A/N: This one is kind of long. There will be connected one-shots to this later on. It's also kind of corny/cheesy/crappy/etc. But whatever.
It was a dark and stormy night. Well, really it was early evening. Billy was strewn across the couch eating popcorn and watching television, while Machiavelli sat reading in the chair in the corner. Wind roared outside and rattled the window panes, as rain pounded heavily and noisily against the roof and walls, and the occasional boom of thunder was heard. They passed in this companionable state for awhile, until the power failed. The TV flickered off and the lamp Niccolò had been using to read went out.
"Oh, mother-"
"BILLY!"
"Sorry," the American said, sitting up on the couch and looking around. The sky outside was dark and the gray lighting in the room was incredibly dim. He could just barely see Machiavelli's silhouette getting to his feet. Billy stood as well. "You have candles, right, Mac?"
"Yes. And don't call me that," the Italian muttered, making his way into the kitchen. After the events on Alcatraz, Niccolò had rented a condo just outside San Francisco, and he was carefully trying to find a way to get back to his bank account in Italy and find somewhere for he and Billy to hide, but they had been there for almost three weeks. Their Elder masters were still operating under the impression that something had gone horribly wrong and that the two Immortals had been eaten or worse by Areop-Enap when she had awoken. It was a clever cover, and so far seemed to be working. However, this meant that Billy and Niccolò were not allowed to use their auras, even for a moment, or they would give themselves away.
Though of course they could not always control their own powers of healing; Billy's wound had closed after a few long and painful hours, and the only remnant was a long scar across his torso, and Niccolò had eventually reverted to the age he had been when bestowed immortality, however, his hair was being terribly stubborn about growing back.
Machiavelli poked around one of the cupboards for a minute, and finally retrieved a handful of candles and a box of matches. Turning back towards the sitting room, Niccolò was startled when he saw Billy standing mere inches from him. A shock of lightning lit up the room and showed the American Machiavelli's horrified face. He began laughing loudly, and the Italian walked past him briskly, highly unamused. He set the candles around the room and lit them, filling the area with a warm light. Billy followed after him, still giggling, and he dropped back down on the couch. Niccolò gave him an annoyed look, but rather than say anything, he grabbed his book once more.
The Italian read until Billy had composed himself, and there were about three minutes of relative silence. However, Niccolò was then promptly interrupted by the former outlaw as he reseated himself on the arm of the chair and took the book out of his hands. Machiavelli took a deep breath through his nose and looked up at Billy. "Yes?"
The American carefully folded a corner of the page and then tossed the book over his shoulder. Machiavelli flinched. "I'm bored," Billy explained simply. The older Immortal sighed.
"And it falls to me to entertain you?"
"Niccolò," Billy used his first name, which caught the Italian's attention. He climbed onto the man's lap and looked him meaningfully in the eyes. "I'm bored," he repeated, slipping his arms around Machiavelli's neck.
"Oh." He always does this while I'm reading. Nevertheless, Niccolò leaned up, the tip of his nose brushing against the American's.
Billy's lips covered his quickly, and Machiavelli's fingers reached up, one hand entwining in the American's sandy hair, the other curling around the collar of Billy's t-shirt and pulling his upper body closer. The kiss was passionate, hungry. Billy's hands moved to Niccolò's chest and began undoing the buttons of his shirt, while the Italian's tongue roughly forced its way into the younger Immortal's mouth. Billy moaned softly into the kiss, briefly abandoning his unbuttoning and clutching Niccolò's shoulders tightly. The tip of Niccolò's tongue danced in gentle spirals on the roof of Billy's mouth.
Machiavelli broke the kiss once, only to pull Billy's shirt off rapidly, then their lips, like magnets, reconnected. Niccolò's fingers found the scar on the American's back and traced meaningless patterns across the rough skin. Billy was struggling to undo the last button on Machiavelli's shirt, fingers working desperately, when-
CRASH! The two men sat bolt upright, staring in the direction of the dark hallway. The sound had come from the kitchen, but now their condo was eerily silent. The wind howled outside, but no noise came from indoors.
"What was that?" Billy whispered, still clinging to the older Immortal's shirt. They waited for another half-minute in silence.
"Probably thunder, or a branch against the window," Machiavelli explained, though he did not sound fully convinced. After a few more seconds without any more noise, the Italian shrugged it off and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Billy's collarbone, the tip of his tongue darting out against the skin. The American fully unbuttoned Niccolò's shirt and was sliding it off his shoulders when there was the sound of movement in the hallway. They both looked toward the doorway. They could see nothing in the darkness beyond, but Niccolò could feel Billy's heart beating even faster than it had been already, and he held him closer.
"What if it's a vampire?"
"Billy, it isn't a vampire. Vampires have to be invited in to your homes."
"Oh, right..." There was another short pause. "What if it's-" Niccolò sighed and untangled himself from Billy, climbing out of the chair and fastening a few of the buttons. Billy grabbed his arm tightly. "Mac! You can't just go out there! What if it is something dangerous? You can't use your aura to fight it off."
The Italian paused at this, realizing that the Kid was right. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning, closely followed by a bellow of thunder. Whatever was in the hall darted into the room and under the couch in a dark streak. Both Immortals shouted in surprise, and somehow ended up standing on the chair, clinging to one another and staring at the sofa in terror.
"Oh my god, it's gonna eat us," Billy whimpered into Machiavelli's shoulder. "It's gonna skin us and then eat us bit by bit." The Italian swallowed past the lump in his throat.
"I-I don't know, Billy. It looked rather... small," he replied, though his voice shook. Thunder roared again, and in its wake, a small, fearful "meow" came from under the couch. The Immortals exchanged surprised looks. Machiavelli carefully climbed off the chair and crouched beside the couch. Taking a deep breath, he peeked underneath.
Sure enough, shaking violently, drenched from the rain and very afraid, was a little black kitten. Niccolò reached slowly and carefully under the sofa towards it, and the cat came to him willingly.
"Here's your vampire," he told Billy, straightening up and holding the trembling feline. The American visibly relaxed, and he stepped off the chair, coming over to pet the cat behind its ears. The cat purred.
"Can we keep him?" He asked, looking up to Machiavelli, his blue eyes wide and pleading. "Please?" Machiavelli looked between the kitten and his lover, debating. He noticed that Billy's eyes looked completely beautiful in the candlelight- He sighed.
"Fine."
"Yes! You're the best, Mac!" Billy kissed him and then continued petting the kitten. About a half hour later, the feline had a place to sleep in the kitchen in a shoebox with a blanket. The window had been left open a few inches, and it had gotten in that way. Also, Billy had dubbed him "Dracula." The storm was subsiding, and as Billy tried to get the cat used to its new living arrangements, the power flickered back on.
Billy left the kitchen after Dracula fell asleep minutes later, and shut off the sitting room lights again. Machiavelli sighed heavily. He had been trying to return to his book, and all but the candle beside him were extinguished. He set aside the book, though, as Billy crossed to him, and returned to his arms. The American's lips were at his neck, and he whispered softly against his skin, "We're not done just because of a cat, are we?"
"Of course not," Machiavelli returned, and blew out the last candle.