Because I am a summity

[thebratqueen]

lerefuge knows what the subject heading means. And zortified can put the penguin down now.



Unknown
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: Wesley finds out what happened to him, but still wonders what went wrong. (Part of the Epiphany series, takes place immediately after "At A Loss")

Author Note: Big snuggly hugs to James Walkswithwind for beating me over the head so she could read this before everybody else - um - I mean beta reading. Yeah, that's it, beta reading.

***

He wasn't sure why that had done it. Instinct, perhaps. But suddenly, sickeningly, he *knew*.

He turned on his heel and ran back into the bedroom. With little shocks he recalled everything that had happened, all that had transpired since the warehouse. Every touch, every word, every gesture.

"It can't," he whispered, willing to convince himself or anyone who might listen. "It *can't*."

He knelt down by his bed and jerked open the drawer to his nightstand.

Eyeglass case. Bookmark. Handkerchiefs. Pens. Paperclips.

He got up and crawled over the bed to the other drawer.

British Airways sleeping mask. Tranquility crystal. Forgotten spare tampon from Virginia which had rolled to the back.

Otherwise empty. No lubricants, crosses, Holy Water or anything else which made it possible to have sex with -

"Wes?" Gunn appeared out of the corner of his eye. "You okay?"

Wesley grasped the open drawer as though it could support his weight. "Am I seeing anyone?"

Gunn came closer, frowning. "Huh?"

Slowly, carefully, he slid the drawer closed. He stood up, not daring to look at Gunn, not daring to make this *real* by looking at another human being confirming this for him. "Am I in a relationship?"

"Oh," Gunn said, with understanding. "Nah. You and Virginia broke up - man, gotta be nearly a year ago now. You know, I been meaning to tell you you need to get laid."

"I have to see the Host," Wesley announced. He patted his pockets down, trying to remember where he'd left his keys.

"Okay," Gunn said slowly. "Probably a good idea. Spent all day looking and we got ourselves a big pile of nothing to show for it. But you think you should be singing right now?"

"No," Wesley said, heading for the front door. "I think I should be *drunk* right now, but I'll settle for singing."

***

"Oh, sweetie, you are in the *wrong* place."

The four of them were gathered around a table at Caritas. After some argument, it was decided that they would all go. Wesley would have preferred to be alone but they had pointed out, not unreasonably, that he was in no condition to drive.

Also his bike was back at the Hyperion.

They'd taken Angel's car. Wesley had sat in the back, staring out the side. Gunn had sat beside him.

At Caritas, Wesley managed to get through a passable rendition of Strawberry Fields Forever before once again losing his ability to stand unaided. Fortunately their table wasn't far from the stage.

"What do you mean 'wrong place'?" Angel asked.

"I mean," the Host said, "that there's a place he should be and this isn't it. And when I say 'place' I'm not just talking about here at Caritas, happening though it may be. I'm talking *worlds*."

"Oh thank God," Wesley said. A rush of relief ran through him. He began to try to remember all he'd ever read about interdimensional travel.

"Wait - you mean this is some sort of Close Encounters of the Third Kind?" Gunn asked.

"Not quite," the Host said. "More like Star Trek and Kirk in better clothes."

"How many stupid dimensions *are* there?" Cordelia asked. Off of Gunn's look she clarified. "There was a thing back in high school."

"Ah," Gunn said.

"How can I get home?" Wesley asked.

The Host shrugged. "Wish I could tell you, but dimensions really aren't my gig. I'm kind of fond of the one I'm in."

"The warehouse," Angel said. "Must've happened when you moved the tablet."

"Oh ya *think*?" Cordy asked.

Angel shrugged, intent on playing with his drink.

Wesley watched him, then turned his eyes back on the Host. "I need to get home."

"I know," the Host said, sympathetically. "I'm picking up on that Auntie Em vibe loud and clear."

Wesley took a sip of the scotch he'd ordered over everyone's objections. "Tell me to click my heels together and I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

"Sounds like clicking your brain cells a few times," Gunn said. He looked at the Host questioningly and received a nod in confirmation. "Figure out what's on those funny looking boards."

"And how to get back to the right place once you use them," Cordelia pointed out.

Wesley felt the world tilt. He hadn't even considered the chance of arriving someplace *else*.

Angel tried to catch his eye. Wesley refused to let him. "We'll - we'll figure it out, Wes. Promise."

"I need my books," Wesley said. He reached for his wallet, barely feeling his hands as he pulled out the necessary bills. "Gunn, could you call me a cab?"

"I can take you back to the hotel, Wes," Angel offered.

Wesley downed the last of his drink. "I need my books. I assume they are at my flat, considering - I assume they're at my flat."

