A/N: I am truly overwhelmed and touched by the wonderful reviews, and by all of you who took the chance on this fic. Thanks so much! I wish I had the time to reply, but any spare time has been spent actually writing, lol. Christmas break is coming soon, so hopefully I'll have more time for everything. Now, here is chapter 2!

Chapter 2: Chicken with Stuff

President Jane sat alone in his bedroom, contemplating the evening he'd just spent. He was sprawled in his favorite armchair looking decidedly un-presidential. His stocking feet rested on the footstool, his suit coat and vest gone, his tie untied and hanging loosely from his neck. He leaned his head back, physically and mentally exhausted, though he knew if he went to bed, he wouldn't be able to sleep.

He'd finally signed Angela's bill into law. Because of this, more policemen would be out on the street. The hands of law enforcement would be more loosely tied when dealing with murderers, like the one who had killed his wife. He should feel happy, or at the very least, relieved. Instead, he kept thinking of Teresa Lisbon, and feeling inordinately guilty because of it.

He toyed with his wedding band. Ten years was a long time to be without female companionship. He'd lived like a monk in that way, his obsessions with being a father and moving up the political ladder to get this bill passed taking precedence over his own personal needs, in effect, like his religion. After a couple of years, he rarely even thought about women, though Mashburn was delighted to update him on the number of pairs of panties Jane had received in the mail each month, along with phone numbers, marriage proposals, and offers to end his celibacy, from both women and men. Over the years, Walter had attempted unsuccessfully to set him up, or encourage him to at least hire someone to give poor Little Patrick some freakin' relief.

It's not normal, Mashburn had said, on numerous occasions. Man wasn't meant to hide it under a bushel, Patrick. It really is true what they say about using it or losing it. What if you do finally-miracle of miracles-find a lady you're interested in and you can't get it up? My God, you'll be screwed up for life…

To which Jane would reply: It's too late now, Walter; I'm already screwed up.

Sitting in his armchair in the White House trying to reconcile his guilt to his desire only proved it.

A soft tap on his door had him sitting upright, only to find that it was Charlotte, clad in Hello Kitty sleep pants and a Paramour t-shirt, her hair in a messy bun and her face scrubbed clean of makeup. He had to smile at how much they were alike, living contradictions, the both of them.

"Why are you still up so late on a school night?" he asked, glancing at the digital clock by his bed. It was almost one a.m.

She climbed into his lap like she'd done since she could crawl, and he gathered her into his arms. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the comforting strength of his heartbeat, and he breathed in her powdery scent that almost allowed him to imagine she was still a little girl slathered in baby lotion after a bath.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. I got up for a drink water, and I saw your light on. I thought you might need to talk."

She felt his chuckle vibrate through his chest. "Have you been into the cappuccino machine again?"

Charlotte hated that she could never fool him and she frowned in annoyance. Unlike with most "normal" fathers, she could never lie to him. Ever. He always knew it, always knew when she was keeping something from him, too. And since he'd been involved in politics since her mother died when she was eight, she almost always had a Secret Service agent or some sort of bodyguard monitoring her from afar, so he invariably knew her business, even when he wasn't there. She understood his over-protectiveness, but it was damned annoying, and did nothing for her social life.

If she didn't love him so much, she'd absolutely despise him.

"Yeah, but seriously, Dad. Are you okay?"

"Of course, sweetheart," he said kissing the top of her blond head. "It was just an emotional night."

"You didn't cry in front of everyone, did you?" she asked, horrified at the thought, her mind already dwelling on the kids who might make fun after seeing her dad cry on television.

Jane grinned.

"No; I kept it together, though no one was more surprised by that than me."

"Hmm…well, congratulations. I'm sure this will end up helping a lot of people."

"That's the hope."

There was a pause, and for a moment Jane wondered if his daughter had fallen asleep in his lap—an occasion that hadn't occurred since she was very little. But then she whispered: "Mom would be very proud of you."

He swallowed over the sudden lump in his throat.

"Not half as proud as she would be of you."

