Well, I got a couple people asking for a sequel. This... wouldn't be considered a sequel, more of another alternate situation, but it's the only one I really like. (I did write some more - I wrote a lot, actually - but I didn't think any of it was good enough to put up.) So yeah, have some more of the same!

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS (Chapter 2)

Wesley sat on the couch and grinned. Fox's kiss – her insanely awesome, fiery, blow-all-others-out-of-the-water kiss – could still be tasted on his lips. He was completely aware that it was to shut his old girlfriend up - he might have taken a level in badass since joining the Fraternity, but he wasn't going to kid himself into thinking he was anywhere near Fox's level. But God had it been good.

He took a deep breath, trying and failing to wipe the cheeky smile from his face. He had finished his training, his father's (wet and probably unusable) gun was stuffed away in his jacket, and he had just made out with the sexiest woman he had ever seen. Yeah, okay, he was sitting on a moldy couch in the middle of a darkened alley that was crawling with rats, but for once, life was good.

But as Wesley had learned over the years, fate liked to take his best moments and shove it up its ass.

He watched the rats for a moment longer, something niggling in his head. One of them skittered away from him, drawing his gaze up, but he was still so blanked out on Fox's kiss that he didn't quite take in the sight ahead of it.

Then he re-focused and recognized the figure standing behind a broken-down car.

Cross.

"Shit!"

He sprang off the couch and dropped under the cover of rusted car, catching a fleeting glimpse of his nemesis drawing his own gun. He risked a shot, the blast of the gun shattering the quiet night. Half a second later he heard Cross's gunshot – and saw, through his adrenaline haze, his bullet collide squarely with Cross's and bounce off one another. As the two bullets separated, he realized Cross had disappeared.

Shit! He leaped to his feet and saw the man running across the street. Wesley swore again and ran, smashed into a car and skidded on top of its front, riding perhaps ten feet into the street – "Asshole!" he heard someone shout – and shot several times. He missed, he knew he had missed, had seen Cross jump and roll and sparks fly off the pavement. The car screeched to a stop and he slid off and heard a massive crunch as another car slammed into it, saw Cross dash into the train station across. He aimed again but the man had reached the stairs and ducked under an overhanging billboard. Wesley cursed yet again and sprinted across, shoving people out of the way.

In contrast to the busy night streets outside, the train station was totally deserted. Wesley let loose a volley of bullets until his gun had emptied its magazine. Only then did he slow his run, knowing that neither he nor Cross could afford to make noise. On that thought, he slipped behind a column and tossed aside his empty gun. As he cocked the pistol, he thought it fitting that he bring down his father's murderer with his gun of the man he had murdered.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Wesley took several quick breaths, felt himself slipping into his adrenaline mode, and felt his heartbeat quicken yet heard it slow to a heavy thump as he drowned in his haze –

He heard Cross's step, one, two, three drawing ever closer.

Now! And he dashed out, his heartbeat loud against his eardrums, gun aimed at –

Nothing. As he glanced frantically around, at the pillars, the balconies above, the buildings nearby, he felt the mood slip away, unused, wasted.

The sound of steps behind him made him spin around, gun up once more.

"Whoa!" The man held up his hands.

Wesley jerked back his gun just in time, heart racing for a different reason now. "Russian. What are you doing here?" He lowered his weapon.

"Fox, she called." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. In the distance, Wesley could see the Repairman and the Gunsmith trotting over. Backup. Great.

He sighed. "Ah. Well, um... tell her thanks."

The Russian nodded eagerly. His eyes flicked over Wesley's shoulder. "You see Cross?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know. He's gone by now." Wesley shook his head in frustration. He had been so close...

"Ah. I go tell others."

The Russian trotted off, stopping the Repairman and the Gunsmith. Wesley watched the three for a few moments, the Gunsmith and Repairman's stoic calm an odd contrast to the Russian's twitchy movements. He turned away, balling his hands. His disappointment was growing. If only he had aimed just a bit better, had been a few feet closer, he could have avenged his father's death on his own - no backup needed, no piece of cloth telling him what to do. As helpful as the Fraternity and Fox had been, he didn't need them around 24/7. And they would not be next time. It would just be him and Cross, facing each other down.

