{End of Sunday #3}

Wren has listened to the toasts - she might go on no sugar diet after all this adorbs verbal cuddles from the bride, groom, and friends and relatives - and after she's finally squeezed through the crowd of those wishing to congratulate Bri through tactile contact, also known as never ending hugs - and sobs, mostly from middle age female relatives - she finally faces the future Mrs Phil.

Bri squeezes her in steel shackles of her arms, still surprising in such small, nicely round looking chick, lifts her, and shakes her like a Babycakes Bottle. Couple of very loud Bri's cousins at the background are giving Phil a rib massage. Wren can hardly hear the bride's question through their roar.

"What happened with Grand Grumpus?!" Bri yells in Wren's ear.

"I don't know! But I need to talk to him!" Wren's lungs are no match for Southern exuberance. Bri makes the universal 'I can't hear you' sign, her cute plump hand curled into a trumpet near her ear.

"I need to talk to him!" Wren attempts again. "Where is his room?!" Bri's face is still expressing deafness. Wren gathers full lungs of air, and gives it her best. "I need to find John and kick his sexy arse!"

Of course that was exactly the moment when the noise in the room dropped just enough for everyone to hear her. At this stage of perpetual embarrassment, Wren properly has no energy to care anymore.

Bri gleefully tells Wren directions to Dr Sexy's room, and Wren flees. Two thumbs up, lifted in a supportive gesture, from Dain, the Drunk and Fisherman, and a benevolent smile from Balinson make her run only faster. Wren properly misses the days when anything happening in her private life was… well… private. Good olden days! Just her, her cat Mr Thornton, and her Nana! Wren's heart and fanny were at peace, with an occasional one off! And now what? She isn't even dating Dr Horrible but still somehow her life is full of his family and friends. Maybe she should run away to Brazil and find herself a sexy pilot, like the characters of Inside Out. Only she should make sure he's an orphan!


Through the trip in the lift and her walk through the poshly long top floor hall, Wren sobers up. As in her unadulterated happiness from the discovery that Dr Horrible thought that she'd broken the social contract of their monogamous shagging steps back, and Wren asks herself who the frack does he think he is?! Say, if he assumed, or was told that Wrennie took her fanny for a walk while they were together, why didn't he talk to her, for Phileas Foggs' sake?!

While her Jimmy Choo's are softly pitter-pattering on the overpriced carpet, Wren quickly formulates her attitude on the current situation. She wants to talk to him. She's not sure where it would lead, and what she wants out of this conversation, but she wants to clear the air. She owes it to the Wren of the two months ago - happy, sexually satisfied, and secretly looking at honeymoon destinations on Pinterest. No, of course, she didn't think she would marry Dr Wanker! And they'd been together for only seven months! But the sheer fact that she even clicked the link to '100 most hipster resorts' does tell us something!

Wren pauses in front of his door, chews at her bottom lip, consuming some of her Chanel Rouge Allure Incandescente 97, and then she knocks.

OK, she half expected the blonde. You know, the tall, sexy one, probably in the state of half undress, black lace lingerie peeking from under - his - half open white shirt, her wonderful blonde locks - seriously, Wren is full of benevolent envy, the chick's hair is so lush and looks so soft! - scattered on her shoulders, after a triple energetic hanky-panky!

Instead Dr Horrible himself opens the door, his luscious locks scattered on his shoulders, his masculine, hairy chest - oh Wren's ovaries! - peeking in the collar of the white shirt with three top buttons open, and his reading glasses sitting low on the narrow bridge of his elegant nose. Wren curses under her breath. Two months aren't enough to detox her from the desire to show him why ginger women are habitually portrayed as vixens and sirens! The things she has done - and still would - to him when seeing him in this state! That's Wren's favourite way to cook Dr Horrible: just out of the suit, but not exactly in pyjamas yet. Medium rare and delish!

He's silent, the jaw set in the obligatory stubborn line, eyes cold.

"We need to talk," she firmly demands. Dr Horrible is in disadvantage here. He's just too well-mannered to slam the door to her face.

"John, I ordered tea..." the melodic voice of the aforementioned blonde comes from behind him, and Wren peeks.

'Oh my-y-y,' Wren's fully accepted bisexuality loudly quotes George Takei. That dress, on that body, in a perfect elegant vision. Yum!

"Hi, I'm Wren." Here we go, Wren's lost the leftover habdabs. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to John." The blonde smiles widely, and invites Wren with a graceful gesture of her hand. Seriously, Michelle Obama's arms have nothing on hers!

