They continued west down the street. "I didn't know we had a bookstore right here," Machiavelli said mildly, looking at the big chain bookstore in surprise. "How is that possible? Don't we live right over there?" he asked, jerking his head down the path they'd taken this morning, through Rittenhouse Park.

"You probably didn't see it cause of all the trees. We went down Chancellor this morning, not Walnut, which is what we're on now," Billy explained mildly. "Do you want to go in?"

"Not now. I've already got three books to read. But definitely some time."

"Okay, then let's keep going." Billy whistled as they waited at the next intersection. Machiavelli made to turn down their road, but the Kid snagged him and pulled him back gently. He threw an arm carelessly around the Italian immortal's waist, now unable to easily reach the tall immortal's shoulders.

"Why are we going this way? Aren't we going home now?" Machiavelli asked, following Billy nonetheless as he turned away from Rittenhouse Square and walked down Walnut St, heading in the other direction.

Billy shook his head. "Nah, I thought I'd show you a park I used to like to hang out in," he explained. "I used to go there every day in the summertime, the last summer I lived in Philly. I hope it's still there."

Machiavelli trotted along beside the American, and sometimes, in front of the American immortal. He had to keep forcing himself to slow down. Even with him looking around, he was still at an advantage, being much taller than the Kid who had to walk at a steady clip to keep pace with him. "Sorry," he apologized at least twice.

"It's okay," Billy puffed. He grinned. "We're still not quite in sync now that you've gotten so tall again. Oh, Mac," he got distracted. "We should go in there sometime."

The Italian immortal followed his line of sight. "A psychic? Us?"

"Sometimes psychics have experience with immortals like us. It could be interesting. She could help us find our loved ones. Or it could be entertaining. Either way, we should do it."

Machiavelli had a hard time not being critical of that point. Instead, he voiced a question he'd been thinking about since they had arrived in the city of brotherly love. "In the past, when you've lived here, did you live here alone?"

"In Philly? Sometimes. Sometimes, I'd have a buddy come and stay with me for a while. Black Hawk more than any others. I don't really like living by myself, I mean I'll do it, but I prefer having someone else nearby," Billy told him. "That's one of the main draws to coming back here. Cause I like my open spaces, like in our Montana cabin, but you tend to find more people like you in cities."

"I don't really like living alone either," Niccolò admitted. "I was always grateful to have Dagon in my life. You never met him, did you? We had a strange relationship, but I think it was a friendship at the end."

"What happened to him?" Billy asked, quietly because there were other people milling about the street, as they waited for the pedestrian light to change for them.

Machiavelli glanced around. "I assume he's in a Shadowrealm now, since I haven't heard from him. I released him from my services, he doesn't have to come back to me." He paused. "I don't know how I'd address his feud with Scathach now that we've come to be friends with her."

"Why do they hate each other so much again?" Billy rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Age old fighting, I guess. Scatty did kill the rest of his kind. But I think she had her own motives too." Machiavelli knew that the Kid's fierce loyalty would lie with the Shadow, who he knew, versus Dagon, who he didn't, but he hoped the outlaw would be able to draw on his immense capacity to love and empathize. "They've both committed wrongful actions."

"Well, to be fair, we all have," Billy pointed out reasonably. "You and Scatty hated each other for centuries, didn't you? And look at you know. Maybe they could give it up? At least a little."

"I don't know," Machiavelli said dubiously. Looking ahead of them, he thought for a moment that they were going to cross the bridge in front of him, but at the last moment, the cowboy grabbed his hand and turned him down S. 24th St which they traversed for two blocks before turning onto Spruce St. The Italian immortal was just about to ask Billy if he knew where they were going when he caught sight of a park in front of them. "You're pretty good at navigating, Billy."

"This isn't so bad, working through a city. When I was a Regulator we were traveling all over three or four states and that was back when there wasn't really designated roads. I remember one time I was separated from the others and got lost in a canyon for days." He looked up at the canopy of maple leaves above them, a riot of red, and he smiled. "They've done a nice job with this place. It's nicer than it was before. Of course, they've also cleaned up the Schuylkill too," he added, pointing to the river.

"How did you get back to your group?" Machiavelli asked, redirecting him. Billy had clearly meant that first part as a throwaway comment, but he'd only succeeding in peaking the other man's interest more. They wandered around the park, Niccolo waiting for his reply.

Billy looked lost for a minute. "Oh, when I was in the canyon. It was purely by luck that I got out again. But I found a little settlement and there was an old lady there, she took care of me and got me fed and took care of my feet."

"What was wrong with your feet?"

The Kid waved his hand dismissively. "It was nothing really. I guess I'd outgrown my boots- that was when I was still growing- and I didn't have any socks, so… I got a lot of blisters. My whole foot felt like someone had sliced it off."

Machiavelli winced sympathetically. "This was before you were immortalized?"

"Long before! I was sixteen or seventeen at the time. It was very shortly after I'd seen my step-father for the last time- a couple of years, which now that I say it seems longer, but I guess we've just lived so long, now, that it seems a lot shorter." Niccolò tried to picture Billy, younger and on his own, navigating a desolate landscape for days. He moved a little closer to the Kid. "Anyways, that happened a long time ago," Billy said, pushing it off. He began a lively story about a different adventure, which had been a lot more fun from what the Kid was describing. "…Are you listening, Mac?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking. You were still very little," he broke in at last, reverting to their previous topic. He was unable to stop thinking about it, feeling as he often did that he would like to find where the American immortal's stepfather had been buried and give him a good shake.

Billy paused. Having walked down all the paths in the park, he took a seat facing the river and the tactician joined him. "Well, I was seventeen, but I thought we moved on from that story anyways, Mac, weren't you listening to my story about the pigs and John Gardner?"