The sound of a gunshot behind him made him whirl around.

A bullet whizzed by him, circled, heading straight for the Fraternity members many feet ahead of him. He turned, shouted something, he would never know what, saw the Repairman fall –

He turned around and ran down the building, not seeing Cross but knowing he was there, knowing that he was the one who had made the shot. He could hear yelling behind him but could not pick out individual voices –

Another crack of a gunshot and he dived, slamming into the ground and splashing into a puddle, wetness soaking his sweater – and behind him heard another yell, the sound of someone falling. Instinctively, frantically, he turned and saw, in the distance, two shapes on the ground, not moving – and the Russian, running towards him –

A shot, and as Wesley ran down the final curve of the building he saw Cross, half crouching, gun finishing its arc and a third bullet soaring out –

He threw himself down again, then rolled, heard the bullet fly over his head –

A small cry made him turn and see the Russian, clutching his leg, falling to the ground –

Wesley shouted, "No!"

He stood –

A little gray cone was flying at him, and it seemed like all the weeks of training just left him and he was staring uncomprehendingly at it.

There was a burst of pain at his arm. It shot up his shoulder and down his wrist, blinding him with its intensity. One wild, strange thought burst into consciousness – a bullet, that's what it was, a bullet, the Gunsmith was going to kill him for not knowing that –

– and then he knew nothing.

The sound of a train speeding by was the first thing he became aware of. The next was of light flashing against his eyelids in a steady pattern. Then it was of pain, dull but steadily invading his consciousness. Despite all this, it was a few more seconds before he realized that he was slumped against a chair, that he was dripping wet and soaking into the cushion, and that there was something warm wrapped around his body.

He opened his eyes and looked around blearily. He was in a darkened room; across from him was a window, the blinds drawn down but not closed. Through it, he could see the train rolling by, throwing its reflection against the blinds and causing the blinking light pattern that had woken him up. Wesley himself was sitting in an armchair, and the warmth was that of a blanket draped around him and which he was currently soaking with water. Water... where had that come from? His tired brain pushed that thought aside for later. He blinked down at his arm, the source of the throbbing pain. It looked, to his blurred vision, like a small red hole oozing blood and pus. Moving his arm – which he did, ever so gently – sent a sharp pain up and down his arm and, worst of all, let him feel an odd, hard lump inside him, pushing against skin and muscle. The bullet – and hating the feeling of it, the foreignness of it in his arm, Wesley gritted his teeth and reached for the wound, preparing to pull it out.

"Wait."

He jumped and almost dislodged the blanket at the unfamiliar voice. The pain in his arm increased and for a few seconds kept him from comprehending the man standing next to him, but the shock was no less – Cross.

He shot up in his seat, fumbling in his pants (he had pants on?) for a gun, a weapon, anything. All he could think of was the Repairman and the Gunsmith falling before Cross's bullets; of Russian, bleeding and crying out –

"Wesley, stop."

Wesley edged back as the man moved closer, though every movement had him gritting his teeth to hold back the pain.

"Get away-" he hissed. "Get the fuck away from me…"

Cross grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him back into the seat, pinning Wesley's arms down. Wesley struggled fiercely but could not free himself, and settled for glaring hatefully at the man.

"I'm not going to hurt you," said Cross. He kneeled down next to him. "I need to take out the bullet."

What? He followed Cross's gaze and saw his gunshot injury, now dripping blood on to his arm and the chair. What the fuck was going on? The man had shot him and now he wanted to help get it out?

Cross lifted up his hands, watching Wesley warily for signs of struggle. "Stay," he said. Wesley wanted to punch him. As Cross pulled out a pair of tweezers, Wesley prodded at his wound, gritting his teeth at the pain.

