Is it really two and a bit months since I last updated this? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why this chapter is only just being added, because it was almost finished when I posted the last one... oops. Anyway, thanks to anhonestmoose, mam and Jayne for reviewing the last chapter - and I hope that you enjoy this one!

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"Chandler?" cries an (all too) familiar voice as I fall into a seat inside a café and sling my coat and scarf down. No – not Janice (although I'm thinking that she might be preferable right now… What am I saying? What has Monica driven me to?)!

It's Monica – oh, I must remember to congratulate Joey on how well his 'getting over Monica' scheme went! I doubt he'll understand, though – no one bothered to teach Joey sarcasm when he was a kid (either that or they dropped him on his head a lot… I'm thinking maybe both came into play).

"Chandler?" she repeats, taking a seat next to me.

There's just no way I'm going to be able to deny that one, is there?

I close my eyes hopefully (because, obviously, if I can't see her, then she can't see me!). "Um. Yes?" I reply, avoiding looking at her. 'Um. Yes?'. Great answer, Chandler. That's going to convince her to love you.

"What's up?" Oh, it just gets better and better. Literary genius.

She lowers her head into her arms and stifles a sob. Oh, God. Depressed and vulnerable women really aren't my thing. If you're a depressed and vulnerable woman, then Joey's your man.

But, hey, if you're the kind of depressed and vulnerable woman that's interested in self-deprecating sarcastic comments, then we can probably come to some sort of an arrangement… Unfortunately, I don't think Monica is.

"It's Richard," she mumbles into her coat sleeves.

Hang on a minute. It's Richard? Screw not wanting to talk to her - today is definitely starting to look up! Finally, an opportunity to convince her that her husband's a loser (an aging loser, at that…), and that she wants to be with me! There is a God! There is!

"We had this argument, and… I don't know… I don't know, Chandler!" She looks up at me. Obviously, for some reason, she thinks that I do know…

"Uh – what don't you know?" I ask her delicately (ha! Delicate! Me?)

"I don't know!" she wails.

"This is going to be one of those conversations, isn't it?" I mutter.

"Pardon?"

"So, what are you doing here?" I ask, giving her a full blast of my woman charming smile (the one the Joey says makes me look like a perverted old man. But, hey – what would he know? It's not like he's had much experience of women… oh. Damn. Time to stop smiling before someone dials 911).

"Oh. Just… killing time," she mumbles, looking up at me.

This is when I make a sweet comment followed up by some helpful advice and subtly romantic declaration (something along the lines of, "That stupid ass-biscuit will never be good enough for you! Marry me! Have my babies!"), and she turns to me and tells me that I'm the only one she's ever wanted to be with.

Well, that's what I should do, anyway. Do I?

Obviously not. This is me we're talking about…

"Killing time, huh? Y'know, it's funny, isn't it?" (no! It's not! Not unless funny means 'as painful as having your reproductive organs removed with a large hook through your mouth'! In which case, I would suggest purchasing a new dictionary… or a shrink…). "We all turn a blind eye to killing Time, but if he turned up in our rooms in the middle of a night with a gun, then we'd all get pissed! Talk about your double standards!"

She stares at me. (Well, can you blame her?). It's okay – I'm used to women giving me an 'are you serious?' look… although it's usually prefaced by me asking them back to my apartment…

"Don't you get it?" I ask her (of course she gets it, you fool! She's not stupid! She's thinking of the most painful ways of disembowelling you – although, hopefully not in public. Because, yeah, that would be my problem with the situation). "…Killing time?" I offer hopefully.

She chooses to ignore me (a wise move, if ever there were one). "I'm so glad you've matured in the last few years," she tells me.

I open my mouth to thank her before suddenly realising that she might not be entirely sincere, and promptly closing it again. "I have!" I cry, outraged. (Well, if I don't defend my honor, then who else will?). "The old Chandler would have involved some toilet humor in that joke! Mine was entirely clean!"

Sturdy line of defence there, my man. Not entirely sure whether it would stand up in court, but…

"I bet Richard's never immature," I mumble sulkily (well, of course not! Childish for Richard would be acting like a 50-year-old!).

"Still bitter?" she asks, with a hint of a smile (at least I'm cheering her up! And if that means ripping myself to pieces in front of her, then so be it! Oh, the things I do for love…).

Oh, no. Not at all.

"Chandler, I… we never really talked about what happened. You know – between… us…"

Yeah. There's probably a good reason for that… somehow, I don't think that hearing 1001 Reasons Why Richard's A Better Possible Life Partner Than You (again) would add to my endless pool of optimism.

