A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading! I'm sure a new chapter won't be objected. 😉

Chapter 2

There had been a brief, very fleeting, panic feeling in Chandler's breast.

Did she know who he was? Had she forgotten? Granted, it had been years, and while he had been her brother's college roommate, he supposed she could have written him off. After all, he and Ross had drifted apart after graduation. And the last time he saw Monica was at Ross and Carol's wedding.

He might as well be a stranger now to her.

He looked down to see his hand was still engulfed with hers, and her voice… melodious and light as she introduced herself. She didn't give any sign that she knew him, and he didn't notice any recognition in her countenance. Did he change that much? Well, he was wearing a suit and tie and not the rolled-up sleeve shirts and straight leg jeans from his early youthful days. Furthermore, his hair was a lot tamer and less wild than how he used to wear it. Anyone who knew him would be astonished to see the wise-cracking goofball in a high-rise office.

And Monica certainly changed.

"Chandler Bing," he greeted, mentally high fiving himself for how steady and collected he sounded. Not a total mess that was currently ravaging him internally. "Please take a seat."

She did and he followed suit. Should I tell her that I know her? That we know each other? Or should I play it off nonchalantly? Two indifferent strangers meeting for an interview and nothing more. That might be better than to stir up the memory wagon and have her get upset.

He couldn't remember if she was interested in this field. He thought she was going to school for… he was drawing a blank. Hey, genius. How about you look at her resume?

It was a quick glimpse and not long enough to register what school she went to. This was what he got for not reading ahead of time, and just winging it for these interviews.

But what if she feels insulted you don't remember her? Do you really want to be that jerk? Say something!

"Uh, Geller, huh?" he said casually. "I-I knew a Geller. Actually, I knew a couple of Gellers—"

"I would think so," she interrupted, her lips stretching wider. "It's good to see you again, Chandler. Been a while too. Since my brother's—"

"Wedding!" he exclaimed, making her jump in her seat. Lowering his voice, he went on, "Yes, the wedding. How is Ross and Carol?"

"Ross is good. Carol's fine. Um, well, they got a divorce four years ago." She ran her hand through her hair, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear. "Although, it might not be an ideal topic for an interview."

"Interview, right! Right. That's why you're here and why I'm here." Chandler inwardly winced. Nice, Bing. "Let's talk about the job and why you want to work here." He pushed his chair out to give himself room to cross his leg. Holding up her resume, he scanned it when he blurted: "Cooking!"

Her brow arched quizzically at the outburst. Chandler swallowed nervously. "Sorry. I saw—I mean, you wanted to be a chef. Last I checked, being assistant to the vice president has severe lack of culinary art skills to do it."

Monica's hands twitched in her lap. "Right. I know. It's just there hasn't been that much opportunity. At least none interested in hiring now. And the jobs I had held, I was feeling stuck and needed a new direction."

He could see. She had been a waitress at the last couple of restaurants and dishwasher at another. Nothing, chef or cook related to her past experiences. There was prep handler, which he had no clue what the hell that meant. Was that cooking?

"I did try to start a catering business. If no one wanted to hire me to cook, then I'll do it myself. Unfortunately, that didn't pan out…"

Chandler nodded, understanding that sentiment. He was a little flabbergasted and surprised that Mrs. White included Monica as a candidate. There was nothing listed here that would apply to an office setting. Goes to show how no one is knocking down the door for this job. Literally anyone with the skillset to type up a resume has a good shot. He couldn't see how Monica would be remotely interested in this job. Even if she was having a difficult time finding any chef job, it was a far cry from the industry itself.

"…honestly, I didn't know this was your company. I didn't until my interview with Mrs. White. Congrats by the way. Vice president… pretty impressive!"

"Thanks," he said softly, uncrossing his leg. Then his forehead creased at what she said. "You knew? And you still want the job?"

There must have been something in his tone that had her look him directly in the eye. "Yes. I think—no, I know—I would be a good fit. In fact, being an assistant is not as different as being a chef. I can work well under pressure. I actually thrive under pressure. Deadlines to meet? No problem! Unexpected changes? I can adapt on the spot. Organization is key and I have developed my own system that has served me well. You will always know when you have a meeting—planned or unplanned—I will make sure it fits in your schedule. I can keep very detailed notes, and you have a team to manage—right? I can ensure you have sufficient time to meet with each person in your department. I can also keep the people who annoy you to interactions that are necessary: work and personal. So, you can see my experience in the kitchen can be transferred to the corporate world."