He held her tightly, and this time he couldn't help the single tear that slipped down his face to land unnoticed in her soft hair. He honestly didn't know what kind of man he would have become had he lost Charlotte too, had she been with Angela when she was raped and murdered while jogging on the beach that night. Had he not had Charlotte to live for, hadn't had friends like Walter Mashburn to get him through, he would have easily fallen into a world where he was either consumed with vengeance, or where he would have been unable to live at all.

But as he had done for the last ten years, he summoned the strength to regain control of himself, finding comfort in planting another kiss on her sweet-smelling head.

"What did you need fifty bucks for, Charlotte?"

But his little girl was sound asleep, and he smiled contentedly, appreciating the sound of her deep breathing, and the fact that she'd gotten out of answering his question once again. When his arms and legs began to tingle from holding her so long, he rose with her, still in his arms, and, for the hundredth time since she was born, carried his sleeping child to her bed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Where's your head this morning, Patrick?" asked Masburn the next morning. They had about five minutes until his daily staff briefing, and the early meeting with the Chinese ambassador had gone well, though Mashburn could tell the president had been a bit distracted.

"When does the contingent from the CBI leave?" Jane asked suddenly.

"What?" Sitting at his usual place on a couch in the Oval Office, Mashburn chuckled. "I knew it!"

"Shut the hell up and answer my question, Walter."

"So which is it, Mr. President? Shut the hell up or answer your question?"

Jane shot him a look that would make a lesser man tremble, but Mashburn only grinned. He held up a hand in surrender. "Okay, finger off the nuke button. All the guests from last night have hotel rooms booked through tonight. They leave tomorrow morning, I believe."

Jane felt his heart thump. He had time.

"Get me Teresa Lisbon's phone number."

"Patrick—"

Jane knew he was about to get an earful of Mashburn's friendly advice, but he definitely didn't want to hear it. He held up a staying hand.

"Just do it. Before I lose my goddamn nerve," he finished softly, and Mashburn's smile faded somewhat. This was a huge step for his friend, and while he would have loved to tease him mercilessly about it, he realized his joking could cause him to change his mind. The teasing could come later.

Mashburn rose from the couch. "As you wish, Mr. President," he said, and left the room to find someone who could track down that information.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon stepped out of the shower, drying off with the expensive hotel bath sheet before wrapping herself in the fluffy hotel robe. She had slept in, after tossing and turning most of the night, and the rest of her CBI team had already left to do some sightseeing. She'd been to DC a couple of times, and she planned to take a walk and revisit the monuments on the National Mall, but she supposed now she'd be doing it alone.

As she combed out her long, wet hair, her eyes alighted on the pen the president had given her last night. She relived the moment, her thoughts dwelling on the instant his hand had taken hers. His had been very warm against her cool one, and she'd felt an unmistakable spark between them. She set down her comb and picked up the pen from the vanity. He'd held this in his hand, used it to sign an historic law. And he'd given it to her.

She couldn't for the life of her understand why. She'd had nothing to do with getting the bill passed. She'd just been doing her job back in California, but she'd be lying if she said his praise and the admiration in his eyes over the Red John capture wasn't flattering. Being flown to Washington, all expenses paid, and invited to the White House for a fancy reception had been honor enough—so why the pen too? She didn't want to believe it was because he had sensed something between them too. Because that would be too hard to believe, too good to be true, fantasy tale worth of Cinderella.

Her cell phone rang and she moved to the bed to answer it.

"Lisbon."

"Hello, Agent Lisbon," said a voice that seemed beautifully familiar. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Hello, uh…Mr. President?" She felt a wave of warmth engulf her and she touched her hair self-consciously, as if embarrassed to be caught talking to the president in a robe with wet hair.

Then she realized an important point, and her brow furrowed. "Why do you have Van Pelt's phone?"

There was laughter now on the line and a muffled struggle for the phone. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of Grace Van Pelt's voice.

"Wayne! Stop that. Gimme the damn phone!"

She heard Rigsby chuckling in the background. "Sorry, Boss!" he was saying. Lisbon's face flushed in disappointed embarrassment.

"Sorry, Boss," Van Pelt repeated. "Wayne's been practicing his President Jane imitation. He thought it would be funny to test it out on you. Immature, I know."

"Yeah," Lisbon replied, trying to sound nonchalant, while inside she tried to calm her churning emotions. "That was hilarious. Tell him not to quit his day job."

