The One With The President
Chapter Three
By: Jana~
*****~*****
--He'd heard a rustling noise, and then muffled talking, which led him to assume that Monica had covered the mouthpiece.
"Hello?" he called into the phone, checking to see if she was still on the line. "Ms. Geller, are you there?"
"Yes, Mr. President," she answered respectfully. "I'm here."
"Please, call me Chandler," he requested, but when getting nothing in the way of a response, he continued with his reason for calling. "I was calling to see if you would maybe like to grab a cup of coffee sometime."
She scowled at the floor, ignoring Rachel who kept insistently whispering "What's he saying? What's he saying?"
"You were serious about that?" Monica asked, perplexed.
"Yes," he answered simply. "I was."
Rachel by this point was making wild hand gestures in an attempt to convey to Monica what she so urgently wanted to know; was he asking her out? Monica hushed her with a loud hiss as she tried to focus on the phone call.
"Excuse me for asking, but, how did you even get my number?"
Chandler paused, not knowing what the answer to that question was. He'd asked Phoebe to get the number, and she did. He never questioned how. "Um, probably from the FBI or something," he replied eventually.
"Well, sure," Monica gestured in acceptance. "Cause if you want a phone number, and you're the president, that's where'd you go!" she exclaimed.
"Is it not alright that I've called you at home?" he asked sincerely. "Cause I could call you at work tomorrow," he offered. "If that's better for you."
"No, no," she assured him. "This is fine."
Chandler smiled. "So, about coffee?"
Monica sighed. "Look, Mr. President, I really don't think that's such a good idea."
"I'm sorry," he apologized, "You're seeing someone?"
"Well, no," she admitted.
"Ok. Well, then can I ask what the problem is?"
"You are the problem," she replied.
Chandler couldn't help but chuckle. "I beg your pardon."
"No, sorry," she stammered. "That didn't come out right."
"That's alright," he assured her.
"It's just-- Look, you're-- You're the President," she stated as her entire point.
"Right…?" He encouraged her to elaborate with his tone of voice.
"Am I the only person who sees this as a potential problem?"
"There's a potential problem?"
"Well, yeah!" she exclaimed. "I'm just a chef, you're the leader of the free world!--"
"Chefs don't go out on dates?" he asked as he interrupted.
"No- yes, they do!" she struggled with her words. "I do occasionally, but…" she trailed off, then got her thoughts together. "Thing is, is, do you?"
"I've been out on a few dates," he replied. "Mind you, not since taking office. Or during the campaign either. But before that, I'd had a few dates, yeah."
She hesitated before asking, "So, why me?"
"Why you?" he questioned. "Why you what?"
"Why ask me?" she clarified.
"You mean, on a date?"
She involuntarily took a deep breath. "Yeah."
He gave her question thought before responding. "When I saw you sitting there, telling off your boss, I just knew I wanted to get to know you better."
Monica scoffed, "I wasn't exactly showing you my best side at that particular moment."
He smiled. "Well, if that was your worst side, and I still want to grab a cup of coffee with you, that bodes well for you, don't'cha think?"
She couldn't help but chuckle, but the smile soon dropped from her face. "I'm no one special," she almost whispered after a brief pause.
"Would you mind if I made that decision for myself?"
She sighed heavily, shaking her head. "I can't believe I'm about to do this."
"Do what?" he asked hopefully.
"Say 'yes'," she said.
His smile grew. "I can send a car," he offered, and she accepted by rattling off her address.
He didn't have the heart to tell her that her address had been provided to him already when he was given her phone number.
*****
--She wasn't exactly sure what to expect, especially after the whirlwind of activity she had just been in the center of. It all added to a very surreal experience.
She had been picked up at her apartment and delivered to the White House, then escorted to a room where she was left to wait alone. Alone, except for the armed secret service agents who were undoubtedly standing guard just outside of every exit.
She hugged herself nervously as she looked around the large office-type room, wondering briefly what purpose it served. She quickly decided it was probably for recreation, since it had a foosball table, a dart board, and a small self-serve bar.
He entered the room in casual attire; a simple button-up shirt with a sweater vest over top of it, and khaki pants rounding off the ensemble. He seemed more casual then she expected.
"Good evening," he said with a smile that she was certain was supposed to put her at ease. It didn't.
"Hi," she nodded, trying for a smile.
"You alright?" he asked considerately. "You look nervous."
She scoffed. "There's an understatement!"
"Well, truth be told," he admitted. "I am too a little bit."
"Why are you nervous?" she asked.
"Well, I'm a bit rusty at this."