She hadn't taken a breath, not one, during her speech. Chandler didn't doubt she could deliver what she promised. Her organization system was screaming back to him, which a perfunctory glance would show he had subconsciously kept some of those ideas in his own filing structure. If there was a person in the world who knew how to organize it was clearly Monica Geller. But he caught himself wavering at the notion of her being an assistant. She couldn't possibly know that this wasn't as good an idea she believed it to be.

This job will change her and not in a good way. Despite the stubborn determination affixed on her visage, there was an almost silent challenge daring him to contradict her. He heard that most kitchens would run like a military boot camp, so he could easily see Monica running a tight ship, possibly to the chagrin of others.

But there was something else that bothered him. It might have been a long time since he was in the same room as her, yet the longer he was in her presence, he started to pick up on the tiny tells that she was concealing something.

The corners of her mouth had a pinched strain on them; the same with her eyes and even the whites of her knuckles stood out by the way she interlocked her fingers.

Desperation. She needed this job, but she wasn't going to admit it. Again, it was the infamous Geller pride that was getting in her way. How often did he go through with that with Ross over and over? But this was Monica, not Ross. Chandler might not have been familiar with the food scene in terms of job demand, but he had to surmise that Monica saw no other choice in her job search.

He wanted to ask. To pry and find out more about why here and him and it was on the tip of his tongue… But he chomped down on the impulse. It wasn't his place, his business to make that request. It had been seven years since they saw each other, and it wasn't like they were friends… not anymore.

That was a bitter pill to swallow. Though he had no one to blame except himself.

With Ross it hadn't been on bad terms—just drifting away as college friends do when real life takes over. With Monica?

Chandler hadn't realized how much he missed her or how he wanted to find out everything that he missed about her until this very moment sitting across from her. Regardless of that yearning, Chandler couldn't condemn her to working here. He wouldn't be able to live with himself to put her through that misery.

"Monica," he began, "it's really good to see you. Really. But you can't expect me to believe you would be happy working as my assistant. Didn't you always want to have your own restaurant?" He shook his head. "I don't think this is quite the fit for you. I'm sorry—"

"Chandler."

His name hung in the air, a punctuated statement that had him meeting her gaze once more. Earlier she had been reticent, but now her guard had these tiny fractures, a glimpse into the suspicions that he already had. The cobalt blue orbs contained a weariness, the kind of exhaustion that would keep a person awake at night. Whatever was going on with her… Monica was resigned that she was here, coming to him. Yes, he was the last person she probably wanted to see, but she was there, and she had resolved to stay and see this interview to the end.

"Chandler," she repeated, a sense of purpose resonating. "Let me stop you. I know I'm breaking interview etiquette with what I'm about to say but hear me out. I know you don't have to hire me. I'm not asking that you have to. I'm well aware we haven't seen each other God knows how long and I'm not asking for any favors because you were my fri—my brother's roommate," she amended. "I'm grateful I got this far. Your assistant, Mrs. White, didn't mince words and she still passed me forward to you. Clearly, she thought I had a chance. Please don't base this on the fact we knew each other."

Taking a deep breath, Monica continued. "I know it seems odd I'm applying to work for you considering my background. I get it. All I ask is to give me a chance—to consider me like any other applicant. Just think about it. And if you still don't think I'm not qualified, then okay. I'll accept that. Just don't dismiss me yet… please."

That faint utterance of "please" gave Chandler pause. It made his blood shiver as he recalled a similar plea, and it took all his willpower not to go down that road. Running a hand through his hair, he replied, "It's not that I don't think you're not qualified. I think you might be overqualified. But Monica, you don't want to work here."

Her posture changed—a sharp reaction as her jaw clenched, her brows knitted in a glare. "What? You work here."

He sighed jadedly. "Trust me, I'm not kidding. It may not look it but this place… this job isn't what you think. It's a never-ending pitfall. There is no escape from its slow death."

Monica stared incredulously, then she sat up. "Chandler, is this really about the job or something else?" He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand to stop him. "Forget it." She stood up and held her hand out to him. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Bing. I'll see myself out."

Chandler's jaw went slack. No, no. She can't leave like this. Before she reached the door, he called out:

"Monica! Wait!"

That stopped her as she turned on her heel to look at him.