"Sorry. Anyway, we were wondering if you feel like meeting us later for lunch. We just finished our tour of the National Archives."

"Sure. Where do you want to eat?"

They arranged to meet at a restaurant down the street from the hotel at noon, and then Lisbon hung up, feeling out of sorts. Part of her wanted to kill Rigsby for his little prank, part of her wondered why it had bothered her so much. She'd just turned on the hair dryer when her phone rang again. She reached for it without looking at the number.

"Did you forget something?" she asked, figuring it was Van Pelt.

"I don't think so," said the president's voice dryly. "Did you?"

She sighed impatiently, hating how her heart lurched once more, annoyed that even an imitation of his voice could stir her so easily.

"Rigsby, this isn't funny. Seriously. Unless you want desk duty for the next month, you'd better—"

"This isn't Rigsby. It's the President."

"Sure. Right. I'm hanging up now." And she did.

A moment later, the phone rang yet again. This time she glanced at the number, startled to see it was unknown, though it had a D.C. area code. A strong feeling of foreboding slithered down her spine. She shivered, and, closing her eyes, reached for the phone as if it were a snake.

"Agent Lisbon," she answered, so hesitantly it sounded like a question.

"Are you sure?" replied President Jane in amusement.

She swallowed hard. "Uh, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I thought—never mind." She grimaced in mortification and sat heavily on the bed. "How may I help you, Mr. President?"

She imagined his stunning smile at the other end of the line, could even hear it in his voice. "I hear you're leaving tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. We have an eight a.m. flight."

"What would you say to extending your trip a few days?"

Lisbon was at a loss. What the hell? "I don't know, sir. Did you want me for something…specific?"

She could have bitten her tongue off for how husky her voice sounded, how her choice of words seemed just a bit…suggestive. She wished the floor would open up and—

The president chuckled, and it wasn't her imagination that his voice was low and sexy. "I certainly do, Agent Lisbon." He cleared his throat then, as if coming to his senses.

Good. Someone needed to in this crazy conversation.

In a much more presidential voice he said, "It's regarding one of the requirements of my new crime law. Each state must have a task force to zero in on the problems of their state, to find how best to spend the allocations for the law. Since I happen to have members of the best in law enforcement from California, I thought I could save the taxpayers some money and interview you to be on the task force. I mean, since you're uh, already here and all…"

Did he seem just a little uncertain at the end there? she wondered. Almost like a nervous teenager asking a girl out on a-no, Teresa, you're out of your freakin' mind.

"Agent Lisbon?"

Her stunned silence must have lasted longer than normal.

"Sure!" she said suddenly, cringing at how her voice had come out much louder than she'd intended. "I mean, I would be honored, Mr. President. I'll just have to consult my boss and—"

"Already done."

"What?"

"Your boss. Agent Minnelli. I already asked if I could have you for a few more days."

"Oh."

She didn't know how she felt about that. It seemed to her the president should have had the courtesy to ask her first before going over her head to the boss.

"You're mad," he said. How could he tell that from one word?

"No. No, of course not. I'm honored, like I—"

"You sound mad."

Lisbon suddenly felt desperate, like something she dearly wanted was slipping away.

"I'm not mad, sir."

"Are you arguing with the President of the United States?"

His lofty tone made her smile. He was teasing her.

"No, sir."

He sighed. "Seriously though, Agent Lisbon, If you don't want to do this, I certainly understand. You should feel under no obligation to do this for me; I know you must be a very busy lady, what with catching serial killers and all."

Her smile widened. "I'm not too busy for you, Mr. President. Where and when do you want me?"

Again with her unfortunate word choices. She flushed, and her heartbeat quickened.

"I'll send a car for you in an hour," he said, and it wasn't her imagination that his voice had broken just a little before he hung up.

She called Van Pelt. Her afternoon plans had definitely changed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane swiveled his desk chair to stare blindly out the windows of the Oval Office. He'd asked a girl to come over. Scratch that—a woman. A beautiful, sexy woman whom he knew must also be very strong and skilled with a gun. He took out his white handkerchief and wiped his damp brow, wondering if she thought he was a fool after that torturous conversation.

