always said so."

Monica took his uninjured hand in hers, squeezing it gently: "Everyone I know has their little quirks, but that's normal. Even I have them."

Chandler gave her a half-hearted smile: "I use' to make fun of you, because you were fat. Tha's not a quirk. I'm horrible."

"That's a long time ago. Rachel and I used to make fun of you too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And in the past few years, you've been nothing but kind to me. I couldn't wish for a better neighbour and friend."

"I'm not horrible?"

"No, honey, you aren't. And you're not going to stay alone."

Chandler seemed a little appeased by that. He held still as Monica put a band-aid on his forehead and a bandage around his wrist, tiredly watching her but not commenting on any of it.

"Do you want to go to bed or stay on the couch?" Monica asked him once she was done.

"I'll stay here, it's comfy," he muttered.

"Okay." Monica helped him to stretch out and spread a blanket over him.

"Do you want some aspirin?" she asked.

"No. It might remind the alcohol of me. It'll be bad enough in the mornin'."

Monica smiled: "Fair enough. Sleep well, honey."

She stayed for a while to make sure Chandler was going to be all right, pondering the things he had said. Most of the time, she forgot about how insecure he could be, since he hid it well behind his jokes and sarcastic manner. Yet now in his sleep he seemed much more vulnerable, which was only emphasized by the way he hunched in on himself, his slender fingers, his strangely small ears. Cute, one might say. As was his mouth, if one looked at it a little closer.

Frowning, Monica chided herself: stop it, Geller. You're being sentimental because you're feeling sorry for him.

Yeah, that was probably it. And knowing Chandler, he wasn't going to get over this phase so easily, but now that she had realized how much it was bothering him, she was going to be able to help him. He was a good guy, after all, despite his quirks.

Fondly, she smiled at her sleeping friend: "You'll find your happiness, Chandler Bing."

The End

Since English isn't my mothertongue, there may be mistakes. Sorry!