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[thebratqueen]

Here you go, folks. The latest Epiphany fic, "At A Loss"



At A Loss
By The Brat Queen

Disclaimer: Not mine. All Joss Whedon's, Mutant Enemy's, 20th Century Fox's and all that sort of thing. 'tis but a non-profit, amateur effort, and y'all would need to get in line to sue me anyway.

Spoilers: Up to Epiphany, after which Joss and I go separate ways.

Rated: PG

Summary: Wes finds himself lost and confused. (Part of the Epiphany series, takes place immediately after "Alienation")

Author Note: Love to Cin, for last minute beta-ing.

***

"So how's the English Patient?" Gunn asked as he and Cordy walked into the room.

"He's still disoriented," Angel said.

"I am *not* disoriented," Wesley replied. "I am perfectly capable of knowing where I am. Angel, if this is some sort of childish attempt on your part to respond to our fight - "

"What fight?" Cordelia asked.

"- I may never forgive you," Wesley finished.

"Wes, we're not having a fight," Angel said.

"Sounds like you're fighting to me," Gunn observed.

Wesley put his hand to his head again. "Everyone - please. One at a time."

"Okay, see?" Cordelia stepped forward, trying to guide him to the chair by the bed. "This is what we call being disoriented."

"I don't argue that I'm *well*," Wesley said, sitting down because it at least took the work of standing out of the equation. "But disorientation is - is forgetting up from down. Not knowing which day it is. It isn't forgetting where I bloody live!"

"Okay," Angel said, watching him carefully. "Where *do* you live?"

"Here!" Wesley said, gesturing to the room around him. When they all looked at him in confusion, he tried again, looking into Angel's eyes as though they were a lifeline. "Angel, I - I live here. I moved in. Don't you recall? All of the boxes? The fuss with my landlord?"

"Maybe you're thinking of when we moved the office?" Gunn asked.

"Yeah," Cordelia nodded. "Lots of boxes. And remember how the landlord there put up a big fight over where we left the old furniture?"

"I do," Wesley said, feeling the memories come forth as she spoke of them. "But I moved out of my flat as well."

"At the same time?" Angel asked.

"No - yes," Wesley struggled to order his thoughts. "It was Thanksgiving. You asked me after Thanksgiving."

"I asked you to move in here," Angel repeated slowly.

"Yes!" Wesley said.

Cordy looked back and forth between the both of them. "Wes - why would Angel do that? You know how dangerous it would be. Heck, one really good cup of coffee and we'd probably find you dead and tortured in the basement!"

Angel looked away.

"It was worthwhile," Wesley said. He tried to meet Angel's eyes again. "The danger was worthwhile. I *told* you."

"Look," Gunn said, "seems to me like we've got ourselves something going on here. Maybe whatever did the magic whammy on you yesterday's still working. Messing with your head."

"To what purpose?" Wesley asked.

"You've gotta find out, Wes," Angel said.

"But first you need to get better," Cordy said sternly. "And that means rest. In your own bed."

"I - I can't," Wesley said, looking helplessly at Angel.

"I'll take you," Cordelia said. When it looked as though Angel might protest, she added "It's the middle of the very sunny day and I can be research girl using Wes's connection just as easily as I can here. Why don't you and Gunn put your ears to the ground or whatever it is you do to find out information and join us when the sun sets?"

"Sounds like a plan," Gunn said.

"Are you sure?" Angel asked.

Wesley debated it for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose. If - if this is truly a problem with my memory it might be best if I return to familiar environment. See the situation for myself, as it were."

"I'll make sure he wakes up every few hours," Cordy said.

"You okay to drive?" Angel asked.

"As okay as I ever am," she replied. She waved off their worried looks. "It's just the usual vision headache. I'll be fine."

Angel looked unconvinced. "Take my car."

"Well it's not as though I'm bringing Wesley home on his bike," Cordy said, rolling her eyes. She made shooing motions towards the door. "Now come on. Let's let the man get dressed."

Angel glanced back at Wesley. "Is - is this what you want? I mean she doesn't have to -"

"I'll be fine," Wesley said. He stood up, going back into the bathroom to retrieve his clothes. "Only - promise me you'll be there when the sun goes down?"

"Yeah, sure," Angel said. "Me'n Gunn. Promise."

***

Wesley didn't know how he felt to see the door to his flat again. He was even less certain of what he felt when he reached into his coat pocket and touched the familiar key.

"Need help?" Cordy asked him.

"No. It's just - " he tried to smile "- disorienting."

Cordelia nodded and waited patiently while he opened the door.

