A/N: Damn, this one is long. This one is set before the others, only a few days after Alcatraz. So... here you go. And you may ask, "Hey, are you going to end every chapter with a potential innuendo/cliffhanger?" and I may say, "It seems so. It seems so."

Billy trudged solemnly next to Machiavelli as they passed through the crowded shopping mall. He had not wanted to go shopping for new clothes, nor did he really understand why they were hiding so thoroughly. As long as they didn't use their auras, they should be fine. However, Niccolò had insisted they get entirely new wardrobes, even though all the Italian had bought so far were suits and fancy slacks and shirts. Billy had tried to coax him to wear a pair of jeans earlier, and had been very close, too. However, a smartly dressed mannequin had distracted Machiavelli, and the American had been reduced once again to boredom.

He was surprised that the older Immortal so enjoyed shopping. But of course, he was a lover of designer clothes, so Billy supposed it shouldn't have shocked him. The American, on the other hand, loathed shopping. He saw nothing wrong with a simple pair of jeans, a few t-shirts and a good pair of boots. What more did he need?

Machiavelli, currently browsing a window display, was completely oblivious to his friend's impatience. In fact, he did not even glance up to see if the American was following until he heard the younger man give a low whistle, and mutter, "Hot damn." He looked round just in time to see Billy setting off quite determinedly towards the fountain nearby. Three young women, all wearing different colored tank tops and very short shorts were giggling there and drinking smoothies. Sighing at the American Immortal's new distraction, Niccolò followed, stopping by a nearby plant to watch as Billy strolled directly up to the girl in the middle, and grinned sheepishly.

"Hey, hi. Sorry to bother you," he began nervously. "I was um, wondering if you lovely ladies knew where I could find the food court?" Machiavelli rolled his eyes. Obviously it was just a few stores over.

"Oh, right over there," the girl replied, pointing. She reached up and pulled at the bottom of her shirt, not so subtly revealing more cleavage, but Billy's eyes strayed from her face only for a moment. He smiled.

"Thank you very much! I'm Billy, by the way," he added, holding out his hand.

"Kathy," she replied, while her friends giggled. She took Billy's hand, but instead of shaking it, the Immortal brought the girl's knuckles softly up to his lips. She blushed a shade of pink to rival even her bright tank top.

From where he stood observing, Niccolò felt a strange pang in his chest; a feeling he had not had in many, many years. Jealousy. His jaw tightened and so did his grip on their bags. He had not admitted this, hardly even to himself, but he found the younger Immortal to be incredibly attractive. Gorgeous was the word he had thought upon first sight. Yet he had known Billy for little more than a week, and had said nothing of his feelings; feelings that had grown much stronger after their experiences on Alcatraz. He had done quite well thus far in hiding his emotions, but watching the handsome American flirt so shamelessly with those women- it ignited a fire within Niccolò's chest.

"And your lovely friends?" Billy asked, gently releasing Kathy's hand and fixing the other two women with an enchanting smile.

"Alex," one said shyly, and the other giggled out, "Veronica." Billy kissed their hands as well, which made them grin widely.

"Now, I see you beautiful ladies have smoothies, but might I have the honor of treating you three to-"

"Billy!" The American turned to see Machiavelli walking towards him, and he sighed, the bright smile sliding off his face.

"Oh, is this your father?" the girl in the blue shirt, Alex, asked innocently. Niccolò visibly tensed, his knuckles white with their vicious grip on their purchases. Billy noticed and spoke quickly.

"No, um, he's my uncle, actually." Machiavelli's look said quite clearly, "not better," but the younger Immortal had already spoken. The girls cheerfully greeted Niccolò, who nodded politely.

"I hate to interrupt, but Billy, we're leaving," he said, with an edge of distinct harshness to his voice.

"Oh. Um, right. I'm sorry, ladies. Maybe I could get a phone number and we could all do lunch some other time?"

"Billy, when are you going to have time for that?" Niccolò interrupted again, just as all three girls reached for their phones. The American sighed heavily.

"Well, as my uncle has a point, I'm afraid this is where we part. Thank you three for pointing me in the right direction," Billy said, winking. All three girls blushed and giggled, waving as Billy marched after Machiavelli. When they were out of sight and earshot of the fountain, Billy pulled the Italian to a halt, glaring up at him.

"What is your problem?" He demanded. "I was doing so well! I had all three of them in the palm of my hand. Three girls, Mac! I know you probably haven't flirted with anyone for awhile, but that's an accomplishment to be proud of!"

"Billy, we are supposed to be lying low, and you dating three women at the same time would be very eye catching. Besides, I'm sure if you said anything to those particular girls they'd be falling all over you." Machiavelli began walking again. "And how many times do I have to tell you not to use that stupid nickname?"

Billy was furious. "God, it's like you don't want me to have any fun! I didn't even want to go shopping in the first place."

"Stop acting like a child," Niccolò retorted sharply as they left the mall and headed for their rented car. He was also irate, though he would never say why. "I don't want to deal with your temper tantrums. Unlock the doors, please." Nothing happened. Niccolò turned to face Billy, who was seething, his arms crossed tightly and his narrowed eyes like twin storms, filled with anger. "Billy-"

"I'm not moving from this spot until-" a car honked and Billy stepped forwards into their parking space to allow the vehicle to pass. "I'm not moving from this spot until you tell me why you won't loosen up for one damn afternoon. I wasn't even doing anything wrong!"

Machiavelli opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. "My best friend died a few days ago, Mac! The least you could do was let me talk to some girls. You are such a- a-" unable to conceive a strong enough word for what the Italian Immortal was, he simply let out a small scream of frustration. Niccolò was silent. Of course Billy was still wounded by the loss of Black Hawk. The Italian sighed.

"Billy, I'm sorry," he said, defeated. "I just..." he stopped himself. He just what exactly? He just hated seeing Billy show anyone affection because he ached for those lips and fingers to caress his skin? Because he wanted that smile and those glittering eyes for himself? Because when he lay awake at night and his thoughts strayed to the deepest desires he had, Niccolò imagined unspeakable things involving the young American and himself? He must have stood silent for longer than he thought, for Billy, looking no less wrathful, inquired just that awful question.

"You just what?" There was no answer. "You just WHAT, Mac?" He asked again, much louder.

"I just hated seeing you throw yourself at them," he answered calmly. "You could do much better, Billy." The American laughed scornfully.

"If I didn't know any better, Mac, I'd think you were jealous," he sneered. Niccolò said nothing, but looked away, and Billy's rage vanished instantly. "Oh my God. You were jealous." Still no response. "Mac, I-"

"Stop using that dreadful nickname."

"Niccolò," Billy tried again, and the Italian's gray eyes lifted to the younger Immortal's face. He had been under the impression that the American truly did not know his first name. Machiavelli was more surprised, however, to find that Billy was now standing quite close to him. "Niccolò, I- I had no idea." The emotion in his eyes was indistinguishable, and Machiavelli averted his own gaze.

"Billy, these bags are quite heavy. If you could just unlock the car." The vehicle chirped welcomingly behind them, and the Italian quickly turned and placed their bags in the back seat. When he closed the door and turned around, he found that the American was again standing very, very close. Machiavelli kept his expression blank, but his heart was beating quite fast. Billy said nothing, but reached one hand up to the older Immortal's face, which he brought down towards him as he rose up on his toes and pressed their lips together for a brief moment. When Billy dropped back to his normal height, there was a pause in which both men looked at each other in silence. Then the American climbed into the driver's seat of the car.

"Let's go home," he said, smiling up at Niccolò.