"Where'd your dad go?" John asked Machiavelli, dangling his feet between the railing slats of the second floor landing. They looked at the immortals gathered in the living room.

"He's out getting some more food," Machiavelli answered. "We're going through food a lot faster now that our family's come up to visit."

"Are you sure it's okay for me to be here with your family visiting like this?" John asked nervously.

Machiavelli sensed the unease in the young boy. "Of course it's okay," he reassured the boy. "I've missed you these past few days. Besides they're going to be here a while." He watched the boy visibly relax. He turned back to look at the immortals, but secretly watched John from the corner of his eye. Already, John looked like he was filling out slightly, the extra food they'd been giving him finally adding some weight to his frame. "Is it just you and your mom?" he asked suddenly.

John looked up in surprise. "My father took my older brother with him when he left. But he left me behind." There was a sad color in his tone.

"Don't you miss your brother?" Machiavelli still missed all four of his siblings, even now, many years after they had died.

John nodded. "I do, but I'm glad I was left here with my mom or I think she'd be lonely."

Machiavelli felt uncomfortable with the conversation's track. "Want to see my model car?" he asked, getting to his feet. "It's a copy of Billy's car," he explained. John followed him into the small bedroom in the back that he called his own.

John looked with interest at the airplane hanging from the ceiling and the Lego models that lay half-finished on the desk. "This is a great room," he admired, spinning around. Machiavelli pulled his car out.

"I've lived in a lot of places," he admitted. "But I like this one best. Billy's been very good to me." They heard the door open and close downstairs. Machiavelli looked over the railing and whooped, seeing the American pulling in bags. "Billy!" he hollered. "You're back!"

Billy scooped him up and swung him round and round the room. Even after he let the boy's feet touch the ground, he twirled the Italian in merry circles. Machiavelli giggled uncontrollably.

Black Hawk smiled, watching the two immortals, his teeth shining bright white against his darker skin. "Don't make him puke," he warned the other American.

Billy stopped twirling the Italian, but held him close. "I'm just awfully glad you're feeling better, Mac. I don't like to see you sick." He let go of Machiavelli and caught the wistful expression on John's face. He bowed low in front of the little boy and held out his hand. "Want to dance?"

John laughed, but refused. "Boys can't dance with each other," he whispered to Billy.

"Oh well," Billy looked around the room. "We've got more men than women in this house, so we kind of got used to it," he laughed. He pointed to Scathach. "If you're really against dancing with me, see if you can get her to kick up her heels."

Scathach smacked the American lightly. "Don't tease him," she muttered in his ear. "The boy looks completely scared of me."

~MB~

"You're sure you're comfortable?" Billy asked John, toeing the sleeping bag a bit. "Scathach said she'd switch with you two if you want the couch."

"I'm okay," John said happily. Billy had thrown another blanket over both boys, ensuring that none of the cold from the storm got to them. Outside of their cabin, the rain was coming down in sheets, the wind whipping it against the window. "Billy?" The American turned around in the doorway. "Why do you call her Scathach? What kind of name is that?"

Billy had to think about that one. "We call her that because Scathach was an ancient warrior from Scotland and our girl's a scrapper too, so we gave her the nickname." He turned out the light. "Hey listen boys, I don't mind you staying up, but try to keep it down. Nick and Perenelle are on the other side of that wall." He jerked his finger at the south-side wall. "Goodnight. Sleep tight." He pulled the door shut behind him.

John waited until the door shut before he sat up. He looked over at Machiavelli. "Nick, what do you want to do?"

Machiavelli turned over on his side to look at the younger boy. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've never had a sleepover before. What'd you have in mind?"

John looked excited, a rare emotion on his face. "Can we make a fort?" Machiavelli hadn't considered the idea before; now he nodded eagerly and began pulling the blankets from the bed. John looked thoughtfully around the room, then grabbed the desk chair and pulled it over. "After we're done we can read scary stories," he whispered excitedly.

Machiavelli tumbled to his feet. "Okay," he said, following the younger boy's lead. For once, the pale boy's face was shining brightly. Machiavelli didn't want to do anything to louse it up.