"This will hurt," warned Cross. Wesley rolled his eyes and turned away.

Cross dug into the wound. Wesley cried out, grabbing onto the arms of the chair, trying to focus on something, the noise of the train passing by, the light dancing on the back of his eyelids. The pain was excruciating. He grabbed at the chair's arms so hard that he felt his knuckles and fingers go numb, and thought that surely Cross must be torturing him, slicing at his muscles and working at the nerves until the wound would grow infected and Wesley would be ill and helpless –

Then it stopped. Or at least it dulled down to levels he could handle. Wesley released a breath he had not known he was holding, becoming aware of the sudden stillness now that the train was not shaking the foundations of the building. He opened his eyes and, through pain-hazed vision, saw Cross lean down and pick up what was presumably the bullet.

Cross grabbed Wesley's arm, perhaps sensing that Wesley was about to put up a fight again. "Wait. Let me bandage it," he said. Wesley nodded weakly, but as Cross rose, he saw the man's jacket open a little and a glimmer of metal catch his eye. He knew with sure instinct what it was: a gun.

Cross turned back and Wesley quickly closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, not moving, trying to hide his agitation, letting the pain fall to a dull ache. There seemed to be more blood spurting from the wound now; he could feel it dribbling down his arm and onto the blanket.

The creak of the floorboards told him that Cross was near. He cracked open his eyes a bit and saw the man crouch near him once more. After a few moments he felt a light dabbing of the wound, then a stinging sensation. He managed to keep in his grunt of pain this time. Antibiotics, he assumed. He missed the Fraternity baths. But then he remembered that he was all wet himself, and that Cross was a former Fraternity member. The idea made him wonder, distracting him from the pain for a few moments.

Cross had laid a cloth bandage over it and was taping it to his arm. Wesley gripped the seat, winding up his body in preparation. He would have only one shot at this; if he missed, Cross would likely kill him, though why he hadn't done so already – why he was, in fact, patching him up, why he had actually brought him back and helped him – puzzled Wesley. He put it out of his mind; he would find the answer to that soon enough.

He heard Cross move, and opened his eyes. There was a white gauze bandage wrapped around his arm, though it was quickly being stained red. Even turning his head to look at it caused his arm to shift slightly, loosening the bandage. As he watched, a reddish-clear fluid escaped the wrapping and dribbled down his arm.

Cross grabbed at his shoulder, holding him still. "Don't move," he said. He wiped Wesley's arm with the blanket and pulled the bandage tighter. "You need to be still if you want it to heal," he went on, releasing Wesley's arm. "You should not use it. I will go and-"

Wesley moved. Taking advantage of Cross's distraction, he whipped his uninjured arm around and thrust his right hand into Cross's jacket. The man started to leap back but it was too late. Wesley felt the handle of the gun in Cross's coat pocket, wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it out as Cross managed to jerk away –

Then Wesley was upright, toppling over his chair, blanket falling off him and the gun firmly in his hands and pointed at Cross. The older man stood slowly, and Wesley wondered why he wasn't staring at the gun, why he was staring at Wesley. Impassively, actually. It scared Wesley just a bit, made him wonder what trick the man used that kept him so calm.

"Wesley-"

"Shut up," Wesley said, gripping the gun tighter. The pain in his newly bandaged arm was intensifying, making his head swim from the pain. Now, said the little voice in Wesley's head, do it now. Kill the man who murdered your father. But why was the man so calm?

"Wesley," Cross said again, and Wesley took back that last thought. He could hear urgency now. "listen to me-"

"Shut up," he said again. He could feel a growing wetness under the bandage but didn't dare to look at it. "Just – shut up. Don't talk to me."

"You are hurting yourself," Cross said with even more desperation. "Stop moving-"

"I said shut up!" Wesley shouted, jerking the gun. "Don't talk to me! You do not get to talk to me, you lying piece of-"

A flash of light caught his eye. He turned instinctively, trying at the same time to keep Cross in his gaze.

