A/N: Rassilon help me, I don't know where THIS came from. Just something I quickly drafted during my bus ride to work. It's a continuation for Chapter 30 "Robin."

I dedicate it to Just4Me. My darling, you reminded me of this story in your latest review, and I suppose my barmy mind went "hang on a minute…" It is indeed the only time that Wren and Thorin/John definitely didn't live happily ever after (that one time in First Time, Every Time is open to interpretation :D)

A/N#2: That is all I have, my darlings, if you happen to have IDEAS of what more I can write for these two, I'll be happy to oblige. Does anyone know any solution to this conundrum? (Please, no zombie options :D)

The dream has the usual setting. It's always some familiar place, sometimes the cabin they spent a summer in, sometimes the honeymoon suite in that hotel on Fiji, it's never their house though, but sometimes the first flat they lived in, perhaps because it was his home, and not theirs. They were not family then, they lived there for a few short months, and then Wren started feeling sick in the mornings, and only "Wheat Thins" would help, and they quickly bought the house he comes back to every evening. that was where Tom was brought from the hospital to already.

This time John is in the yard of his parent's house, they died before he met Wren and the house was sold, she has never been in it. She is on the swings that Deadre fell off from when she was twelve and broke her arm. John is silently standing for a few seconds, watching the bare feet of his dead wife push lightly from the ground. She swings ahead, lets the wooden seat she is on carry her ahead and back couple times, and then she pushes again. He can see her pink little toes he adored so much brush at the soft dust under her feet.

"Someone is grumpy today," Wren murmurs without turning to him. He knows her eyes are closed, she is enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. He also knows there is no sun, and there is no face, it is just a dream. Somehow the thought is as painful as it would be if he had it awake. He shortly asks himself, shouldn't the dream hurt less? Shouldn't he be sort of OK with seeing his dead wife and take it for granted? Wren turns and throws him a teasing look. She always does. "I like her." She was always fond of loaded statement like that. She'd say something like that and would wait for him to ask for clarification. Giving her a glare never worked. He is not playing this game with her. She doesn't get to have fun at his expense. She is dead. She left him alone.

"Whom?" She was also a Grammar nazi, she'd always scrunch her nose and correct him. He would say 'who' just to see this expression.

"The new girl. Robin. I like her." He heavily sits on the grass several feet away from her.

"We are not having this conversation, Wren." He wants to sound firm, he just sounds tired.

"Well, tough tits, darling," she mimics his accent, "Because while you were moping, the conversation has already started. She will be good for the kids." He is still controlling himself, but he knows he has little patience. It is the third time he has such conversation with his dead wife in his dream. He doesn't want to. It's just the figment of his imagination, which means subconsciously he has been attracted to those women, which means he is emotionally cheating on his wife, and his damn mind conjures these images to justify it, and he hates himself for it. He much prefers those other dreams. When they don't talk. When instead she moans and screams in pleasure, and just like she used to when she was alive, she mumbles his name riding the wave of the orgasm he knows she is not having. She is dead. His are real though. But he is ashamed of them too. He often wonders if there is something wrong with him. Having wet dreams at forty three is just pathetic. He would understand waking up with a hard-on and quickly finishing it, but he cums in his sleep, and then dreams continue, they snuggle in the fucking afterglow, and when he wakes up he has to deal with spots of his sheets. He is not freaking thirteen.

He sits in silence, hoping she'd give it up. She never does of course. Even when she was real she was stubborn as hell. When he didn't feel like choking her, he found it endearing. In his dreams she is even worse. She explains it this way. She says since she is dead she doesn't have to control herself now, 'less social niceties, you know,' she says, 'it is just the two of us here,' and he wonders whether he has just went crazy from grief. She is so real that sometimes he feels like buying a whole bunch of sleep aid and stay with her for as long as his body copes. But then he remembers that Tom needs to be at school by 8.30, and Unna needs a new backpack.

"You do realize that ignoring me is completely fruitless?" Her voice is teasing, but there is hidden tension in it. She doesn't like to be ignored. If she were real, that would make sense. He is all she has now. But she isn't real. She is dead, and he is just having a very nice dream. "John... Can you please look at me?" He could never say 'no' to her when she was alive. He lifts his eyes. She gives him a soft loving smile. "Darling..."

"We are not having this conversation, Wren," he repeats, he is almost growling now. She narrows her eyes at him. If she were alive, he would have backed off from this expression. She is really angry with him now.

"Do I not get a say in this?" Her voice is low. As long as it is not a hiss, he hasn't gone too far yet. But he is getting there.

"No, you do not." He is being stubborn today. She used to call him 'cantankerous.'

"And why is that? You need someone..." He doesn't let her continue, this is the end of his rope.

"Wren, enough!" That was sharp. And he should feel like an idiot. He has just barked at an element of his own subconsciousness. He isn't. He feels regretful. But he presses his lips together.

"I am your wife, John. I get a say in how you live your life. I say you need to stop grieving and coming here, I say you..."

"Shut up!" He hasn't noticed at what point he jumped on his feet. "Don't you see how fucking absurd this is?! You are telling me to sleep with someone else!"

"I'm telling you to find someone to share your life with. The children need a mother, you need a wife..." She is hissing now, this is the first time they are having an argument over this. Not their first argument in the dreams. Weirdly enough little has changed since she died and started coming in his sleep. They have squabbles, they make up, they have make-up sex. He should be worried about his sanity. He is worried that he pissed her off. And irritated. He is so bloody irritated.