"If I-I were to hire you, and I mean if… do you plan to keep looking to be a chef?"

Her nose wrinkled as she contemplated if this was a trick question or not. Finally, she exhaled. "Yes. But I promise, absolutely promise, that I will tell you before I take a new job. I won't leave you in the lurch."

It may not have been intended as a slight, but Chandler didn't care. A grin slowly appeared on his face. It gave him some relief that she hadn't given up on her dream. He believed her. Way more than he believed himself. And, besides, working with her… maybe they could renew their friendship.

Monica smiled back and his heart skipped. It was then that everything felt as it should have been. The wheels were spinning, and another definitive moment was created.

xxXXxx

After the last person left, Chandler made his decision. He had made his decision hours ago, but it was a formality he had to keep. After all, he did promise, and he wasn't going to break his word to her. Even Mrs. White was pleased with his choice. He detected a slight semblance of a smile to show her approval. That or she was feeling a little constipated. He could never tell—she was a tough egg to crack.

He waited for the next day to call Monica to tell her she got the job. He did have to pull the phone back to keep his eardrum from bursting.

"You won't regret picking me, Chandler!" she told him. "Thank you!"

"Well, the choice was pretty obvious after meeting everyone. No one else could pull off dressing as Dolly Parton from 9 to 5."

There was a beat, followed with a wary, "You went to the Moondance Diner?"

It had been a spur of the moment visit last night. After he wrapped up the interviews, he needed fresh air to replace the brain cells lost. He remembered the name of the diner from Monica's resume, and he was feeling hungry and figured why not? It also gave him a chance to see what she had been up to, to help satisfy his curiosity. What he saw… it was a damn shame he wasn't around when she worked there. He had to keep biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, especially when he inadvertently discovered the jukebox Holy Grail.

Monica had to sing and dance along?! It was bad enough that the poor workers were dressed as caricatures from a bygone era, but he did find a picture of Monica on the wall in her own pathetic costume. The big, curly blonde wig, the tight pink sweater, the enormous fake boobs, and those thick-framed glasses?! Chandler couldn't fault her for wanting to leave, but man, he wished he was there to see it all in its humiliating glory.

"I was nearby, and I couldn't resist the greasy smell of fried food for my clogged arteries. Anyways, did I forget to mention that they completely stole the idea for our assistant uniforms? We're going to have to sue them."

She laughed. "So, your workplace also happens to be a cheap knock-off version of Happy Days?"

"Touché." He grinned. "But seriously, you don't have to wear the wig and glasses if it helps."

"No… just the tiny sweater and fake boobs?" she deadpanned. "By the way, those weren't exactly comfortable. If you want me to work for you, then it's only fair you wear them too."

"Yeah… I don't have the figure for it." They chuckled and Chandler had to admit it felt good to hear that sound again. The teasing and bantering just like the old days. It was familiar and natural like no time had passed at all.

"I missed your jokes and sense of humor," Monica said suddenly. "Thank you, Chandler. You have no idea…" Her tone seemed to be laden with an unspeakable emotion and he had the sense she was hiding something.

Once more, Chandler hesitated. The last place of employment she had listed on her resume was another restaurant, Allesandro's. The dates she worked there showed was for a month and her job title was "Kitchen Manager." At some point, she had been in the kitchen. He was assuming based on the name that was what it was. But there was something else that was gnawing at him.

He knew Allesandro's well. That was where his company would have lunch and dinner meetings. For the longest time, their food was awful. He hated having to meet clients there, but his boss Doug had worked out a discount deal with the owner and it was expected for Chandler and others to go there. Then one day the food didn't suck. He didn't have to discreetly spit it out or move it around his plate. It was a miracle! But the deliciousness eventually ran out. The crap came back and to learn that Monica had worked there and during the period with the good food?

It couldn't have been a coincidence.

But why would she leave if she was running the show?

He was certain Monica had her reasons. There could have been creative differences, or she really hated it and wanted to get out. At least she had the courage, unlike him. But she said she kept looking for a chef position and was unable to find one. Maybe Kitchen Manager wasn't a cook. Maybe she barked orders or was in charge of food purchasing or maintaining the cleanliness of the kitchen.

He couldn't get rid of the thought that there was something she wasn't saying, and he wanted to ask. Would he be breaking a social rule about past friends becoming reacquainted? Twirling his finger around the phone cord, Chandler's foot twitched anxiously. Licking his lips, he then cleared his throat.

