AN: Thanks to everyone who gave my first story for this pairing a shot! And thank you, Tavyn, for the title, and feedback while I wrote this – you make everything better.

In the world of this story, Caitlin doesn't have any powers (nor will she be getting any) and Harrison Wells never returned to Earth-2.

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Caitlin came back to consciousness slowly and the first thing she registered was how utterly exhausted she felt. It was the kind of exhaustion that hit her every few weeks – the kind that made her regret waking up in the first place. The only thing she wanted was to fall back to sleep, but as her mind slowly woke up, she gradually accepted that it wasn't a realistic possibility.

She didn't want to open her eyes just yet, sure the brightness of the morning sun would irritate her (like it always did) and then she'd lie in bed and think about how she really had to spring for some blackout curtains, but she was just too busy with work, and helping keep the city safe, and trying to manage her (mostly non-existent) personal life on top of that.

She kept her eyes firmly shut and reached out blindly for her phone. When she couldn't find it, she rolled over and had a split second to feel her heart sink when she realized she'd rolled onto nothing. She threw her hands out at the last second and managed to break most of her fall.

When was the last time she'd fallen off her bed? Well, aside from that time a few months ago when she'd gotten hopelessly tangled in the sheets, wrenched too hard, and gone flying backwards off the foot of it? (That landing had been much harder.)

She did a quick mental inventory to make sure she hadn't injured anything and finally glanced up, instantly freezing as she took in her surroundings with a newfound sense of dread.

She hadn't fallen out of bed, she'd fallen off a couch.

And it wasn't even her couch.

She rubbed her hands firmly over her eyes and then looked around again, hoping the scene might have changed. Unfortunately, it was exactly the same. She was in a spacious living room with a bunch of chairs and sofas arranged in several separate sitting areas. The windows on the wall opposite her had their curtains pulled shut, but no light was seeping in around the edges, so she knew that no matter the time of day, the sun was probably down (unless those were blackout curtains like she'd been longing for in her bedroom…).

She glanced behind her, noting that the couch she'd been sleeping on was white suede. There was a fluffy white throw rug under her, partially covering a hardwood floor, and a glass coffee table a couple feet in front of her (and she was thankful it was that far back, or else she would have hit it when she rolled off the couch). The walls were white – in fact, the whole room was mostly white with a spattering of black and grey for…color? (Or to reinforce the lack of it?)

She felt like she was in a museum. It was the kind of room she was almost afraid to be in – just looking around made her feel like it would get dirty if she so much as moved.

She had the presence of mind to stay quiet and as calm as she could possibly manage, even as her heart rate increased with every terrible scenario that flashed across her mind. Her first thought was that she might have been abducted. It wasn't far-fetched – she'd been taken many times before by a whole host of the criminals and meta-humans they regularly chased. However, the more she looked around, the more the abduction scenario didn't seem to fit. Despite the inherent barrenness of the room, it was nice – really nice. And expensive. Even if it wasn't decorated to her taste, she could tell the furnishings weren't cheap. Plus, the room was spacious enough that she guessed she was in a fairly large home. It didn't exactly mesh with the types of places criminals usually took her – old warehouses or abandoned cellars or…jail cells.

Something was pressing against the corners of her mind, some inkling that she was forgetting to remember…something. It was like she knew this room. Like she'd been here before. And not just once, but many, many times.

And yet, she couldn't place a single real memory within its walls.

There was a familiarity about the style of the décor, as well. Too bad she couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Even if she couldn't (consciously) remember seeing this room before, she'd definitely seen a similar style in someone's home, so she began filing through everyone she knew. Her mother, Barry, Cisco, Harry – of course! Her mind repeated his name over and over, almost like a prayer: Harrison Wells. She'd been in his house a handful of times in the past, mostly when he'd been Eobard pretending to be Harrison, but this was definitely his home.

She felt near-instant relief as her fear and worry vanished at the realization that this place belonged to her co-worker. Boss. Friend. All of that, and more; he would never hurt her. She rolled her shoulders, willing the overly tense muscles to relax through sheer force of will. Since she was still sitting on the floor, she let her head fall back on the couch cushion and stared up at the ceiling. A fan spinning lazily caught her attention and she watched it revolve while trying to piece together the most likely scenario of what had happened.