"Actually," Cordy said, "you brought a lot in to your office. At the hotel."

"Fine," Wesley said. "Let's all go to the hotel then. Make an evening of it."

"Can I have a sec with the Wyndam-Pryce beneath my wings?" the Host asked. When the other three looked at him, he gave an easy smile. "It's nothing serious. Go on, warm up the car and talk amongst yourselves. He'll be out in two shakes of a Dropnar's tail."

"I don't want your advice," Wesley said, after the others had left.

"Then why are you sticking around for it?" the Host asked. When Wesley looked about to protest, he made a gesture of peace. "Look - I know you're feeling - well, heck, like the world just got ripped right out from under you. And all that anger you've got? More than understandable. But it's not his fault."

Wesley didn't even have to ask who the "he" was. Instead he looked back at the Host steadily. "Tell me - is it true? What I'm thinking?"

The Host looked as though he didn't want to answer, but finally nodded. "Yeah."

"Well then," Wesley said, getting up to go, "you're absolutely right. It's not his fault. It's *mine*."

***

"A visitor from an alternate dimension," Gunn gave Wesley an approving look as they entered the lobby of the Hyperion. "Gotta admit - that's cool."

"You make it sound like some sort of cheesy B movie," Cordelia said. She checked the answering machine on the counter for any messages, then plugged in her laptop and powered it on. "*It Came From Another Dimension.* Please. I swear, there's more universes out there then my dad had phony tax shelters. Remember that time we had two Willows?"

"Um, yeah," Angel said. Wesley couldn't help but watch in morbid fascination as the vampire put his coat and car keys in their usual location. "And - well, the Hell dimension."

"Yes," Cordy said slowly, her eyes on her monitor, "but that was *your* summer holiday back in high school. *I*, on the other hand, got a great tan. Although I guess that would be a Hell dimension for you too, huh? Right up there with the dimension of pointy wooden furniture and nothing but fuchsia clothing as far as the eye can see. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much Hell on everybody."

Wesley walked into his office. Gunn followed him. "So what's your place like?"

Wesley looked around. Disconcertingly, things were where he'd left them. Even the take away receipt that he forgot to throw out from Wednesday sat accusingly on his desk. He crumbled it up and tossed it into the waste bin. "Much like this."

Cordy moved her chair so that she could look at them from the doorway. "No big changes? You don't come from the world where everybody's a vampire?"

"No," Wesley pointed out, taking a few books about dimensional portals off of his shelves and staking them on his desk, "for if that was the case *I* would be a vampire, now wouldn't I?"

"Oh," Cordelia said, "I guess so. Hey how does my hair look?"

"Fine," Angel said, coming over to join them.

She sighed. "I meant in *his* world, dumb-ass. I've been thinking of cutting it."

"Again?"

"It's the same," Wesley said. He added another book to the pile, then rested his suddenly unstable weight against the desk for a moment. "Your hair looks exactly the same."

Cordy folded one leg over the other, pondering this. "Huh. Okay. What about my acting? Am I a huge success?"

Wesley had no idea which version of herself she was referring to. He settled on saying. "You had a national commercial. For hand cream."

"Oh *that* one," she said, dismissing it with recognition. But she smiled proudly all the same. Angel smiled with her. Wesley turned away and tried to remember where he'd stored the few volumes about P'cskish rituals that he'd kept from his days in the Council. Then he laughed at himself when he recalled that Angel had put them upstairs for him.

"Looking for something?" Gunn asked quietly.

"A large box," Wesley said, indicating the size with his hands. "Somewhat old - cardboard. There's a stain on it, not unlike coffee."

Gunn nodded and began searching.

"Can I help?" Angel asked.

"No," Wesley answered. He found his camcorder. "Gunn - I'm going to need you to take this to the warehouse. Record as much as you can of the area and the tablets in particular. If you can procure still photographs of them as well I'd greatly appreciate it."

"You got it," Gunn said. He took the camcorder from him and checked the indicator on the battery. As he did, he pointed at the bottom box in a stack of three. "Hey - this what you want?"

Wesley came over to look. "It might be." He reached up to pull the top box down. It was unbalanced, and the rattling sounds coming from it told him this was the box that in both worlds had been half-filled with thick, leather volumes while the top contained desk lamps and figurines. He struggled with it, trying to find a center of gravity which could support both it and his still-swimming head.

"Here," Angel was at his side, his hands filling Wesley's vision as they wrapped around the box's corners. "Let me."

Wesley dropped it. Surprised, Angel barely caught it before it hit the ground and shattered what was inside. "I can't."