Sunlight had passed over the gilded frame of a photograph. He looked at it, glanced swiftly back at Cross, still standing at the opposite side of the room, then looked back at the photo. It looked like a school photo of a child, not more than six years old. Cross had a kid?

Why should he care? It would just be all the more satisfying that he deprive Cross's possible child of a father. The same way Cross had deprived Wesley of a father. Karma, really.

"You can go look at it," said Cross from where he stood. He gestured to the picture, and Wesley realized he had let himself look puzzled. "The photo."

Wesley wiped his face clean of expression, trying to get back that cool, calm look everyone else in the Fraternity had perfected. Yet he looked back, feeling hesitation steal into his mind.

No. He mentally shook his head. He was an assassin, a weapon of fate, and Cross's name had come up on the Loom. And Cross had killed his father.

Then why was it so hard for him to pull the trigger?

Maybe it was because Cross had no weapon, was just standing there. He couldn't just kill a defenseless man.

Asshole, he berated himself. Cross had blindsided his own father on a rooftop, betrayed him. He probably had a weapon hidden somewhere in that jacket of his and was just waiting for Wesley to make one wrong move. And if Cross had caught Wesley's father off guard, then it was only right that Wesley do the same.

But he didn't want to become like Cross.

He couldn't even think properly anymore. His arm hurt so much, he didn't want to keep holding that gun up, keep looking at Cross, watching him calmly.

From his place, Cross said quietly, "Go ahead."

A trick, Wesley said to himself. A fucking trick to get him to lower his guard, and then he would attack. He gritted his teeth. Well, he could definitely make sure that wouldn't happen. He squeezed the trigger -

- and released. Not now. Later, after he got a good look at Cross's kid. he had a vague idea of waving the photo around and rubbing it in Cross's face before he got his revenge. He turned back to the man and waved at a corner. The movement made his arm and head ache once more. "You – go – go over there. And stay – stay there."

Cross moved over, lowering his hands, and watched as Wesley stumbled over to the drawer upon which the photos stood. When Wesley looked back over his shoulder at him, there seemed just the barest hint of anticipation.

He grabbed the first photo, forcing back an uncontrollable shiver, the sudden premonition that everything was about to change.

This kid sure looks familiar, was his first thought. It took him a very long time to reach – or maybe accept – the next though.

It wasn't just any familiar-looking kid. It was himself.

He grabbed the other photos, his head throbbing from more than just the bruise now. They were all of himself – one of adult him crossing his apartment window, another with Cathy, another again in front of the window, looking out into the distance. He turned around, wanting to yell and scream and tear the answers from Cross, but then he saw more photos, and heard the train rushing by the house once more. It sounded familiar – too familiar.

He hurried to the window, forgetting Cross altogether now, pulled up the blinds, and felt a dull shock at what he saw across the tracks. It was his own apartment. There were no blinds or curtains hanging there – he had never been able to afford any – so he could see Annabelle leaping on the stupid IKEA table he had bought a few months back, a pile of groceries piled along the counters, his bed, his kitchen, his old home...

His home. And Cross had been just across the tracks, had been right there and had never done a thing to him…

He heard movement from Cross's corner and turned around, gun raised again. His voice shook. The shootings, the pain from his arm, and now the photos – it was too much.

"Who are you?" He brandished the photos. Another wave of dizziness and he felt the frame slip slightly from his fingers. "What – what the fuck is this?" Cross didn't answer for a few seconds, but it was a few too much for him. "Tell me!" he shouted, jerking at the gun, aware that his hands were shaking.

"Wesley…" Cross hesitated. "I'm your father."

Wesley shook his head, trying to un-hear those words, the surety behind Cross's voice. "No. No, they told me you killed my father." He waved the gun again. "You killed him!"

"No." Cross moved forward. "Everything they told you was a lie. You are my son."