First and foremost, how had she gotten here?

Had she had too much to drink last night? Had she been drugged? Maybe she'd been knocked out and lost her memory? And Harry, or one of the others, had brought her here to recuperate?

None of those possibilities seemed to fit, though, since she felt perfectly fine. She didn't remember going out last night, for fun or for work. She couldn't recall going off to do anything dangerous, either (which was actually how she spent a lot of her evenings and was merely a hazard of working with the Flash).

The last thing she remembered was lying in bed, trying to watch TV as she fought the urge to fall asleep. She'd been putting in a lot of late nights at S.T.A.R. Labs, and as a result, she'd been incredibly tired after work these past few weeks. Her weekends were mostly taken up with errands necessary to stay alive, so if she had any free time lately, it was on her relatively rare evenings off. And that free time was so precious that she never wanted to waste it by going to bed early. Usually, she'd try to stay awake to catch up on the few TV shows she managed to stay current with, or she'd try to unwind with a movie. (Despite her best efforts, she usually ended up falling asleep anyways.)

She absently glanced down and found that she was wearing the same pajamas she'd donned earlier tonight – red and green plaid pants and a red, long-sleeved thermal shirt. She liked the set because it reminded her of Christmas. She usually broke it out at the first hint of cool nights in September and continued wearing it well into spring, just because of how much she liked the holidays –

But her pajamas weren't the point. The point was: how had she gone from asleep in her own bed to asleep on Harry's couch? She'd had no idea he even still had this house…mansion. The last she'd heard, it had been placed in a trust for his estate and eventually sold. Harry – their Harrison Wells, from Earth-2 – had actually wanted to keep it (something about how he had the same home back on his Earth, and he had fond memories of raising Jesse there), but there hadn't been any conceivable way for him to claim it when he was a wanted fugitive thanks to Eobard's actions.

Had he secretly bought it back…without telling anyone? And if so, how had he done it, since they'd never cleared his name?

Was she making a wrong assumption in thinking he'd somehow reclaimed the house?

It figured that just after she'd convinced herself things would be fine, she'd start wondering if she should panic again. (She really hoped she wouldn't have to, because she was still exhausted and didn't have much energy for it at the moment... Besides, what were the odds that any new owners would have the same black-and-white taste as Harrison Wells?)

"Hey," Harry said from the doorway to her left, and Caitlin nearly wrenched her neck as she twisted her head to face him. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," she said, so incredibly thankful to see him that she almost wanted to jump up and go hug him. She knew she'd been working herself up over nothing.

He appeared to be scrutinizing her. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I was asleep, rolled over, and fell off your stupid couch," she snapped, getting irritated again at the jarring memory.

"Do I need to put guardrails on the furniture?" he asked, walking over to her. "I guess I mistakenly thought you'd mastered the skill of not falling off things oh…twenty-five years ago."

She wanted to snap at him again, but he was holding his hand out to her, so she took it and let him pull her to her feet. She studied him for a few moments, completely thrown by his attire – she'd never seen him in anything as casual as he was wearing now – gray pants and a green shirt, both of which appeared to be lounge clothes of some type. Or…pajamas. Great, she'd shown up at his home, under who knew what circumstances, only to bother him in what was quite possibly the middle of the night!

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking her over. (He sounded much more worried than she was used to hearing from him.) "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Just my pride," she mumbled, acutely aware she might be sulking.

"I didn't know that was possible," he joked.

She just barely cracked a smile before managing to stop herself, but it was too late.

"Ha, I saw that!" he cheered, before adding, "My streak's intact."

"Your streak?" she asked, as he pulled out his phone and typed something into it.

"Yup, eight days straight," he told her, as if that was supposed to clarify something. "I'll make it to two weeks yet. And then you'll be sorry."

She was tempted to pursue that line of questioning, but it was probably some stupid bet between him and Cisco. Or him and Barry. Or him and Joe. Or all four of them together, with her luck. And she had more pressing matters to address.

She hadn't missed that he was acting pretty casual about the fact that she was in his living room at… "What time is it?"

His eyes flicked to the wall behind her and she followed his gaze to see an ornate clock hanging there. "It's 11:30," he said, sounding amused. "Maybe you should get your eyes checked if you can't see that far."

"I can see fine," she told him. "I didn't know there was a clock there."