"Oh. Well, I think this is somewhat ground breaking stuff here."
"What is?" he asked. "A president dating?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
He gestured to an elegant ceramic coffeepot, then picked it up and began to pour coffee into one of the two matching mugs that sat along side it.
"Cream? Sugar?" he asked.
"A little of both, please. Thank you."
With small shiny metal tongs, he took a small cube of sugar from the matching sugar bowl and dropped it into the second mug, adding a little cream from the matching creamer before pouring in the coffee.
"Please excuse me, but, when you asked me out for coffee, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."
"What did you have in mind?" he asked, handing her the cup before gesturing to the couch.
Monica sat on the obviously-expensive leather couch, waiting for him to join her before continuing.
"I guess I just figured we'd go out to Starbucks or something and grab a cup," she explained. "This," she gestured to the room and situation as a whole, "Didn't even enter my mind."
"Well," he smiled, "Why go to Starbucks when you can bring Starbucks to you?"
She shrugged, "I guess." She carefully sipped her hot coffee, unsure of what to say next.
"My security people get freaked if I want to go anywhere impromptu," he explained. "Besides, this way, we're not on display."
"True," she agreed.
"So," he asked, changing the subject, "What kind of men do you usually date?"
"Oh, I don't know," she replied. "I don't really have a 'type', if that's what you're asking."
A grin accompanied his nod.
She turned the table on him, so to speak. "What about you?"
"Well, I don't really date men," he joked, to which she chuckled. "I guess I don't really have a type either," he added seriously.
He watched as her eyes wandered, then fell on the foosball table. "You play?"
She smiled at getting caught. "I don't often, but I have been known to kick a few butts." She wondered if such language around the president was appropriate. "Sorry," she apologized.
"For what?" he asked, confused.
"For that remark."
"Why?" he asked with a smile. "Were you lying?"
"No." She couldn't help but smirk. "I just-- I don't know what I can and can't say here."
He shook his head, "Don't think of me as the president," he told her. "Think of me as any other guy."
"Kinda hard," she told him. "You are the president."
Smiling, he stood. "I'll play you," he suggested, tapping the table as he moved to the far side.
"Is it customary to let the president win?" she asked as she joined him.
"Throw the game?" he asked, and she nodded. "Some do, but I can usually tell when someone is holding back."
"So," she asked as she gave a few handles a twist, "I should not purposefully lose to you?"
He shrugged, "I'll be able to tell, probably, if you do."
"So, you won't have secret service throw me out if I win?"
He chuckled. "Pretty confident, aren't you?"
Her smile widened. "What can I say?" she asked rhetorically. "I'm good!"
He held up the small ping-pong-sized foosball, "We'll just see, won't we?"
He tossed the ball into play, immediately seeing Monica's competitive side kick in.
***
--Monica raised her hands in victory, gloating over her latest goal. "One more goal and I win. Again!"
Chandler kept his concentration on the game, trying his best to score at least one goal, this 'friendly' game showing him just how bad he really was at this particular table sport.
"Score and game!" Monica announced triumphantly. "You suck!"
He laughed. "I think everyone around me is either throwing games big time, or they all suck worse than I do!"
"I'm willing to guess a little of both," she chuckled, but the smile on her face soon dropped.
He could see the change in her demeanor. "Sure glad we didn't have a bet going or something! I could've lost a lot of money to you tonight!" Her smile returned. "This was fun," he stated softly, his smile slight but genuine.
"Yeah," she agreed. "I had fun too."
"So, look, um… how do you feel about big parties?"
"Big parties?" she questioned.
"Yeah. I have this-- well, this thing I have to do next week. Lots of diplomats and such. Should be a regular snooze-fest," he admitted with a smile. "Would you maybe be interested in being my date?"
Her brow furrowed. "You're asking me out on another date?"
He chuckled. "Did I not do it right?"
"No, no," she shook her head. "It's not that! I guess I'm just… surprised."
"Why?"
"Well, I creamed you in foosball for one!"
"True," he acknowledged, "But I thoroughly enjoyed loosing to you," he added with a grin.
"Are you a masochist or something?" she asked with a smirk.
"If being in your company is a kind of pain, then yes, I am."
Her gaze dropped to the floor as she shook her head just slightly. "Do you have any idea how sweet and, well, corny that was?"
"Well, I was just going for sweet," he muttered humorously. "Is that a yes?"
"Would I have to, do anything special?" she asked.
"My secretary will walk you through everything," he informed. "Phoebe Buffay. She'll call you within the next couple days."
She nodded. "Alright…"
TBC
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