Wesley backed off and bumped against the table. He sagged against it, dropping the gun to the floor. In his state of numbness, all he was aware of was the water falling from his body onto the floor and the photos he now gripped with all his might. He had to be in some terrible drama, because that was the only thing that could explain the information being thrown at him. He set the photos down and gripped at his head. His father was alive, had been watching him not twenty feet away all this time. He had run from his father. He had tried to shoot his own father.

What kind of a person was he?

He started and looked up when he felt a blanket being draped around his body. Cross was at his side. He tucked it around Wesley's shoulders. Wesley jerked a bit but otherwise let Cross be.

"Thank you," he choked out. He couldn't look at the man yet, afraid of what he would see in his father's face. Hatred? Gloating? Shame?

Cross acknowledged this by pressing the icepack harder. He tilted his head down to look at what Wesley was holding and picked up one of the photos.

"I took this from your backpack when you were six," he said, indicating the first photo Wesley had seen. "You thought you lost it."

He sounded just a little apologetic. Wesley scrubbed at his eyes, not understanding why he should sound so sorry. He didn't think he had a firm enough grip on his emotions to talk. There was a heaving pit of guilt in his stomach that was robbing his brain of words. He stared at the photo, at himself, but most of all at the way Cross held it, both familiar and tender, as if he had looked over it many times before.

Cross took another, the one of Wesley contemplating the view outside. "I liked this one. I always wondered what you were thinking then." He looked at Wesley. "Do you remember?"

Wesley shook his head. He didn't even know what year that had been taken. Feeling more in control, he took the next photo from Cross's hands, the one of Cathy kissing him. A weak laugh escaped from him. "This was back when she still liked me," he said. He put it aside and looked at Cross wonderingly. The man he had been intent on killing just a few moments ago, his real father, was leaning against the table just inches from him. Cross met his gaze but didn't speak.

He let the photos clatter back on the table. "Why…" he gulped back a breath. "Why would… they send me to kill you?" He didn't want to say 'the Fraternity', didn't want to think that the group that had given so much meaning to his life might have deliberately misled him.

Cross glanced at him. "Because you are the one person I would never kill."

Wesley clenched his jaw, betrayal washing over him, wanting to deny it. He said, "No – that's not true. You did want to kill me." He pushed himself off the table to face Cross. "You did try and kill me! You fucking shot me!" Pain ran over his arm as he moved, reminding him. "You were shooting at me in the store, in – in the car, and – out there! You were trying to fucking kill me!"

"No." Cross stood up, but though he seemed calm Wesley thought he could feel the slightest hint of desperation. "No. I was trying to rescue you."

"Rescue me?" Wesley spat out, backing off even further. "Rescue me… from what?"

"From what used to be the Fraternity." He turned and took something from off the table and handed it to Wesley. It was a cloth, one Wesley recognized as coming from the Loom of Fate.

"Here," Cross said, gesturing to the table they had been leaning against. Propped up against the wall were a lamp and a large magnifying glass. Wesley put the cloth under and grabbed a nearby pen, scrawling out numbers on the glass table. But he had a feeling he already knew what was coming…

"Sloan," he breathed. "Shit."

Everything that had happened to him in the last six weeks was being turned over. Cross had not been attacking him; he had been protecting him. The chase from Wesley's apartment to the train station – had it really been Wesley chasing Cross down, or had Cross been trying to draw him out, away from the Fraternity members? Was that why he had waited until Fox left? And now Wesley remembered the first incident in the supermarket… Had Cross had not been stalking him to take him down? Had he simply been watching over him? There had been moments when Wesley had come close to the man – stumbling down the aisle, as he had run out the store – and Cross had moved towards him as if to attack… but it had not been an attack, had it? When he had been chasing him through traffic afterwards, he had driven up right beside Wesley, had the perfect opportunity to shoot him – but he had not. It had always been Fox he was aiming at…

Cross swiped off the pen marks with his hand. "He had taken over the Loom and started creating his own targets. When I found out, he turned everybody against me… and when I left, he went after you."