Angel's eyes were a soft and deep brown. "Can't what?"

"I - I…" This time when unconsciousness overcame him, Wesley didn't fight it at all.

***

He was back in his apartment. In his bed. His, he thought ironically, then curled up into himself as all the connotations of the word came over him.

Dimensions. He'd studied them back in the Council. Sometimes existing in their own right, other times brought into being through magic. The differences between them could be as vast as Heaven and Hell, or as subtle as a misplaced ant.

Wesley held no doubt as to which one he was in.

They came in to visit him, each one of them taking turns at waking him up when three or four hours had passed. At Cordelia's insistence a doctor was brought by to examine him once more. Wesley submitted to all of this as silently as he could. He didn't dare himself to speak.

The living room became an impromptu office. It reminded Wesley of when Angel Investigations had blown up the first time and they'd been forced to work out of Cordy's flat. He wondered if that had been when it started - when Angel had first realized his true affections for her.

If Cordy herself was aware of it, she gave no indication. Angel tripped and stammered his way around her like an overlarge adolescent and she proceeded much as she ever did, with little difference between her and the woman he knew.

Truthfully, he didn't hold it against her.

Angel and Gunn, too, were the same as always. Wesley found himself responding automatically when Gunn asked him if they would keep their regular appointment at the pub for darts that Friday. Angel, for all his awkwardness, still drank his coffee entirely black and wore his red shirt on Tuesday to prove to everyone that he had clothes of more than one color. It was the same old comfortable routine.

Wesley couldn't think of anything more horrifying.

***

They abandoned him once the 48 hours of danger had passed. He had proved to them all time and again that he could move and care for himself unaided, and beyond sleep he hadn't passed out since the incident at the hotel. Cordy in particular had been concerned, but he promised to check in regularly.

His living room held four boxes full of books that had been brought over during his convalescence. Gunn had fulfilled his request, and a videotape of the entire warehouse sat on his desk, along with two poster-sized blowups of the wooden tablets. It was, as he'd promised them, all that he needed.

They'd left, and once he heard the last of their footfalls he put the chain lock on his door. Then, after a thought, he propped a chair against the knob, sealing himself in.

His refrigerator contained a six-pack of American beers, left there for when Cordy and Gunn came over. His kitchen cabinet held three pints of Guinness and an unopened bottle of scotch. He gathered them all together, brought them into the living room, and began to work.

***

He wasn't surprised when the knocking came, two days later.

His phone had rung, but every message inquired after his well-being. They'd found no clues.

Knowing that they wouldn't leave him alone otherwise, he had deliberately called Gunn on his cellphone in the middle of the afternoon. He'd tiredly explained that he was all right, then launched into a detailed summary of all his research so far which had sufficiently bored the man enough to make sure he wouldn't volunteer to come over and assist.

Cordelia had written him emails. He wrote back with short progress reports.

Which left one person, and his all too familiar knock.

"Wes?"

He stood up stiffly, taking care not to disturb the piles of books and scribbled notes around him. The bump on his head had begun to heal, but he steadied himself all the same. His concussion might have receded, but the amount of alcohol in his system hadn't. Particularly not since he'd replenished his supply the night before.

"Wes?"

He moved the chair aside and methodically undid the locks. He opened the door and leaned against the frame. Angel was there in a familiar tableau.

"Hey. I - "

Wesley laughed. The sound came out of his lips before he was even aware of it. "Showing an interest?"

Angel blinked. "No. Um - what?"

Wesley walked back into the living room and sat on the couch. He found a full bottle of scotch on his second try and poured himself a glass. He paused when he saw Angel still standing in the doorway. "Oh come in. It's practically inevitable."

Angel stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He took in the sight of the apartment, and Wesley himself. "Should you be drinking? In your condition?"

"Yes," Wesley said, taking a hard swallow. "Quite especially in my condition. Be glad I don't ask to borrow one of your cigarettes."

Again Angel registered surprise. "How did you - "

"You've been smoking on and off since your liaison with Darla," Wesley said, not knowing why he felt the need to tell him. "Perhaps even before. I never asked."

"Oh," Angel said. "You know from - gotcha." He sat down in the chair next to him. He tried to read Wesley's notes. "Any luck? With the portal?"

"As opposed to luck at guessing winning numbers for tonight's lottery?" Wesley asked. He took another swallow. "Not that it matters. The answer is the same - absolutely nothing with a lovely dish of bugger all on the side."

Angel took that in. "You want to get back."

"What gave it away?"

Wesley couldn't mistake the look of hurt in Angel's eyes. "Sorry."

"It's hardly your fault," Wesley told him.