"It's been there forever," he said, as if she should care about his decorating choices.

"Okay." She didn't want to talk about clocks. She wanted to know why she was in her boss's living room when it was going on midnight. "How did I get here?"

"The living room?" he was starting to sound as confused as she felt. "I'm no detective, but I'm going to guess that you walked in here."

"Very funny." She waved her arms around to encompass him, herself, and their entire strange situation. "The last thing I remember is falling asleep."

"You were asleep," he pointed out.

"I'm not talking about just now," she said, frustrated. "I'm talking about earlier. I don't even remember driving here."

He was watching her too closely when he asked, "You don't remember leaving work?"

She jumped on his question. "No, I remember that. I got home, then I was researching on my laptop –"

"Right, the last meta-human we captured," he filled in, relaxing a little. "You wanted to know how he was capable of containing so much energy."

"Exactly," she said, relieved they were at last on the same page. "I was tired, though, so I put my laptop down and closed my eyes… I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You should be going to bed earlier," he scolded.

"Gee, thanks for that entirely unhelpful advice," she said, crossing her arms. "My point is I fell asleep at home and I woke up here. How is that possible?"

The mirth slowly vanished from his face and he was looking at her in a way that was incredibly unsettling. It took him a few moments to ask, "What do you mean you fell asleep 'at home'?"

"Home," she repeated, wondering what he even meant by that question. "You know, where I live? My apartment."

"Your…apartment."

"Yes," she said, her frustration mounting. "So again, I'll ask: how did I get here?"

He sat down on the couch where she'd been sleeping, and like an afterthought when she didn't follow him, he reached up to take her arm and pull her to sit down, too. "Are you sure you're not confused because you just woke up? Maybe you're disoriented."

"I'm definitely disoriented," she agreed, trying to decipher his expression. He was worried, she could tell. She could also tell that he was trying to hide it. "You didn't bring me here? Barry didn't?"

"No," he said, and he didn't seem any happier to give that answer than she was to hear it.

"Great," she sighed, leaning back into the couch cushions. She glanced around again, eyes falling on the end table to her right – and there was her closed laptop. Apparently, it had made its way here with her, somehow. And that reminded her… "How did you know what I was researching tonight?"

"You told me when you got home."

She didn't remember that, either. Though if her memory was compromised, should that be a surprise? "I don't remember calling or texting you," she said, turning back to him. "And I still don't know how I got here."

Again, he took a few moments to answer her. "You drove your car here. I wasn't with you." He leaned closer to her and she moved back out of an automatic habit to keep a set amount of personal space between herself and, well, everyone she interacted with. He frowned, but didn't comment on it, only saying, "You mentioned your…apartment. Tell me exactly what happened tonight."

"That's the thing," she said, inwardly hating how weak her voice sounded. "I don't know. I don't remember."

I don't know why I'm here. Or how I got here. Or why you don't seem concerned in the slightest that I'm in your house when it's almost midnight, and I'm beginning to think there's something truly wrong that no one knows about except –

"What do you remember?" he asked calmly, voice cutting into her increasingly anxious thoughts. She knew his tone – that tone meant everything would be okay. It meant that if there was a problem, they'd figure it out together.

She felt irrationally reassured, despite him having said nothing of the sort, and took a few breaths to calm herself. "I went home after work. Like usual. I had chips for dinner – save your judgement," she said quickly, seeing the look of disapproval on his face. "I started to do some research, then I was too tired to continue, so I put the TV on. And then I guess I drifted off…only to wake up in your living room."

"You went home after work," he repeated. "By that, you mean, you went to…"

"My apartment," she said, wondering how many times she'd have to say it.

He shut his eyes briefly. "Right. I think there's definitely something going on that neither of us can explain. We should run a few tests, perform some research before –"

"Don't do that," she ordered, irritation growing. She'd worked with him long enough to know when he was trying to distract her. Or keep something from her. "What aren't you telling me?"

He didn't answer her question, instead asking, "You have no idea why you might be here?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "Not only do I have no memory of coming over, but I don't know why I'd bother you at this time of night. If I had even the slightest idea, this whole situation would make a lot more sense, wouldn't it?"

