I know, my summary was a little cryptic...your curiosity got the better of you, didn't it? :) Well, like it says, this stand alone is scene filler. Chandler's "I opened a gate" was funny but not very realistic, and this topic seemed worthy of further exploration. Hey, anytime I get to mess around in Chandler's psychosis.... :) You might notice I changed the ending. Get over it. You might like my sappier ending better. :)

I shamelessly stole a line from the movie Emma -- if you know which one it is, good for you. If you don't, rent the movie. It's very good.

-RLMadd

'Maybe there is something wrong with me,' Chandler thought as he stared idly at the television. He didn't even know what he watching. 'My emotions are numbed and I didn't even realize it.' Sighing, he turned the TV off and picked up Monica's copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul and started thumbing through it again. Nothing. Not even a twinge.

'Come on, Chandler, you can just make yourself cry, c'mon, you can do it.... Thinking of something sad...let's see, Bambi's mother getting shot, a three-legged puppy, your parents never giving a rip about you....'

He groaned in frustration and leaned back against the cushions of the couch, running his hand through his hair.

'Monica dying....'

He looked up at the ceiling. "Maybe I'll go first," he said out loud, then immediately regretted it. "Be serious," he told himself. "You're trying to cry, remember? So Monica won't think you're dead inside?"

Truth was, the thought of Monica dying was tearing him apart inside, but he just couldn't get his feelings to transfer to the outside.

Suddenly, the door opened and Monica stepped in.

"Hey, sweetie," she said. Her tone sounded calm and apologetic, so Chandler responded in kind with the same words.

"Listen, I'm sorry about earlier." She set the laundry basket on the kitchen table and walked over to sit on the couch next to him.

Chandler put his hand out to stop her from saying anything else and replied, "No, I'm the one who needs to be sorry. You had every right to be upset. There really is something wrong with me. Maybe I should see a therapist...."

"No, honey -- " Monica interrupted. She looked down for a moment, then took his hands in her own and met his eyes. "You know what? You are a sweet, sensitive man. I know that. I've know that pretty much from the moment we became friends. You remember? You had just moved in, and I had just broken up with Charlie. You comforted me and made sure I was okay before you left. And that was when we barely knew each other! Plus, my past experiences with you at Thanksgiving hadn't been that great." She paused, and they both smiled. "But you made me forget all that when you came over that night. I think you won me over then, and I wasn't smart enough to realize that you were perfect for me."

"Well," Chandler said, "my sense of humor probably turned you off a little bit."

"No, I always loved that about you. It was more like your immaturity and fear of committment." She squeezed his hands apologetically for mentioning his pitfalls, but it wasn't necessary. Chandler just nodded knowingly.

"But," Monica went on. "You were...well, Chandler! And you're still that man now -- the man I'm best friends with and the man I fell in love with. And when I fell in love with you -- which I think actually started a while before London -- I fell in love with all of you. Not just the good parts." She looked down at his lap suggestively. Chandler raised his eyebrows and grinned. "What I'm trying to say is, we both have our own idiosyncrases and weird traits. You're sarcastic, I'm obsessive. You're afraid of committment, I'm controlling. That's why you and me fit, Chandler." She smiled and intertwined their fingers. "It's our imperfections that make us perfect for each other. And this...not being able to cry thing is just one of your traits."

Chandler rubbed his thumb against her hand affectionately, but then paused with an unsettled look on his face. "I hope you don't think you get to develop a new one too?" he asked in a mock horrified voice.

Monica laughed and pulled him into a hug. "No, but you owe me one."

They held each other companionably for a moment before Monica murmured into his shoulder, "Now, you know you can't take advantage of this, right? No attributing everything you do wrong to the fact that you're weird."

"Oh, of course not, honey." Chandler pulled back a little and kissed her briefly. "You know that I attribute everything I do wrong to the fact that I know nothing about relationships."

"You big faker!" Monica laughed and hit him playfully on his back. "Come on, you can't tell me that you haven't learned anything after being with me for almost two years."

Chandler's face turned thoughtful, and then he said seriously, "I've learned that you are always right."

A slow smile spread across Monica's face. "Good answer," she teased, then leaned in to kiss him. It quickly turned from sweet to passionate to 'can we make it to the bedroom', but Chandler still had something nagging him from the back of his mind.

It took all of his reserve to place his hand on her shoulder, and he almost removed it when she started running her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck, but he was eventually able to gently apply pressure so he could look her in the eye.

"What's wrong?" she asked breathlessly.

"It still bothers me."