"Um, Monica. Can I ask you about Allesandro's?"

Silence. Then: "I was ready to move on. That's all."

"Yeah, but that doesn't sound like—"

"I have to go. I'll see you on Monday."

"Wait! Don't hang up!" Chandler pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally shouting at himself. Why must he open his mouth? He had already hired her and there was no other reason to bring it up. If he had concerns, then he should have followed up before giving her the news. She didn't owe him any explanation.

Besides, he knew firsthand what it was like not wanting to share when you had your personal reasons.

xXx

After the dishes were cleaned, Chandler and Ross performed "Emotional Knapsack" to the bewildering gazes of all three Gellers and one Rachel Greene. The latter went home just as they started the third chorus—something about curfew and her parents. It wasn't even six. Either her parents were really overprotective and strict, or she really didn't want to listen to another chord.

Yet, Monica had accidentally slipped out that her friend was getting back with her boyfriend. That put an end to the impromptu performance and any other plans for that evening.

Chandler's fake ID was burning a hole in his wallet. Farewell, Roland Chang. We hardly knew you, he thought glumly.

Instead, he had a moping Ross to deal with. Chandler didn't feel fully equipped to handle the situation. He had never been in love with someone, at least not in the way Ross claimed to be. Of course, his experience with love was usually filled with disappointment, so he didn't see the big deal. Yet, Ross was beating himself up and kept mumbling about why Rachel and Chip couldn't be on a break or something.

Whatever the hell that means.

Anyways, he didn't get it. Rachel was still in high school, and she seemed kind of flighty. Not exactly a fairy tale romance. And not how he wanted to spend his holiday break comforting his lovelorn friend.

Who was currently keeping him awake with his intermittent snores and whimpers. Also… there was no damn air purifier to drown it out. Why must they have one in their dorm room and not here?! Yet, no amount of tossing or covering his ears with the pillow or pulling the sleeping bag over his head could stop the noises.

Giving up, Chandler decided he would go downstairs to either watch some TV or warm up some milk. But nature had to call to his disgruntled and sleep-deprived mind. Once he was done and washed his hands, Chandler glanced at his reflection and sighed.

His hair had lost the flock and was now disheveled with the strands flopping over his forehead, barely covering his eyes. He tried to smooth it back so it wouldn't block his vision.

Maybe I should lose the do, he thought. Retire it or something. Shrugging, he dried off his hands. It took him a while to grow it out to be able to style it, but the time he spent to get it just right… There was no way he was going to have the energy to keep doing that. Maybe I should just get it chopped off.

Future hair plans aside, Chandler made his way down the stairs, turned the corner, and halted. But as he was Chandler Bing, he had stumbled before coming to stop and alerting the other late-night visitor.

"Chandler!" Monica gasped.

He gave her a little wave. "Hi."

She was sitting on the couch, leaning over the side with a book clutched in her hands. Her blue eyes widened in shock, and they just stared at each other wordlessly.

Finally, he broke the stalemate by explaining what he was doing.

"So, um, I-I couldn't sleep and thought I might have—" Suddenly the idea of warm milk sounded too juvenile, and he was a college man. A grown up. Okay, in two years he would really be an adult, being able to do all the cool legal things like drink and buy alcohol. No need for stupid fake IDs… That still stung. Too soon.

Realizing she was expecting him to finish his story, Chandler coughed as he mumbled, "milk."

She frowned but then said, "I couldn't sleep either. I was reading to pass the time."

"Oh. Whatcha reading?"

Her face became red—a quick association he was becoming used to—as she fumbled to hide the book between the cushions. "N-N-Nothing in-interesting. It's pretty boring, actually. I was about to go back to bed before you came down..." She spoke so fast and her actions and behavior seemed to suggest the contrary. Intrigued, he was already moving towards the couch and arched his brow when Monica jumped on top of where she hid the book. "The-the kitchen is straight through there," she stammered, pointing nervously. "The pots are in the right cabinet next to the sink. The milk is… well, you know."

She did hear his mumbling. He waited for the jokes to begin, but she didn't. She just sat there, squirming uncomfortably, with these large eyes and tomato complexion. When he didn't leave, she started babbling. "Warm milk helps big time. You'll like it. It's the same milk I used to make your mac and cheese."