He reached out, like he wanted to touch her, but dropped his hand before it could even get close. "I think it'd be best if we waited until tomorrow to talk about this," he told her, voice sounding somewhat distant. "I know you're tired, maybe when we're both more awake we can –"

"Don't," she warned. "Don't try to stall."

He still hesitated and she wished she could read the multitude of emotions that flickered across his face in those next few seconds. "I think we need to talk to the others to figure this out," he finally said.

"Figure what out?" she persisted. "This isn't a dream, is it? Some kind of altered state, or coma?"

He shook his head. "You're as awake as I am."

"How do I know you're not saying that in my dream?"

He actually smiled a little at that. "You'll have to trust me."

She got to her feet and crossed the room. When she reached the white marble fireplace, she spun back around and found his gaze. "I can tell that you don't think I was drugged or anything."

He seemed mildly surprised at her words, but nodded in agreement. "I don't see any signs of that."

"And you'd tell me if you thought you did," she said, mostly to herself, "because you'd be worried and want me to get checked out." His face confirmed as much.

"I don't want to upset you," he began, slowly, "and I think that pretty much anything I tell you right now is going to upset you."

"I'm already upset," she promised, and when he just looked at her without speaking, she added, on the verge of begging, "Talk to me. Please."

He obviously didn't want to, but she saw the moment he gave in from the way his shoulders dropped and he stared down at his clasped hands instead of looking at her. "You said it yourself – you don't remember how you got here. And from the other things you told me, about your apartment, and the way you're…" he trailed off, then sighed. "I think there's something going on with either your memory or…the timeline."

"Oh, that's just great!" she nearly-yelled. "Can't we go more than a month without this kind of thing?"

"We'll fix it," he swore, looking up again to meet her eyes across the room. "We'll figure out what's going on. We always do."

She nodded, knowing he was right. There was never anything they couldn't solve. And yet…something was still nagging at her. Maybe she could accept that she was missing parts of her memory, for some reason, or that the timeline had changed yet again in some way, but it felt like he was leaving out more than that…

She spun in a circle, taking in the room again as a whole – this room that seemed familiar in a way she couldn't place. She thought back to how he'd reacted upon first seeing her – that wasn't the behavior of someone whose co-worker had randomly wandered into their home, drugged, or suffering from amnesia, or otherwise. He was comfortable with her, they were wearing pajamas…hell, she was wearing the same ones she'd had on earlier that evening. At her apartment.

Things were adding up in a way that entirely unnerved her. And his behavior was at the core of it. "Why were you acting like everything was normal?" she demanded, unable to keep the accusation out of her voice.

He stared at her. "What?"

"When you first saw me. You didn't ask why I was here. Or how I got here." She came back across the room until she was right next to the couch, glaring down at him. "It was like those questions didn't even occur to you."

"I really think we should wait," he said, again. "Get everyone together tomorrow and try to –"

"No," she said, pointing at him. "I want to know. Now." When he still didn't answer, she huffed in anger and turned to head for one of the doorways (there were at least three off of this room and she actually had no idea how to get out of the house, but she was sure she'd find an exit eventually). "You want to be uncooperative?" she tossed back at him. "Fine, then I'm going home. But don't think you're off the hook, I'm still going to demand answers tomorrow and –"

He was suddenly behind her, putting his hand on her shoulder and turning her around to face him. "You can't go back to your apartment," he told her.

Of anything he might have said, it figured that he'd choose the one thing that had her edging toward irate. "What do you mean I can't go home?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I mean…you don't have an apartment to go back to."

"What the hell are you talking about!" she yelled, well-aware that she sounded somewhat hysterical, but she was at her wits' end. "Stop with the cryptic statements that answer nothing and just tell me whatever it is that you clearly don't want to tell me!"

If she'd found his worried behavior strangely unsettling before, his expression now was much worse…it went beyond troubled; it was far too close to outright fear.

It took a lot for her to reign in her emotions, to keep her voice even when she asked, "Why are you looking at me like that? Why can't I go home?"

"Caitlin." It was the first time he'd said her name tonight and it startled her. Not so much her name itself (rare though it was for him to call her that), but it was more his tone that surprised her. There was a plea in it, a plea for her to remain calm, to not overreact (and how did she know that, how did she know what he was imploring when all he'd said was her name?).

And she swore she knew, she knew what was coming before he finally met her eyes and said, "You are home."

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