Dr Horrible throws his current paramour a betrayed look and lets Wren in. They all go into the living room of his suite, and the blonde excuses herself. Dr Horrible hovers over the sofa - again, manners! - and Wren stays on her feet. Among other things, she talks better while pacing, and who cares that it looks ridiculous?! What didn't in her relationship with him?!

"OK… OK… I really should've planned it, but whatever..." she mumbles, and twists her hands.

"What do you want, Wren?" Here we go, that's exactly what she needed - his cantankerous, arrogant tone, and a glare from under the frowned eyebrows, and his overall irritated posture, with hands pushes into the pockets, and tense shoulders.

"I never cheated on you! I don't know where you got this idea, and what the sodding hell happened, but I never did!" That comes out very nicely, decisive and loud. Unlike the next mumble-mumble, "I mean, it's not like I'm trying to fix it now, and I don't even... want you back, but I just… I want you to know… And you really should have… You know..."

He's still standing, looking at her gravely, and she shifts between her stilettos.

"I mean, for the sake of your next relationships, you know..." Really, Wren? Nothing more grown up came to your empty curly head? "You know… next time, you should maybe just talk to your… you know…" Woman? Too pathos filled. Girlfriend? Too middle school. Partner? Paramour? Beloved? Oh frack it. "The person you're with." Oh shut up.

"Are you done?" Macho, macho, John is a macho, unfeeling and reserved. Except she's well aware that he isn't, since he Muhammad Ali-ed an ice statue just couple hours ago.

"No… Yes… I don't know…. I was sort of hoping for a discussion, and resolving the misunderstanding..."

"And after that?" He lifts one eyebrow sarcastically, and then when the ginger - and we all knew it'd happen - snaps.

"Listen, you..." Wren still can't bring herself to call him all the names she's given him in her head. She still remembers Nana's rule that one should absolutely call others names - that's what vast vocabulary is for, and it alleviates stress - but only if one is sure one will never want to take it back. And somewhere deep inside Wren still doesn't think that he's a brainless tosser and a bellend. Let's face it, besides the current aggro with his weird conviction that she allowed someone a tour into her Miss Fanny; and his complete inability to keep his temper in check while driving - Wrem still thinks that he might be… wonderful.

"Wren, I saw you."

"Saw me?" Wait, what?!

"I saw you, and I don't understand why are you still trying to convince me otherwise. Let's not make fools out of both of us. You clearly didn't care for this relationship enough to give up your old habits, and I don't understand your persistence now." Wait, what the actual sodding what?! Oh, Wren's going to arse him up!

"I cared for our relationship! I was happy in our relationship!" Wren's voice is rising exponentially like the global population. "I wish I could say I did give up some habits for it, but I didn't! I had nothing to give up! Haven't we had this exact discussion before?!" Wren is heating up, consequently moving closer to him. "You behaved like a prick, and it looked like you thought I were a slag, and then you swore it was just your insecurity, and you didn't judge! Because I still stand by every person's right to shag anyone at any time, if it's consensual and hurts no one!"

And that's when Wren is reminded why she fell for him in the first place. Not as in why she shagged him - that all was about his shoulders, and hips, and the crow's feet. She's reminded of the fact that there's an actual human being underneath the exterior of Wren's most perfect sex fantasy.

"It hurt me! And you just keep on bloody doing it!" His lips twist, and the whole massive body jolts. "Can't you just leave me alone?!"

Wren has half a mind to actually do it. She's standing in front of him, the area where her tits are supposed to be heaving, her heart drumming in her throat. Maybe, he's right. Maybe, she's torturing him. It's not like they can just talk it through, and go back to what they had before, yeah? Or can they?.. And where did the thought even came from?! That's not what she was coming here for!

"John, for goodness sake's, let the woman talk," the blonde speaks in an exasperated tone from the door leading to the bedroom, leaning elegantly on the doorframe, and both Wren and Dr Horrible whip their head towards him. "You're heartbroken, and she clearly wants you back. You can just pretend you believe her, or forgive her if she begs forgiveness, and the two will go back to your happy holding hands and sharing ice cream." OK, A. The chick has a very strange idea of what the relationship with Dr Horrible entitles. B. What the sodding hell, in the name of Shadow Protocol?!

"Cate, stay out of it..." Dr Horrible growls.

"I won't, John. You just have to accept it. I'm not watching you cry over a woman again. It's bad for our academic collaboration."

"Cate!" roars Dr Sexy.

"He cried over me?!" Wren yelps at the same time.

"Yes, John, it is still my name. And yes, Wren, he did. He tried to pretend it was because of allergies, but I'm certain there was a sob." There's something properly fishy about her. As if she's sort of not all alright in the noggin. Fit like a Veela she is, but clearly barmy.

"Cate!" Dr Sexy chokes out.