Did she see him as some sort of pervert, using his position of power to get her over here and into his bed? He wondered then if that was what he was doing. After all, he hadn't come right out and told her that he wanted to get to know her better, to see if the instant attraction he'd felt for her stood the test of the light of day.

Instead, he'd resorted to subterfuge to get her to come back to the White House. That stuff about her being on the task force had been totally off the cuff. He'd lost his nerve at the last minute, his fingers fiddling unconsciously with his wedding band.

Dammit.

He glanced at his watch.

She would be here in an hour. Shit.

He swiveled back around and pressed the intercom button on the desk phone.

"Brenda, I don't care what you have to do, clear my schedule from twelve to one."

"But sir, you have the children's choir in the Blue Room."

Shit, he thought again.

"Okay, twelve-thirty to one. But I'll need a car sent to pick up Agent Teresa Lisbon at the St. Regis…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon could barely contain her excitement as she was led by a presidential staffer to the Oval Office. The president wasn't there yet, and she had a moment alone to try to compose herself. She looked around the famous room in awe, turning a full circle to take it all in. And then from a side door that seemed almost invisible before, President Jane entered his office.

He paused in what seemed like surprise, his blue-green gaze sweeping her body from head to toe, just like he had done the night before. Lisbon tried her best not to fidget. She was wearing one of her conservative pantsuits with a simple white blouse. She hadn't expected to visit the White House beyond last night, so she hadn't brought anything to wear that was special besides her dress from the night before, packing only typical work attire and a pair of jeans. If she was in fact staying a few days longer, she would have to find the time to go to a department store.

President Jane, on the other hand, was wearing one of the impeccable three-piece suits he was known for, his pale green tie complimenting his amazing eyes. She was struck again by how impossibly handsome he was, and she resisted patting her hair self-consciously. She hadn't had the time to properly straighten it, so it hung in natural waves about her shoulders. She felt a bit like a little brown wren next to a glorious peacock.

These incongruous thoughts raced through her mind as they stood a moment, silently appraising one another. Then Jane cleared his throat and walked closer to greet her properly, putting out his hand to take hers. The jolt of awareness that raced through their joined hands was still there, even stronger than last night.

"I'm so glad you could come," said Jane, looking deeply into her eyes as he said it.

"Me too," she said, slightly dazed.

He must have realized he'd been holding her hand much longer than was politely necessary, and he released it, taking a safe step back.

"I do have one thing to do before we talk. I hope you don't mind."

With that captivating grin of his, she wouldn't have minded anything.

"Of course not."

"Good. So, did you enjoy the reception last night? The food good and all?"

"Yes. It was wonderful."
"Glad to hear it. Sometimes the food at these things is barely edible. It's either chicken with stuff or beef with stuff, or some mystery meat that you take your life into your own hands by eating."

She grinned, loving how normal he seemed. "I know what you mean."

"And what exactly is that stuff, anyway? I'm thinking of forming a task force to look into that."

"I'm sure that would be tax money well spent," she said gravely.

"Well, you know the first thing I did when I became president, don't you? I made an Executive Order that if we ever had chicken with stuff on the menu, I'd have the chef put on trial for treason. So far, there have been no arrests."

"Good news for the chefs."

"Yes."

"And tell me, Agent Lisbon—say, may I call you Teresa?"

"Of course, sir."

"Good. Tell me, Teresa, do you like dessert? You're not one of those women who eats only rabbit food are you?"

"No, sir. I'm actually a pepperoni pizza kind of girl—with a side salad just to balance things out."

Jane grinned. "I suppose I could have guessed that, your being from Chicago. But let me guess your favorite dessert."

It was well-known how good the president was at reading people, at seeming to see their innermost thoughts and desires. This was probably why he might well bring peace to the Middle East, she thought in amusement.

"Shoot," said Lisbon, a bit amazed she was standing in the Oval Office talking food with the President of the United States.

"Hot fudge sundaes."

Her jaw dropped. He'd guessed it in one.

"I take it I hit the target?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she remembered her late-night room service order. "Have you been having me watched?"

"Of course not," he said, with just enough mystery to doubt that he was kidding.

A knock came on the main door, and the president's Chief of Staff appeared.

