Monica - I'm not your Chandler

"Monica, you can't just go around screaming, that you're the first Lady," the President exclaimed, he held his arms out in a hopeless gesture, "I go out one day without reminding you where I am and you freak out!"

"I freaked out because I had no clue where you were, Alistair." She argued back, almost biting her tongue in fury. "And everyone I asked didn't know. Putain." 

"You should have called Abby, she knows where I am."

"She seems to know more about you than I am." Monica snapped back.

"Yeah, that's because she's my secretary," Bowmore realized how wrong that sounded after saying it. It sounded like an affair or something. Monica glared at him, he stepped forwards and lay his hand on her shoulder, she shrugged him off. "Baby, you know I didn't mean it like that, I know it sounded bad. What I meant is that she books everything for me, arranges everything, brings me my coffee..." Monica turned back to him. He was right, of couse Abby would know everything about him; she managed his whole schedule.

"Just, please give me a heads up if something in your sceduhle changes, d'accord?"

"Of course," he agreed. But he was still a bit angry; she had a point, he could have texted her that he'd be at the High School all day, but he'd honestly just forgotten. And she'd been the one to forget he was doing that at all, it was an important project to him...

He sat down on the edge of his bed to take his shoes off. Sometimes he missed wearing sneakers; shoes he could just kick off. But the expensive italien shoes he wore now meant business, he couldn't just throw them into the corner and call it a day. "You've been in a bad mood lately, huh?" Bowmore asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between him and his wife. 

"I'm not in a 'bad mood' Alistair," she answered. And for the first time in a while he realized just how tired his wife sounded. He turned around to look at her, pushing the shoes under the bed that he wouldn't step on them in case he got up in the middle of the night. "What's up, honey, you sound tired?"

"I am tired." She admitted. "I'm tired because I'm overworked," Bowmore tried to keep a straight face; he worked many more hours than her, and she wasn't plagued by bad dreams, "and I know you work alot more but you at least get acknowlaged for it. I ask you how the meetings on the climate or the history thing at the school went, and you never ask me how my projects are going. It's almost like you don't care." 

"Of course I care. But I just don't like to talk about work after I'm done."

"I get that, I don't really either. But what do we do instead, let's be honest," she through him an annoyed look and flipped up the blanket to slide under it, "all we do is argue." Alistair Bowmore put the palm of his hand on his forehead. He had had a splitting headache ever since he'd gotten in from work. 

"Okay," he started slowly, "I'm too exhausted to talk about this today-."

"You say that everytime!" She interrupted. 

President Bowmore saw no easy way out of the situation. The best chance was to give in. In a split second his heart had fed him a good answer, one that Monica would like. "How about I start coming to some of the events that you hold? Or accompany you to charity events?"

"Oh that would be wonderfull!" She took his face in her hands and gave him a kiss on both cheeks. He slumped back against the pillow. It was a good plan, and it wouldn't be bad for him either. Showing up to charity events could only be positive, and being seen as a strong married couple as well. It also might strengthen their relationship which had gotten quite frail since the Presidency had started. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had sex...

Monica glanced over at her husband. Was now the time to tell him about her pregnancy? He'd just promised to activly support her, to help her find her way as First Lady, to be her plus-one to her events too, just like she was to his. And she was already three-weeks along. After a second she realized it; they hadn't had intercourse in three weeks. She was a bit surprised. They'd used to do it often, at least for married couples, even at the start of his term they'd done it several times a week. So why had they stopped all of a sudden? Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones that were already starting to impact her mood, or perhaps the fact that he'd woken up hungover three days in a row, but the small fear of him cheating ignited in the pit of her stomache. He is the President, he probably has so many women who'd love to be with him...And that history teacher was totally blushing, I could tell from the video...merde. So Monica lay herself down in anxiety, which caused her to wake up on the wrong side of bed six-and-a-half hours later. 

Alistair Bowmore had fallen asleep the second his head had hit the pillow and his wife had fallen quite. It was another evening where it didn't cross his mind that he'd find himself with Hitler and Goebbels in the shortest time. 

This time he would realize that there was something terribly off about the dreams, how could he know things so exactly, things he'd never learned? The next dream would convince him to finally accept Monica's offer of finding him a therapist. She'd told him that he'd need one the first day of office, and he'd waved her idea away, saying he'd never needed one before, so why would he need one now?