"Why are you telling me this?!" Wren industriously ignores Dr Sexy hyperventilating nearby. The blonde gives her a blissful smile.

"Because he's clearly using me to make you jealous, and it's not working." Wren's eyes boggles. Also, the chick is barefoot. Somehow it throws Wren off.

"So you aren't together?" she asks carefully.

"Oh we do have sex, if that's what you're asking about." See?! And they say Wren is too chill about shag matters. "But I can't say he's my thing. Too young." Wren's jaw hits the floor. "I've recently started dating this wonderful gentleman. I actually believe he's your boss. Ian McGrey?"

Thankfully, Wren is saved from an aneurism by a knock at the door. It's a waiter with a tea tray, and Wren has time to gather her marbles that rolled around the room with loud noise.

"So, as I was saying…" the blonde draws out in her low, hypnotic voice while pouring all three of them tea. "The two of you should surely reconcile. I always tell my husband that marriage is no walk in the park, but there is nothing better for the soul than a true loving relationship. It requires work, but I believe the two of you should try."

Wren's left eye is twitching.

"Husband?" she squeaks, and the blonde nods.

"If the two of you marry, you should consider Egypt for the honeymoon," the one called Cate continues. Wren might want a stiff drink now. "Celeb and I went there. It was magical!"

Wren's weak and trembling hands accept a cup on a saucer from the blonde's elegant fingers. And then she remembers that there is one more person in the room. She quickly looks. Dr Sexy is pale, frantic red spots are burning on his cheekbones.

"I would like both of you to leave my room right now," he rasps out. Wren actually might feel a bit sorry for him. And she sympathises. The blonde is clearly off her trolley.

"Sorry, darling, not going to happen." No one has probably talked to Dr Sexy like this in years. Wren hopes he has a healthy heart, he's gaining a beetroot colour tinge. "I need you in a good shape. The conference is in two weeks, and you're so distracted that I feel like I'm co-writing a paper with an undergrad. So, let's just finish this discussion." She turns to Wren now. "Alright, cards on the table. I'm Dr Cate Galadriel, I'm his colleague, we are co-writing a paper on managing distal femur fractures. He's still in love with you, and if you ask very nicely, he'll forgive your cheating." Wren opens her mouth to argue. "And I know, I know, Wren dearest," the woman speaks in a consoling tone. "One man is never enough for me either, and that's why I have an open marriage, but John here is a bit of a prude. Perhaps, this time around you can just set the rules differently."

Wren has had it.

"I didn't cheat! What the frack is wrong with you all?! Why isn't anyone listening to me?!" she yells, sloshing tea in her hand. "I didn't cheat! And one man is more than enough for me! This one!" She point at Dr Sexy. "This one has always been enough!"

"You were leaving his flat with a man, Wren dearest." The blonde sympathetically pats Wren's shoulder, with a loony kind smile on her face. "John saw you leave his place, and kiss another man goodbye. And then you called your friend and told her that the man was much better than him. Our dear John here was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, listening to you praise another man's prowess from the lift he was stuck in, while you were walking down stairs."

The cup and the saucer hit the floor, and Wren is gulping air like her childhood pet, a guppy named Mr Darcy used to do when being transferred to a temporary bowl while the tank was being cleaned.

The revelation has already dawned on her, of course, but first she needs to ask.

"You told your new paramour about why you broke up with me but failed to let me know?!" she roars at Dr Sexy, who clearly would prefer to be anywhere but here. Judging by the martyr like expression on his patrician face, even Azkaban would do.

"Don't be angry with him, dear. He was very drunk, and had… 'allergies.'" The blonde mimics quotation marks in the air with her fingers, and Dr Sexy whips his flaming face to her.

"Could you stop talking for me, please?" His tone is murderous.

"Well, you are not talking, darling, and I decided…" the blonde starts, and Wren interrupts.

"I was going to install sex swings in your flat." She speaks quietly, but judging by the sudden silence in the room, everyone heard her. "As a present for your birthday. We'd talked about it, and I was going to surprise you…" Wren has trouble squeezing the words out of her. "The man you saw is my cousin David. He's a construction contractor. I needed him to appraise the ceiling and tell me if it's possible. I had a key to your flat, and i was going to sneak couple construction worker into it… And I don't know what you overheard, because I don't remember what I was saying… But if I praised anyone's prowess, that could only be yours..."

Wren isn't looking at Dr Sexy. Wren can't look at anyone. She's staring at the floor. Wren would like to fall through the floor. Because she knows that in three seconds Dr Sexy will understand everything, and it'll all become instantly very much more complicated. Three, two, one…

"Oh god..." He makes a strangled choking sound. Damn Wren's second hand anxiety. She feels very sorry for him right now. She wouldn't want to be in his shoes. "Oh god. What have I done?.."