Inside felt as it always did. Wesley could smell the musty scent of his books, the faint hint of a half-eaten chicken sandwich rotting away in the trash, the thin metallic tang of the breeze coming out of his air conditioner.

All around him things were in their proper places. Even a small pile of bills was spread across his desk as if he'd thrown them there himself just the other day.

But it was *wrong*. It was entirely *wrong*. He remembered packing it all up, lugging it down to Gunn's truck, worrying over scratches that the movers had left on the back of his couch.

There were no marks on his couch now, he could see that. But then again there wouldn't be, would there?

"Maybe you should sit down?" Cordy suggested. She put her purse and laptop case on the dining room table.

"It's - it shouldn't be like this," Wesley protested. He walked back into his bedroom, throwing open his closet doors and feeling his gut twist when he saw his clothes inside. "It *shouldn't*."

"I know," she said, appearing at his side. "It's a little confusing. That's kind of what a concussion's all about."

"This isn't a concussion!" Wesley turned away from her, yanking open his bureau drawers. Everything was as it should be - his clothes were in their proper order. He knelt down, opening more of them. There was his .22 pistol, his small collection of jewelry, notes and postcards that he'd saved from relationships past - everything.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Cordy asked. "Can I help?"

The bathroom was next. His bathrobe hung behind the door. The medicine cabinet held his comb, brush, toothpaste, even the cologne and aftershave Cordelia had gotten him for Christmas.

"Wesley, maybe you should -"

"This is *wrong*," Wesley said. He walked out into the living room again, heading for his shelves. The large, black albums which contained his CDs were right where they should be. He unzipped the one on the far left, turning to the last pages and finding, as he was meant to, the Madonna and Michael Jackson CDs which only Angel had known he possessed. In frustration he threw the album down on his desk. "This isn't how it should be!"

"Wesley!" Cordelia put her hand on his arm, turning him to face her. "Calm down, okay? What are you looking for?"

"Evidence!" he shouted. He slumped down into the desk chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly. After a thought he opened the top right-hand drawer and reached underneath it. He touched the familiar packet of money that he'd hidden away in case of emergency. He slammed the drawer shut. "Damn it!"

"What kind of evidence?" Cordy asked.

"Anything," Wesley said. He motioned around him futilely. "Something - out of place. Where it shouldn't be. That I wouldn't have done. Something to *prove* this isn't where I live."

Cordelia's mouth puckered in sympathy. "I know. If this was me I'd be freaking even *with* the Sunnydale education. But redecorating your apartment - much though it really needs it - isn't the answer. You need *rest*, Wesley. You can barely stand up. How are you supposed to *think*?"

"I have to figure this out," Wesley said.

"*After* you take a nap," Cordy insisted. "Go on. I'll wake you up in a few hours, Gunn and Angel will be here, and we'll figure it out together. Promise."

***

Wesley slept restlessly. He wouldn't have slept at all, except his body had other ideas. Unconsciousness drew him down like a weight and before he knew it darkness had fallen and the muted sound of voices filtered through to him from the other room.

He pulled himself out of the tangle of his sheets and clothes. His head felt heavy, as though it were filled with lead. His eyes kept slipping closed even as he sat up. He forced himself to not give in to the urge to lie back down.

His hand found his glasses unerringly and, rubbing his hand over his face, he put them in his shirt pocket as he stumbled his way towards the bathroom.

What *was* it?

Cold water ran in the sink for longer than he could determine as he tried to catalogue his symptoms. He ran his fingers absently under the stream, then splashed some of the water on his face.

Evidence, he thought. There had to be evidence.

He had woken up at the warehouse. No, he corrected himself, *outside* of the warehouse. Everyone had been there, but only he had been affected by it - assuming one didn't count Cordelia's vision hangover.

The hospital had found nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing which would suggest a cause for his symptoms beyond that of a concussion. Therefore it was reasonable to hypothesize -

What? What could one conclude? Wesley dried his hands on a towel and put his glasses on. He wondered if it would be possible to take an aspirin. The front of his head was pounding as much as the back. Remembering - or feeling almost certain that he remembered - that Angel had taken all of the paperwork from the doctor he opened the door and went to join his friends.

They were deep in quiet conversation. He was able to hear the sound of his name a few times and hoped it was a sign that they'd located a lead or two. He wasn't sure how much longer he could bear to be left in the dark. Something was wrong. More than a concussion. He just couldn't put his finger on *what*.

Then he walked into the living room and saw Angel looking longingly at Cordelia.

TBC