Its not often that Chandler is serious. Well. He's never serious.

It's in his nature to make things better, to make you laugh, to make you smile or just rile you up until you kiss him silly. That's his favorite thing.

But he knows that that isn't the best approach when he gets home and your shoes aren't neatly next to the door, instead, strewn out carelessly in the hallway. That's not you. Not at all.

Slowly, he wanders to the bedroom, and the lights are off. The bedroom is pitch black, the purple walls hidden by the darkness. And you're just a lump beneath the sheets, hair scraped back, wrapped up in what looks like your work clothes.

It's clearly not been a good day.

But you're awake. And breathing. So he throws himself down on the bed next to you, trying to evoke a laugh or at least a huff at the way the bed springs bounce. But all he receives is a head in his lap and a bite to his clothed thigh.

So he does the next best thing. Warm hands find your hair and thumbs rub along your temples, in that nice soothing pattern that he knows that you like whenever you get a migraine. The movements aren’t awkward or tense like they used to be, they seem like second nature.

Maybe, the two of you are just slowly fusing into one. He definitely wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.

"C'mon then, get talking.."