"I could've stopped you - him - I dunno," Angel said. "Prevented it."

The world felt funny. Humorously so. "Yes, well, that would have been something. Preventing this. However as neither one of us is prescient and we don't to my knowledge possess a way to travel back in time, we're stuck as we are."

"Is it bad?" Angel asked.

Now Wesley was surprised. "What?"

"Being here," Angel said. "Is - is it that bad?"

The sympathy wrenched the words out of him before he was even aware of it. "I don't know. How long have you been in love with her?"

They stared at each other for a moment. Wesley damned the part of him which couldn't resist Angel's voice.

"You - um - I don't know," Angel admitted. He studied his hands. "It just - happened."

"Of course," Wesley said softly.

"She's nice, you know?" Angel continued. "Been around. Seen… both sides of me. Makes me laugh sometimes."

"Please stop."

Angel closed his mouth, looking at him in confusion.

Wesley could feel his veins. Each and every one of them. They felt as though they were carrying acid to his heart. He held still, then grabbed at his bottle, drinking from it directly.

"Wes?"

"What did it?" he asked hoarsely.

Angel looked as though he was trying hard to comprehend. "Did what?"

Wesley clutched the neck of the bottle tightly. His mouth was no longer under his control. "Made you. Choose her."

Angel shrugged. "I - I told you. You said - "

"*Why her?*"

The silence was palpable between them. Angel stood. "Maybe I should -"

"Tell me," Wesley felt what little remained of his dignity dissolve inside of him. "Please."

Angel hesitated. "I don't understand."

Wesley gave a bark of laughter. Or perhaps it was a sob. "No," he said. "You never did."

"Wes…"

He was weeping in earnest now. "God - it doesn't even matter, does it?"

"Wesley -"

"No," he said to himself as he took another few swallows, "why would it? It's not as though it makes a difference. It's not as though it *made* a difference. You do realize that, don't you? The universe changes and it's *exactly the bloody same.*"

Angel took the bottle from him. "You've had enough."

"Not *nearly*," Wesley told him. Not trusting himself to stand he emptied his half-full glass into his mouth instead. He wiped a stray drop with the back of his hand. His mind felt as though it were spinning. He remembered the last time he'd drunk anything close to this much - *It's not as though the prophecy predicted the failed Watcher who would help him in this.*

"*Wesley*."

"It makes you wonder why I'm even here," Wesley said, musing aloud. "Considering how effectual I am. I suppose I could have been replaced by a ferret, or even a large stuffed animal. Tell me, Angel - do you think you might notice?"

"You need rest," Angel said.

"I *need* - " Wesley started to snap, then checked himself. He snatched his bottle out of Angel's hands. Tears continued to fall down his cheeks. He forced himself not to say the word at the edge of his lips, or look at the man it referred to.

Angel sat down on the edge of the coffee table. His eyes were far too caring. "What?"

"Must I de-invite you to cease your meddling?" Wesley asked, wishing his voice were strong enough to make it a demand. He gestured with the bottle. "I'm sure the supplies are here somewhere. I must have kept them."

"That's it - I'm putting you to bed," Angel said, taking him by the arm.

Wesley tried to break the hold but again he was betrayed by other urges. The feel, the scent - God, *now* he understood the obsession with scent - the *everything* of Angel called to him. He let Angel yank him up, then fell against his body.

*Mine. You're mine, Wesley.*

"Do you have any idea," he whispered, his lips scant millimeters from Angel's neck, "how it felt for me? How dizzy I was with desire before I could even give it your name? How I felt when you - when you claimed me?"

Realization on Angel's face dawned, as it sadly often did, slowly.

Wesley pressed his hands flat against Angel's chest. "To know my place. To be with you. To suck your cock and *know* - know that I *belonged*, that I was *accepted*, that I had found my world and it was on my knees before you?"

Angel's hands were stiff against his arms. "Wes - "

"And that wasn't even the whole of it," Wesley continued, moving his own hands to Angel's shoulders. "You didn't let it end there. You fucked me, you loved me - *you*, Angel, *believed* in me, treated me as though I meant something, as though - "

"Stop it."

"- I wasn't a failure."

Angel pushed him away. Wesley fell back onto the couch. He laughed. "It's the cosmic joke, isn't it? I'm *not* a failure. I'm not even an anything. I thought your love for Buffy was the challenge. The fact that one day she might replace me. But it's not. It's the fact it could be *anyone*. It never had to be me. *I* never had to be. *Because I haven't made a bloody difference.*"

"You're upset," Angel said. "I get that. But I'm *not* your guy. I'm not your fucking Angel."

"No," Wesley agreed. "But you could be."

TBC