Wesley gripped the edge of the table. This was more than finding out a long-lost relation. This was the loss of his entire purpose. He had coasted on the surface of life for so long that to find something he could put everything into, something that seemed almost destined for him – it had been exhilarating. He had finally been a part of something worthwhile, and not just a replaceable cog in the system, filing away billing reports. And now it had come crashing down.

"I never wanted you in the Fraternity," Cross said gently, and Wesley wondered if the man knew the internal conflict he was going through. "I wanted you to have the life I could never have. A normal life."

Wesley laughed bleakly. "I did have that life, remember? I hated it. I was fucking worthless."

"No." Wesley would not have noticed that one word if not for the firmness of his Cross's voice. But before he could fully reflect on that, Cross had gone on: "You had peace. You had a home, friends, family."

"Not every member of the family," Wesley mumbled to the floor.

Cross paused. It took a moment before he said, "I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to live."

Wesley looked up at him. "That wasn't living. That was… fucking mindless drudgery."

Cross made a movement as if he had made to grip Wesley's shoulder but had thought better of it. Instead, he asked "Then what would you do? Be hunted down by the Fraternity?"

Wesley stopped, looked at his father. "Not unless we take them down." Before Cross could get in a word, he said, "That's what you've been doing, right? I saw those people you killed. Sloan said you were picking them off and they couldn't do anything about it." He sat up. "I want to help. Let me help you."

"No. I wanted to take down Sloan alone. Not with you."

"So they're just going to keep trying to kill you and then as soon as you're out of the picture they'll come and kill me because you told me the truth!" Wesley exclaimed. "I don't want to hide, not when I can do all – all this! I don't want to run away!"

"It's to keep you safe-"

"Well I don't want to be kept away from you!" He paused to gather his thoughts, trying not to notice just how intense Cross's gaze had become. He said, in a quieter voice, "I mean… you're my father. I don't know anything about you, but I… I want to." That had felt good and bad – good to get those words out, bad because of how needy he must have sounded. "I can't just let them hunt you and… not do anything about it."

"If you left," said Cross at last, "they would not find you. I would not let them find you."

Wesley sighed, trying to think. Finally, he said the only argument he had left. "You said you wanted me to have a life. Don't you want one too?" He could not quite add in the words he so badly wanted to say - with me? – but he thought the emotion might have come out anyway.

Cross turned away, and for a long moment there was only silence between the two. Wesley tugged the blanket tighter around himself. With nothing else to do, he went to the toppled armchair and righted it, then collected the photos and put them back in their place.

Then he heard Cross speak, very slowly. "I will… think on it, Wesley." He moved towards the younger man and pushed aside the blanket to look at Wesley's wound. The entire bandage was soaked red, some of it seeping through on to the blanket, due to all the gun waving Wesley had put himself through. "I have a bath prepared for you."

"I'm fine," Wesley said. Really, it was just a bit of pain anytime he moved. No big deal.

"You were shot at, knocked out, had a bullet removed from your arm, and have been moving the same arm far too much."

"Yeah… like I said, nothing." He gave a weak chuckle that turned into a sigh as Cross gave him a look and moved him to the bathroom anyway. Wow, when had he suddenly become such a kid?

"I know they're helpful and everything," Wesley muttered, "but I really don't like the baths."

Cross smiled just a bit. "Neither do I."

Wesley felt a grin come over his face. It was such a small thing, but to know that he shared something with this newfound father of his made him ache inside in a very good way. It was a start.

Cross removed the blanket and watched him slide into the bath. Wesley drifted in it, feeling sleep overcome him. It had been a very long, very eventful night.

"Hey, Cross," he said as the man made to leave. He could not call him Dad or Father just yet, but it felt nice to say the man's name without any underlying hatred. "You'll still be here when I'm done, right?" He winced inwardly at the childishness of his words. But inside, he was still the little boy abandoned by his father and who needed just a bit of reassurance to get him through the day.

Perhaps not abandoned, though. Perhaps left alone… but always watched over, until the time was right.

Cross nodded, understanding. "I will."

As he closed the door, Wesley closed his eyes and smiled.