A/N: Props to Debbie for looking it over and being the great encourager.

She's on her fourth glass of champagne. She's on her fourth damn glass of champagne and he hasn't so much as ventured to look her way. Her elbows are getting sore from the historically accurate banister she's leaning on and she's been hit on not once, not twice, but four times, ladies and gentlemen, by four different sleazy, Titanic-memorabilia-inclined businessmen. Yeah, this is turning out to be a hell of a night. She can't believe she bought a dress for this. Downing the rest, she reaches for her fifth glass, and by then, she starts feeling a bit tipsy.

She stumbles into the crowd, and--jesus, there's a lot of fur here, and not in the dirty way, but the Lacey-will-eventually-throw-paint-on-them way. She feels a little dizzy from all the spinning everyone else is doing, but then a pair of strong arms encircle her, steady her... Arms which look oddly familiar. They encircle her waist and her hands move up around his neck and then they're moving in time to the music. "Dubbie," he starts (and ah, that's why they were familiar), "You look like you've had one too many." She leans forward under the guise of listening to him -- he smells nice.

"Don't worry," she says with that derisive look he's gotten used to. "I won't drive myself home in the car I don't have." Her sarcasm makes the air between them crackle with static, the tension they've--well, he's--avoided for most of the evening.

"Dubbie, you're upset."

"No," she intones with an eye roll and a wandering hand that grabs another flute of champagne. She downs it; he wears a look of genuine concern.

"Should we talk?" She presses her lips together noncommittally, shrugs.

"You're the driver."

He pulls her by the hand towards the stairs, until they're running down endless hallways and that statistic about this being 86 feet longer than the Titanic is really sinking in now (no pun intended). He pulls her into an antique car in the cargo...place. She looks around the car as he shuts the door. "Really?" she asks, looking this way, that way, and quite bewildered. "Really? This is where you want to talk?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." She sighs. "It's fine." She leans back against the seat, taps her feet.

"What's bothering you, Wendy?"

She furrows her brow. "Wendy?! You really are serious." She crosses her ankles, exhales. He gives her the once-over. "Are you trying to psych me out? You better not Navy SEAL me." He's not quite sure what that means (and honestly, she doesn't either).

"You look lovely tonight," he blurts and she opens and closes her mouth a few times, surprised.

"That was unexpected." He arches a brow. "All right, all right."

He changes seamlessly into lecture mode. "You know, Dubbie, modesty is..."

"A virtue?"

"Well, I was going to say an important trait many young women ought to cultivate, but I suppose it is a virtue, yes." She rolls her eyes, waves her hand at him.

"Okay, okay. Lecture over?"

He pauses and there's silence in the car for a second. The windows are foggy and she wipes off the steam with her hand. "Do you really think I smell nice?" She blanches.

"Did I--"

"Say that out loud with your watch on?" Ida finishes, squawking unexpectedly from her watch. "You betcha, sweetcakes."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not on your life." She hits a button on the watch and it clicks. Throwing her head back against the seat, she groans. The Middleman taps her on the shoulder.

"Are we okay, Dubbie?"

She turns to face him. "Did you really mean what you said earlier? Or did you just say it to...say it?"

It's his turn to wrinkle his brow, but then he takes a deep breath and says, "You do look lovely tonight." A brief smile flits across her lips.

She gasps. "Lacey and Noser..."

"Had a limousine graciously provided for them."

"Barbara Thornfield, M.D., Ph.D," she murmurs. She smiles at him again, this time half-apologetically. "Thanks for being my Oprah." And before she knows what she's doing (hm, maybe six glasses of champagne might be a teensy bit too many; this is not drunk Thursday), her lips find his, curve around the words that never left his mouth. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and she clambers onto his lap. She pulls away for a much-needed breath and his lips graze her neck; he can feel her pulse beat, rapid and hot.

"Thanks for being my June Carter," he murmurs against her skin in a rare moment of humor.

She strikes a Southern accent, sings, "Oh, you long-legged guitar pickin' man." He looks genuinely surprised. "Don't look so shocked."

He smiles, sings the next line to her in between frenzied kisses. "We can work this out, uh-huh, yes ma'am, I think we can." The words, hot and rushed, fall against her skin. She laughs. "I do happen to play the guitar, as it just so happens."

She kisses his jaw, murmurs a, "Huh. What are the odds?"

"You big mouth woman," he sings softly as his hands tangle in her hair. "I like your hair like this."

"Mm," she murmurs against his lips. "With your hands in it or curly?"

"Both." She leans in for another kiss when someone opens the door. The man looks at them in surprise, but a slow, lecherous grin spreads across his face. Wendy climbs off of her boss, smooths her dress down.

"What is this?" she shouts, stepping out of the car. "This is not a movie. I am not Kate Winslet. I am Latina!" She throws a punch and the man lands squarely on his back. "(bleep) off." She stomps off and he follows her, lips twitching.

"You ready to go home, Dubbie?"

She groans, licks her lips. "Ugh, more than." Their Middlewatches go off and they share a look. She grins, picks her skirt up with one hand to avoid tripping as they start running. She turns to look at him. "May I?"

"Be my guest."

She pauses, thrusts one pointed index finger in a general direction. "To the Middlemobile!"