"I was listening to that story too, but the one before it made me very sad."

"Hmm. Well, it's not really such a sad story. I was taken very good care of. The woman that took me in, she treated me so nice, I thought my mother had come back again for a minute. She hadn't, but I still was very happy, even for just the little time." Billy looked around the park. Already the sun was lowering on the horizon. "You know, what I like about this place is-…" His phone rang at that moment and they both jumped in surprise. The Kid pulled it out and looked at the display. "Oh, it's Black Hawk. He's probably wondering why I didn't call him back."

He hit the speaker button on his phone, waiting for the call to connect. After a minute of it not connecting, he hit the end button. "That was weird. He didn't pick up."

"Do we have service in the park?"

Billy held up his phone so that the Italian immortal could see the screen. "Yeah, four bars. It must be on his end."

"Last thing we knew, he was with the Germains. They'd be in big cities where there should be a lot of service," Machiavelli pointed out.

"Mm, but this isn't new behavior from Black Hawk, he's been known to call me in the past as he's driving through a dead zone and the call gets dropped, then he calls me back, then the call gets dropped again… he'll call again, don't you worry."

"And you don't think it's something important?"

"No, I mean listen to the voicemail he left me last night." Billy played it for Machiavelli, holding the phone between them so they could both hear. "He doesn't sound bad off in it and that was only a day ago." He pressed play. Black Hawk's voice sounded off. Hey, shithead. Why aren't you picking up your phone? Call me back. "See, he sounds normal."

"Well, if you're not worried, I'm not worried."

"Good. It's too bad though. I was going to bring you out dancing again tonight, but I guess we should do something where I might actually hear him call me." Machiavelli's stomach lurched at the thought of going to the bar again. I owe Black Hawk one, he thought. He rearranged his features into a politely crestfallen expression. Billy got up, groaning, and reached back to pull the Italian immortal to his feet. "Ready to go home? I was going to read a bit before dinnertime?"

"Sure, sounds good." The park was quickly emptying as the sun slid lower and though Machiavelli was immortal and knew he had no reason to fear those that skulked around the perimeters, they reminded him uncomfortably of the dark creatures he'd encounter, creatures that preyed upon fear and despair. The men setting up tarps down by the river may not have been cucubuths or genii cucullatti, but they would make a nice meal for those monsters. He drew his shirt sleeves down, covering as much of himself as he could, and he shivered.

"Cold, honey?"

"Just a little bit." Machiavelli couldn't help but be pleased when Billy took off his jacket and wrapped it around him. "You called me honey."

"I know. I picked up the habit of using all sorts of pet names with you and then you went and grew up on me. I might never forgive you," Billy joked. "I try to just stick with Mac- that should be nickname enough- but I slip up all the time."

"I don't mind it. I like being, being loved by someone. At least that's what it feels like." He stumbled over the words, unsure if he should be saying them. "I have no special names for you though."

"I think you tend to call me William when you're trying not to be amused, but you are. That's special," Billy suggested. He moved closer to the Italian immortal as the night turned progressively chillier. "We're close to home, don't worry. Do you mind if we stop in here for a minute though?" They paused outside of a used video store and ducked inside.

Machiavelli glanced around the store. The ceilings were very low, and looking up, he realized the tiles were covered with old rock concert posters. Overall, the place seemed rather dingy and crowded, with display cases making it hard to navigate, but Billy seemed to know what he was looking for. He watched the American immortal pull a dvd off the far wall and walk back to him.

"Anything you want?" Cold, Machiavelli shook his head. "Alright, just let me pay for this and we'll be on our way. I was hoping they'd have this one. We can watch it tonight."

Machiavelli nodded, dimly aware that if he wasn't getting so progressively chilly, he'd actually find this store and its myriad treasures interesting. Now all he could think was that even with Billy's leather jacket, he was still feeling the chill that had come with the first of October. He followed Billy back out of the store again.

"So, what are some Italian terms of endearment?"

"I called my wife 'cara,' that means dear," Machiavelli mused. He tightened the coat around his shoulders; it would seem that he felt the cold more keenly than the American immortal who seemed only mildly cool to his frozen. "Sometimes my mother would call my father 'mio angelo' or her angel."

Billy smiled. "I like that one. That's very sweet. Here we are," he added, pulling Machiavelli down their road. "I can see our house!"

Niccolo took out his keys, and reaching the house first, let them both in. He yanked Billy through the entrance, shutting the door quickly. "It's warmer in here," he remarked happily, finally giving the American immortal his coat back. "I think I'm going to read until dinner too."

"Mac-a-whack?"

Machiavelli looked back at him. "What is the matter?"

"You still haven't come up with a name for me."

"Hmm." The Italian immortal took off his shoes and lined them up with the wall carefully. He thought about it as he settled onto the couch, pulling the comforter off the back. "I could call you tato or pucci."

"What do those mean? Poochie, like you're calling me your dog?" Billy's eyes shone, excitement crackling behind them.

Machiavelli shook his head. "No, it's pucci, p-u-c-c-i," he spelled it out for the other immortal. "Neither word really has one set meaning. They're used as terms of endearment to express love where other words fail or are wrong." He got up again, realizing that the room was getting too dark to read in.

"Hm, well don't call me pucci cause that will always remind me of a dog. But I like tato, you should use that. Then we'll be even." Billy rose, having made his decision. "I'm going to take a hot shower. I'll be down in a bit."

"Okay." Machiavelli glanced out the window before shutting the shade. Moving around the room, he lit a couple of the table lamps, giving the room a soft glow. He found one of Billy's sweaters draped over the back of his armchair and pulled it on, more because it smelled like the Kid than because he was still cold. He got back under the comforter.