"You ready, Mr. President?" he asked with suitable respect, though Mashburn's eyes sparkled at the picture they made.

"Yes. You remember Agent Lisbon?"

"Of course," said Mashburn, approaching her to shake her hand. "From the great State of California. We met briefly last night."

"Yes, sir. Good to see you again."

"Likewise," said Mashburn. He turned once more to Jane.

"The kids are waiting for you, Mr. President," he said.

"Well, we can't have that. After you, Agent Lisbon."

She walked back toward the main entrance of the room, and behind her back, Mashburn blatantly stared at her behind, giving Jane the okay sign with his fingers.

Stop, mouthed Jane, but his smile widened as he followed Lisbon out of his office, forcing his eyes upward.

The Blue Room housed the official indoor White House Christmas tree, and stood eighteen feet tall, festooned this year with ornaments representing every state's official flower. Around the foot of the tree stood a group of perhaps thirty elementary aged children, all clad in red choir robes. Their smiling teacher stood beside them, hushing her charges as the president was announced.

The children began singing "O Holy Night" with voices so pure it brought tears to Lisbon's eyes. They sang about three songs, and afterward, Jane went directly to the children, spending at least fifteen minutes squatting down and shaking each little hand, exchanging a teasing or complimentary word, genuinely caring about what they said in reply. He laughed frequently, and Lisbon could tell what a wonderful father he must be.

Back in the Oval Office, he gestured that she sit on a couch, while he faced her on an opposing one.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asked her, his eyes going to the golden cross she wore around her neck. He'd noticed how she'd touched it as the children sang "Silent Night."

"It was beautiful," she said sincerely.

"I have to say, I love Christmas," he told her. "Mainly because of Charlotte, I suppose. I love playing Santa Claus, and I admit to going overboard with the gifts sometimes."

"I've already seen that first hand," she replied dryly. "Thank you for the pen, last night. It was an unexpected honor. I'll treasure it."

"My pleasure."

Someday he would like to recreate that expression of surprise and pleasure on her face when he'd placed the pen unexpectedly in her hand. He felt warm just imagining it.

"Do you?" he asked softly.

"What?"

"Love Christmas?"

He saw a brief flash of pain in her eyes, but she covered it immediately. "I don't like the commercialism," she replied honestly.

He nodded in understanding, but he felt the strange need to make her love the holiday as much as he did.

"Well, there's nothing like Christmas in the White House to make you appreciate it. We have seven Christmas trees in this place."

"Seven?"

"Well, not counting the tree-asaurus in the front yard."

She smiled, having seen it lit up the night before. "It's beautiful."

"Yes, it is," he said, and she had the funny feeling he wasn't just talking about the tree. "Now," he said, fearing he'd gone dangerously off track, "I suppose you're wondering why I called you here today…"

They spent the next thirty minutes talking about task forces and California law enforcement, but Lisbon wondered if she'd remember a word they'd said. She jumped a little when another quick knock came at his door before Walter Mashburn walked right in. Jane frowned at the interruption; he'd been enjoying himself immensely. But naturally, there was yet another briefing he had to attend.

"I apologize," Jane said. "Duty calls. But I hope you will decide to stay a little longer, so we can flesh out the details of the task force."

"Certainly Mr. President. I'm looking forward to it." They rose from their respective couches.

Over her head, Jane met Mashburn's eyes meaningfully, and with a knowing smirk, his friend shut the door again.

"And since you'll be here over the weekend…how would you feel about coming to the Christmas Ball here at the White House Saturday night? As my special guest."

Her throat went dry. "Are you…asking me out?" she dared to ask.

She was surprised to see a hint of color flushing his cheeks.

"I uh, suppose I am."

"Will the food be good?" she asked, emboldened by the realization that she had the power to make the president blush.

"Nothing will have stuff with it, Scout's honor."

The mischief in his eyes made her doubt he was ever a Boy Scout, however.

"Then I would be happy to accept, Mr. President."

This time when he took her hand, he purposefully held it longer than he should have.

"My friends call me Patrick, Teresa," he told her, and he gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

A/N: I decided to make this also a little bit of a Christmas fic; hope you don't mind. Thank you so much for reading.