"You don't get to tell me how to live outside these dreams, Wren." He knows he has gone too far as soon as he says it. They are open about the fact that she is dead and these are dreams. But he has just argued her right as his wife to meddle with his life. That has never happened before. She is slowly swinging, not pushing, it's just inertia now, the knuckles on her small strong hands on the ropes are white. She has most beautiful long fingers he has seen in his life. He misses them painfully.

"So fucking me is OK, but listening to my advice isn't..." Her voice is hollow and menacing, he swallows a lump in his throat. If he answered, he lost. He can never win in an argument with her. She has an IQ of 165 and knows every button she can press. She is also ruthless and calculative. And dead. She is dead. He is having a row with his dead wife.

Maybe he is tired, maybe he is overstressed. Maybe he is actually attracted to the new curvy blonde in the office, she is merry and light, and he hasn't had sex for five year. If one doesn't count the dream sex he is having with his wife at least couple times a week.

He just doesn't want to discuss it. Considering the circumstances he thinks his life is as good as it can be. He drops his eyes on the daisy he is twirling in his fingers. She climbs off the swings and kneels in front of him. He doesn't want to look at her. Correction, he does want to look at her, always, he can't breathe sometimes because he will never look at her again, and Tom and Unna will never see her again, but right now he just can't.

"Very well, John." This haughty cold tone is very familiar. It means he is fucked. He meets her slanted amber coloured eyes. "Here is what we are going to do. I'm going to leave now. I'm very upset with you and I don't know when or if I will come back." His body jolts, and he panics. Is his mind trying to give up this madness? "But I want you to remember three things. Firstly, Robin is allergic to pineapple, secondly, when she was three she fell in a pond near her school and almost died, they pulled her out but one of her yellow rubber boots sank, and the third thing… I want you to try to date someone. Because you can't be alone. So once you pull your head out of your ass and decide to listen to me, remember that I told you to date." He opens his mouth to ask, or beg, or yell…

… and he wakes up in his bed.

He breaks after four weeks. Without a single dream involving his deceased wife he ponders sleep aid, chemically induced coma and telling someone. None of the options seems realistically adequate, and four weeks after he had a row with his dead wife in the long time gone yard of the house of his dead parents he enters the lunch room in his office. He has never been here since Wren's funeral. He always eats in his office. All eyes are on him, and he gives them a fake half smile. That is as much from him as anybody is used to seeing.

"I forgot my lunch today." It has never happened before. Everyone starts talking at the same time, offering menus to him, someone starts a fresh pot of coffee, everyone shifts and moves, and he finds Robin with his eyes. She is very cute, slightly clumsy, lively. He knows she is probably unaware, but she is very sexy. She has an expressive mouth, when comfortable she is probably passionate. Right now she squeezed herself in the corner and pretends to be busy on her phone. Which tells him she is attracted to him. He orders and pretends to be seeking some small talk. People jump at the opportunity, he carefully steers the conversation and breaches the subject of allergies.

Robin is indeed allergic to pineapple.

Childhood memories are the next topic. It's safe, has nothing to do with wives and death, and people open up. Robin joins the conversation, she obviously feels freer now that everyone is sharing memories.

Robin indeed fell in a pond when she was at school. And the rubber boots were indeed yellow. He asked nonchalantly, she shared gleefully.

He fakes sudden food poisoning, calls the babysitter, goes in the nearest bar, it's 3 p.m., and he gets completely drunk, downing one Jameson after another. What else is one to do when his dead wife had enlightened him on the information he didn't know and that was spot on? He rents a room in a motel and continues drinking there. He calls sick the next day and buys two more bottles.

When the second bottle is half empty he finally falls asleep. The dreams are sticky, disgusting, very fuzzy, and then Wren's clear enraged voice is telling him off. He has never heard anything better.

He wakes up, vomits repeatedly in the bathroom, takes a shower, eats lunch and climbs under the blanket in the motel bed. It smells of booze and his sweat, but he closes his eyes and begs sleep to come. Sleep does, Wren doesn't.

Six months pass, she doesn't return. He lives his life just as before. If she thought he'd jump through hoops for her like a puppy, she was cruelly mistaken. He is not her boy toy, he tells himself. Marriage works both ways, he tells himself. Even if one of the spouses is sort of dead. Now that he knows that either he is clinically insane, or she is not quite dead, he is determined. He knows the control freak as she is, she won't stay away for long. Asserting her will has always been her thing. He doesn't repeat the stunt with drinking, he has children. Neither does he date or consider it. Now that he knows that there is even more to these dreams, he is going to fight for them.

Thea comes to visit, they take the kids to an amusement park, it is late April, Wren's favourite season, lilacs are in bloom, and suddenly Thea starts crying while children are on a ride. She says she just really misses Wren, and recently she says it's suddenly became harder. They talk about it, he is rubbing her back, and she sniffles.

It turns out she is pregnant. She sends him a text a week later. The second ultrasound tells her it's a girl, she wants to name her Wren. John can't find his voice to express his gratitude.

Another seven months pass, and he finds himself on top of the hill behind his house. It is as close as they have ever been to their home. She is sitting on their old picnic blanket, it was lost when they were moving into this house. She is barefoot, in a long white dress, one of those that look like curtains, all full of holes, and her fiery hair is pinned in a messy something at the back of her head. She doesn't turn to him, he can see that her shoulders are tense.

"Happy now?" Her tone is furious.

"Yes," his tone is sincere, and her shoulders start to shake.