Confused stare, then incredulous reply. "You're kidding me. After that speech I just gave you?"

"I know, I know...." Chandler abruptly stood up and walked toward the bay window. "I just wish I knew why, you know? You said it yourself -- I'm not a macho guy. So it's not a pride issue. Am I so emotionally scarred that I just bottle everything inside?"

Concern on her face, Monica went over to Chandler and put her hands on his chest. "Honey, why do you think you started telling so many jokes? I mean, we both know that when you get uncomfortable you use your humor as a defense. All of those jokes have formed into a barrier that only the people closest to you can see past." She absent-mindedly began to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. "But you've gotten better at sharing your feelings, Chandler. You don't push me or everyone else away nearly as much as you used to."

Chandler managed a half-smile. "I guess I've grown up a bit."

"Hey, everyone needs a little growing up every now and then." Her light-hearted tone fell flat when she saw the look on her boyfriend's face.

"Honestly, Mon? Sometimes I wish I could just have some sort of release...maybe not crying, but just...something."

"We can come up with something for you to do, sweetie." Monica's hands moved to smooth out the wrinkles. "Like punching something, or playing racquetball -- something manly!" Monica's voice turned growly at the word "manly", but Chandler was neither amused nor convinced.

"Monica." He gently pulled her hands away from his collar and held them against his chest. "Remember when you said that there was something wrong with me because when you die I won't cry, even after reading that letter you're going to write?"

Monica looked down, ashamed, then started to speak, but Chandler shushed her again.

"I was thinking about that earlier, and...." He paused. Squeezed her hands. Looked into her eyes.

Maybe it was because she was standing right in front of him, her small hands encompassed by his larger ones. Maybe it was her eyes -- her bright, beautiful blue eyes that still had a hint of apology in them, a crease of concern right above them. Maybe it was because when he looked at her, he knew by heart every feature of her face, every curve of her body, and he realized something he had known in his heart the moment she first laid her head on his chest, their arms and legs intertwined, hearts beating at the same tempo, and fell asleep. He was going to spend the rest of his life with this woman.

"And...." His voice cracked. He looked away and cleared his throat, then tried to start over, but moisture began to collect under his eyes, so he swiped at it with the back of his hand.

"Thinking about it...ripped me up inside, Monica. It ripped me up...." His voice cracked again. "Damn it!" Embarrassed, he tried to laugh, but his hoarse chuckles quickly turned into choking sobs, his tears having reached the top of the reservoir. And then he was crying. For the first time since he was 8 years old.

Monica watched Chandler moved from collected to losing it in about ten seconds. After a moment of shock, she recovered and reached out to place a comforting hand on his cheek.

This didn't seem to help any. Chandler sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Monica kneeled beside him and gently pulled his head down until it was resting on her shoulder, his face buried in her neck. Then all she could do was hold him and soothe him as best as she could with her presence and her words...and love him.

And even though she knew this breakdown wasn't just about him thinking about losing her, she ran her fingers through his hair and repeated the words, "I'm right here, baby. I'm right here."

When there were no tears left, Chandler was so emotionally exhausted, it took all of Monica's efforts to get him undressed and in the bed. By the time she had finished in the bathroom and changed clothes he was sound asleep. As she crawled in next to him, she slid her pillow out of his arms and replaced it with herself, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. He subconciously responded by holding her a little tighter and moving his head so it rested in the crook of her neck.

Monica sighed and closed her eyes. She was finding it difficult to grasp everything that had just happened. He had been so emotional. She had even cried a little with him merely because his grief had been so raw. And his grief was for everything that had died inside him when his parents got divorced and were too self-involved to see how it had affected their son. It was for never having a real, blood-related family. And, imagined though it was, it was for her. Monica paused in her thoughts. For her.

Her heart rate sped up a little at this revelation, and she felt Chandler stir.

"Whazza' matter, honey?"

Monica looked down at his prostrate form, his arm slung across her waist, his left leg hooked over hers. She looked at his face, his features totally relaxed. He cracked his eyes open to return her gaze. And she realized that she didn't want to ever see another man's eyes first thing in the morning. She wanted to wake up to Chandler's beautfiul blue eyes every day. 'This,' she thought, 'is the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with.'

"Nothing," she said softly. "Go back to sleep."

He closed his eyes again and burrowed deeper into her embrace. "I love you," he said, his words simple but meaningful.

"I love you too."

It wasn't long before her breathing pattern slowed to match his, and she fell asleep, content in the knowledge that they were both safe and free from therapy so long as they had each other.

The End