"Oh." I reply. Some call it cowardice. I call it playing it safe. I like my way better – it makes me seem a lot less of a wimp.

"Oh?"

"Yep."

"So glad you have such a strong opinion on the topic."

No, no! I don't have an opinion at all. I'm totally neutral! Completely unbiased! I don't have a clay doll of Richard that I stick pins into! Really, I don't!

"Monica, you're married."

She shrugs. "True. Maybe not for much longer…"

This is it! I have finally achieved the state of nirvana! Unconfined happiness! Euphoric joy! Best damn day of my sad little life (of course, I also feel much sympathy and deep regret at the demise of Monica and Richard's relationship… really! Well, sort of…).

"Oh?" I ask, trying to sound slightly hopeful (it's hard to get this across in a single syllable, but since the alternative would be actually forming a sentence, then, on all accounts, I think this way's a lot better…).

"Chandler… I made a huge mistake when I let you go…"

And it's only taken you, what – three years – to notice this? Quick thinking there, Miss Geller… Burke… Whatever.

Hang on. I double take – did she just say what I think she did? Oh my God (is this a bad moment to realise that I am turning into Janice?)!

"You love Richard, Mon," I say softly, putting my hand on hers.

Wait. Did I just say that? Why did I say that! I didn't mean to say that! What the hell is happening here!

Oh my God, I'm possessed.

"Everyone has relationship issues now and again… no marriage is gonna be perfect, however much you want it to be…"

This is not me speaking! I swear, this is not me speaking! This is some idiot using my mouth! I'm phoning the cops! I start to panic (well, wouldn't you?). Is this some sort of subconscious desire to ruin my entire life?

Yeah, because that's likely… Naturally, the only plausible explanation is that I am possessed. Possessed!

"You've just got to remember that you love him…" I blunder on.

Exorcism! Only option! Hang on… what does an exorcism actually consist of, exactly? Will it be painful? Will I be able to have one without Monica noticing?

More importantly will I still be able to have children afterwards? (Yeah – I know I'd have to find someone actually able to spend time alone with me without feeling physically sick before that could ever happen, but let's pretend! I mean, in a worst case scenario, I've always got some money saved up! I could, you know… ring one of those numbers you always see written in marker on the walls of public bathrooms… my God. Am I actually having this thought? Seriously – what is wrong with me?).

Come on, this is my own mouth! It really can't be that hard to control it, right?

"We just… weren't right for each other."

Okay. Maybe it is that hard. Why isn't she stopping me? She must realise that this chivalrous, courteous behaviour is totally out of character! Doesn't she know me at all?

Say something. Say anything! Anything has got to be better than all this "You love Richard" crap!

I open my mouth and close it again. No, not anything. Anything is far too dangerous. If I allow myself anything, I will start telling her the joke about the three naked Englishmen, the chicken and the hooker…

Say something intelligent! Intelligent, but witty. Charming. Win her back! I open my mouth again. Intelligent! Witty! Charming!

"…Lenin?" I offer, beaming at her.

Lenin? Yes. That is exactly what I had in mind. Way to be witty and charming! Winning, my man! Winning! That's what it says on page 1 on the How To Impress Women Survival Guide! Talk about communist Russian leaders – that makes women hot!

Monica raises an eyebrow. "Lenin?"

Obviously the lady's mighty impressed too…

"Oh, forget it," she mutters into the table. By 'it', I assume she means 'any chance of an adult conversation with this gibbering lunatic'. Good call. "So, you've been knitting, huh?" she continues, forcing a smile (actually, considering the amount of joy this particular subject seems to give to everyone, I'd go so far as to suggest that the smile was not actually forced. At all. Whatsoever. In the slightest. Unfortunately).

"What of it?" I ask primly.

"Oh, it's nothing. Nothing… it's just… this guy at my work, Sean, just came out, and–" Oh. I think I can guess where this one might be going… "-you two would make the cutest couple! I mean, you could share knitting patterns, swap issues of Sewing For Boys… it's perfect!" Oh. What do you know? I was right.

Seriously. Are there not better things to talk about? Like how Richard's not the father of her baby, for instance? Except apparently she thinks that I'm not mature enough to conduct that kind of conversation. I really do wonder where on Earth she got that idea from…

Hang on! If Richard's not the father, and Mon hasn't slept with anyone else except on that one night, then…

Oh my God. Oh my God! This is unbelievable! Monica wasn't just cheating on Richard, but on me too! She must have slept with someone else that day! I can't believe this! …Well. Maybe I can understand the Richard part – I mean, the guy's practically an OAP; he's probably asleep most of the time – but me? I am a beast! (I am also strangely full of myself, considering I spend all of my life whining about how much I suck).