"Oh lovely!" Cate claps her hands in glee. "That's even better than I assumed. Well, I'll leave you lovebirds to it." She puts her cup down and heads to the door. "John, I'm still hoping for your edits soon, but you will clearly need couple days to celebrate, so let me know. My flight is tomorrow night, I don't think I'll see you before it. Cheers!" She waves. "Wren, pleasure to meet you."

She disappears, softly closing the door behind her.

"The pleasure is all mine..." Wren answers, in the silence of the room. She still hasn't looked at Dr Sexy once.


"You're a complete and utter idiot, you do know that?" she mutters and plops on the sofa, still only making an eye contact with a cow shaped milk jug on the tray.

"Yes," he agrees, in a cautious voice, and she finally lifts her eyes at him. He's watching her attentively.

"I honestly don't know what I'm supposed to do here, John," Wren tells him in a bleak tone. "If you beg me to take you back..."

"Of course, I'll beg you to take me back!" he interrupts. She gives him a glare, and he defensively lifts his hands. Oh the hands… Shut up. "Sorry, do go on."

"If you ask me to take you back, and I agree, what sort of a brainless and spineless clot will it make me?" Wren shakes her head and sighs. "You should've talked to me..."

"Wren, I should have! I'm guilty here all around," he starts and sits down near her on the sofa. He isn't touching her, but he really doesn't have to. If it's less that three feet of air between them, she starts buzzing right away.

"Please, don't apologise right now. You'll start apologising, I'll break down, and we are back to square one." She flails her hands. A small smile curls up his lips, and he's giving her a loved up look. No, no, no! 'Yes, yes, yes,' argues Wren's fanny. And sod it, Wren's heart as well. The brain is the only one resisting at the moment.

"But I want to go to square one with you, Wrennie..." Oh in the name of Bucky Barnes, he didn't just use his velvet baritone! It's like the Death Star - the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

"Well, I don't!" Wren hisses finally finding her backbone. "I don't want to go back to doubting if you think I'm a slag, and you believing the first possible hint at infidelity from me."

"Wren, it wasn't a hint. Well, at least it didn't look that way to me." She prepares to rebuke him, but he asks in a calm warm tone, "Please, let me explain. I came back from that trip a day early, planning to surprise you. And I see you sneaking out of my flat, kiss and embrace a bloke, and then you keep on talking on our phone about how - as great as your current shag is - this will be so much fun. And how you already sneaked one prick into my flat, and how hard can it be to sneak another? And then there were compliments to a cock, and the curve, and the hip thrust..." He's fighting an ickle smile, little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and Wren blushes. She does like the curve and the thrust, but he surely didn't need this ego boost.

"Wrennie..." He moves a bit closer to her on the sofa. The man has no ethics!

"Stop purring at me," Wren hisses, and he guffaws.

"So, it's working then?" His eyes are shiny, and yeah, Wren's toast.

"No-o-o..." Wren couldn't sound any more unconvincing. He leans closer to her, and something squeaks inside Wren.

"Wrennie, take me back. I miss you." Bugger, bugger, bugger! Sincerity and deep remorse work even better than the fact that she can smell his cologne, and his skin, and the blasted chest of his is peeking in the shirt.

"I miss you too… but you cocked up our relationship..." That might be Wren's last attempt in resistance. Vive la resistance!

"I have." Can he stop agreeing with her in the triple chocolate fudge voice of his?! And leaning. He needs to stop leaning! "But we can start a new one. Tabula rasa." Oh now he's seducing her librarian brain as well, since the fanny and the heart are already energetically waving a white flag. They might be using her knickers for that. "We can go for a first date… A small, unpretentious, cozy restaurant, with your favourite Vietnamese, and then some Doctor Who on your sofa…" Wren gulps like a cornered mouse named Jerry.

"And..." His lips are three and a half inches away from Wren's. "We don't have to tell anyone that we are trying to get back together. I know how you hate all of them sticking their noses into it. So, just you, and me, and Doctor Who..."

That does it. Wren grabs his ears and snogs him with a lustful and relieved moan. She has enough sense to let him go before it turns into a romp with consecutive five times, one on the floor, two on the table - as it surely would with the two of them.

He looks dazed and very, very chuffed. There's a boyish grin on his lips, hair's sticking out, and he's so moreish that Wren should probably go, before she loses her convictions and devours this morsel she'd been dreaming about for two months.

"Thursday night out, then?" he asks, and Wren smiles to him.

"I'll think about it."

THE END (Maybe...)