The righteous mac and cheese. A simple dish and yet hers was one of the best he had. He didn't know what to expect when she offered to make him that in lieu of the main menu for dinner. All Chandler knew was that one bite told him it didn't come from a box. In fact, it had been a long time since he had a homemade meal as good as that…

Wait. She was distracting him so he wouldn't find out what she was reading. On some level he knew he didn't care or that he didn't have any business asking, but the mystery of the hidden book got to him. He changed tactics.

"You know I'm not familiar with your kitchen's setup. I hate to accidentally make a bunch of loud noise and wake everyone up."

She giggled thinking he was kidding, but seeing his expression that said otherwise, Monica panicked. She scrambled off the couch and it was all he needed to dart over and pluck the book out from the cushion. Holding his prize, Chandler hooted with glee as she stood there dumbfounded.

"That wasn't fair," Monica pouted, crossing her arms.

"Now, let's see what this is—" The laughing tone dropped when he looked at the book cover. "Oh. I see you're a fan of hers." From the look of it, the book was well read if the creases on the cover and the dog-ear pages were anything to go by. He might not regularly speak with his mother, but she would find a way to insert herself in his life.

Chandler returned The Red Lady and the Rake to Monica who was now staring at his feet, her face still glowing.

"I-I'm not," she said quietly. "I borrowed it."

"It's okay." He could see the embarrassment radiating from Ross's sister and wanted to reassure her. Of course, knowing she was reading his mother's erotica had the tips of his ears burning too. "I get it. She's a popular writer."

"It's Rachel's!" she blurted. "It's really not mine. In fact, I'm…" Her voice trailed off and she became silent. No doubt wondering why she was insisting to him it wasn't hers. It wasn't like he was her brother or her parents who might have something to say about it.

"No, really," he told her. "I understand why her stories might be appealing."

But it was the way her eyes snapped up to his that he felt the color draining from his own face.

"No, no," he moaned, shaking his head. Monica's blue eyes were sparkling with delight. "Nora Bing is your mother?!" she exclaimed loudly.

"Shh!" he hushed her as Monica clapped her hand over her mouth. Then a little more quietly but louder than a whisper, she repeated: "Nora Bing is your mother!?"

Denial rose in his throat, getting ready to spew out. It wasn't the first time he did. Then it would follow with the other person accepting it because there was no way he could be Nora Bing's son. She was so… and he was so… And one could say Bing—an unusual name, yes—but maybe it could be a common name.

Wait… he never mentioned his last name. Ross didn't either and that was because he pinky swore he wouldn't share. Also, he was certain Ross didn't believe him. So, how did Monica know? He could still deny it.

"No, she's not."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Oh, she is so your mother. This is so wild!"

He gaped at her. "No, no. There is no relation of her and I—" Who was he kidding? "I have to ask… how did you know?"

"It was the way you said that I was a fan. If she wasn't your mom, then you wouldn't have reacted like that." Then off to the side, she murmured, "And I realized you're Channing."

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"N-nothing."

Chandler closed his eyes. "Of course, she would do something like this. Like what else can she do to make my life even more of a laughingstock?"

Wearily, he collapsed on the couch and covered his face. If only he could be lucky to have a black hole swallow him now. Instead, the cushion next to him sank and he felt a tentative hand patting his shoulder.

"Do-Do you want to talk about it?"

He lowered his hands to glance at her. "No offense, but I don't feel comfortable talking about that, especially with you being my roommate's sister."

Monica retracted her hand. "Oh. Right. Yeah. And we just met too."

He nodded.

"If you want to… later, then I can be a good listener."

She sounded sincere he gave her that. There was no mocking or judgment in her voice or face. Just compassion and understanding that he forgot she was a year younger than him. And her eyes were really, really blue.

Tearing his gaze away, Chandler was trying to remember why he didn't want to be alone with her. Furthermore, he didn't know why he wanted to talk to her about his mother.

"…it sounds like you could use a friend. You don't have to tell me the whole story. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. In fact, having warm milk sounds like a good idea."

He smiled in spite of himself as Monica got up and headed into the kitchen. He watched her as she flicked on the lights. After a moment, his feet decided to move, and he followed her.

xXx

Chandler took a deep breath. "Monica, you don't have to tell me the whole story. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. And… I can be a good listener."

The silence stretched on, and he worried she hung up until…

"Thank you, Chandler. Maybe later. And not over a phone."

He released a sigh in relief. He didn't screw it up. The offer was out there, and he hoped she would take it.

Just like he had.

TBC…