I can't believe she'd do this, though! I mean… let herself get knocked up by a total stranger! It's totally out of character! (Well, of course we're not counting that one time where she almost got some guy's sperm out of a sperm bank, because… because, well, we're not). If she were going to get pregnant by anyone other than Richard, you would have thought that she'd choose one of us guys – although, obviously, not Joey, 'cause he's probably already fathered at least fifty children in the tri-state area alone… and not Ross, because… well… no. So that just leaves… me. I can't believe she didn't sleep with me!

…Oh. Wait. She did.

Crap.

I (very briefly) consider telling Monica about my sudden realisation, before dismissing it as, obviously, an incredibly stupid idea. Letting people know your true feelings… well, it's like Phoebe's mother once told her – you lock it all away inside a tiny bottle and keep it locked. Lack of communication, you must understand, is the key to a healthy relationship.

Wait a second – back up there… Phoebe's mother killed herself because her husband abandoned her. I've known this for ten years, and yet I still accept blindly any advice she ever gave to the daughter she lied to all her life.

Gosh. I wonder why my relationship with Monica ever failed?

"It's just so hard," the woman in question mumbles, cutting my series of discoveries to an abrupt end – how thoughtless of her! Did she not hear how important my thoughts were?

Oh, wait. No. Thoughts in the head, reality outside. Got it.

"What is it, honey?" I reach my hand out hesitantly, and she makes a ruthless grab at it. Ouch. Sharp nails – I try not to whimper out loud (well, let's face it – if I do, she's going to assume that I'm either a coward… or horny. When, in reality, I am of course… both. But as long as she doesn't figure that one out, then it's smooth sailing from here – unless, of course, we run into any icebergs. You know, in New York.).

"Richard. I know he didn't want children 'til he worked out that that's the only way he could be with me, and, oh… it sucks, Chandler. You know that feeling?"

"You could say that, yeah…"

"I'm sorry for boring you," she says softly.

I bare my teeth at her – hopefully she's perceptive enough to understand that this is my vague attempt at a smile. "Apology accepted. You're not boring me, though! Honestly!" I pretend to stifle a yawn.

"You're so sweet, Chandler… you'll find someone soon, honey, I promise…"

Oh, lucky me.

"I already found her."

"Oh." She looks up at me. "I am so, so sorry, Chandler…"

Hm. Not entirely the response I was aiming for (not that I'm surprised, though). No matter – all is not lost. It is never too late for her to leap on me and smother me with kisses (yeah – from that "I'm sorry you're so pathetic" head tilt she's giving me, I can tell that's totally her intention. Totally).

"What makes you think that she is you?" I retort grumpily. Yes – that's right, Chandler! Upset her! Make her think you hate her and you're not interested! That'll make her come running back (running back… running away… who can say where one starts and the other ends?)!

"Just a hunch," she murmurs. "Here. Come here…" She reaches out her arms and I fall into them (oh, please. If I have learned one thing from my years of solitary confinement, it is that you do not turn down offers like this ever).

I convince myself that I am not sinning, and that this situation with a married woman is not sending me right to hell. As long as I don't have any… unholy thoughts about Monica, I'm on the straight and narrow up to paradise!

Well, many unholy thoughts, anyway. Come on! I'm only human!

Okay, yeah… Satan's warming a pitchfork just for me as we speak. I should probably savour these last moments of being able to sit down without immense pain, really…

This is nice, I think to myself. Very nice. So nice, in fact, that I know I'm going to do something stupid to screw it up. Because – well, when do I not? You can just tell that I'm about to make a huge mistake like–

"Mon… am I the father of your child?"

Yep. Something along those lines. Exactly.

She blinks. "Richard?"

"No, no. I am definitely Chandler," I inform her helpfully. Although I can see how someone could easily mix up the two of us. I mean, he's old, boring and quite possibly balding, while I'm (relatively) young, (relatively) interesting and (relatively) full-haired (I think that anyone is young, interesting and full-haired in comparison to Richard Burke…). We're practically twins!

"No – not you!"

Oh. I knew that. "Who?"

"Him!" She releases me from her clutch, and tears my heart into tiny little pieces (over dramatic? Me? Never!), pointing to the rather large tree of a man standing and staring at us (I'm thinking an oak tree – they're hundreds of years old, right?).

Oh. Great. Richard. Just the guy I wanted to see. Because, you know, he's not going to want to kill me or anything…

Now would be a good time to run, wouldn't it?