AN: Thoughts or suggestions?


Getting into a routine by the next morning, Machiavelli grabbed up the magazines from the other day and brought them back over to the study. There, he deposited them on the top of the desk, and set to shuffling the majority of the sorted possessions back into their correct drawers. The drawers, now dry and organized, were pushed shut as he worked his way through the task.

He had purposefully left the magazine drawer for last, and now, having organized the rest of the desk, he reached into the drawer, pulling out stacks of older subscriptions. His intention was to put the magazines he'd already perused on the bottom and work his way through the rest of the stack as the week went on. What he wasn't expecting, was to find a gap underneath a final stack of magazines, a space where he knew there was still room left in the drawer, but there was an end to Billy's old periodicals. He pulled the final stack out and, looking into the drawer, was intrigued to find an old photo album. He went to pull it out and-

The phone rang. Distracted, Machiavelli got up and wandered back to the bedroom where he'd left his phone. "Hello," he said, opening it and holding it to his ear. He smiled faintly, hearing Billie Holiday on the other end of the line. He listened, one hand slipped into his pocket, as he looked out at their backyard. "I would love to have lunch with you, actually. Where would you like to go?" Billie gave him the names of several restaurants nearby his location and he sighed in relief. He'd been afraid for a minute that he would have to drive Billy's 'baby' to some unknown place, but the other Billie had agreed to pick him up at the brownstone.

After hanging up, he held the phone to his thin lips, tapping it lightly. The sudden call had made him feel a little guilty about snooping through the American immortals things.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he'd better start getting ready if the female immortal was going to come over at twelve. As he shaved, he pondered his predicament. Billy'd obviously made him so accustomed to human contact that he had just accepted what was essentially a date with a woman that he'd been slightly afraid of even when in the company of the American immortal. He was now apparently so desperate for an interaction with a person he knew that he'd blindly accepted spending the afternoon with Lady Day. He snorted, lathering his face with shaving cream. What are we even going to talk about? he wondered as he scraped those few errant hairs that dared grow off his face.

He pulled the light gray blazer over his white button down shirt, remembering when they'd gone to the club and what had almost happened that night. As if to ward away thoughts of what might have been, he painstakingly tightened and straightened his tie, reaffirming the boundary between that night and now. That night was nothing but a mistake, he told himself sternly. Put it out of your head, Niccolo.

It had taken him less time to get ready than he'd thought it would. Glancing at the clock on Billy's bedside table, he was surprised to see that he still had a half hour before the jazz musician was supposed to show up. Grabbing his shoulder bag and a notebook Billy'd bought him, he settled on their front steps where he wrote about the passing pedestrians as he waited for the other immortal. The feeling of words spilling out from his fingertips felt familiar to him, like an old friend. Mindless though his activity might be, he felt invigorated.

He ended up jumping when Billie showed up ten minutes early, so engrossed in what he was doing.

"Hey, jumpy," she said loftily, sitting beside him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Machiavelli snapped the journal shut, smiling over at her. "Ah, just free writing. Something to do while I was waiting." He got up, brushing off the seat of his pants. He proffered his hand to her, surprised when she took it. "Where would you like to go?"

"Let's go… to Victor Café," she decided, pulling him in the right direction. "I'm glad you dressed up. This is a nice Italian place for a nice Italian boy."

"Billy never brings me to Italian restaurants," he commented, following her. He laughed. "I think he thinks I won't be happy with American takes on Italian meals."

"Well, this place has been here since 1918, so I think they've had time to figure out their shit," she commented. "I was in mood for Italian this morning and since you seem to be taken, I decided we'll just eat Italian food."

"I seem taken?"

Billie ignored this. "Of course, now that I'm thinking on it, I don't know why I didn't just have you make me something."

Machiavelli huffed a laugh. "I did just start cooking again. It's been nice," he said, suddenly shy again. He looked down at their feet. "Are you really comfortable, walking over in heels?" he asked with some concern.

She glanced at her feet as if she'd forgotten what she was wearing. "No," she said, surprised. "But I look good. You should try it, sometime," she purred, a smirk spreading over her features. He shook his head, nonplussed. "You ever wear something feminine? Panties?"

"No," he yelped, blood rapidly rushing to his face. God, I hope she's just teasing. "No, not in any way. Why do you ask things like these?"

She linked arms with him as they crossed the road. "It's the easiest way to make you stutter. And you're a cute stutterer. I like you; you're a pip. In fact, do you mind if I call you Pip?"

He mouthed at her. She pushed his mouth shut. "I'm just kidding, dollface. Here's the place."

They stepped into a café with flowers in the front and a green awning over the second floor balcony. Glancing up, he noted the angels in the architecture. They were led by the head waitress into a room with a dark wall paneling, the walls almost entirely covered with black and white portraits, and were seated at one of the many tables covered in a red and white checkered tablecloth.

"What are you going to get?" she asked him, glancing through the menu.

"I don't know. Ah, maybe linguine and clams. I haven't had that in a long time…"

He was relieved to find that it was easier to talk to the jazz singer than he'd thought. They settled into another conversation and with some occasional redirecting on his part, they talked comfortably.

~MB~

After his afternoon with the jazz singer, it was almost a relief for Machiavelli to find himself alone again. He spent the time before dinner beginning the process of cleaning the dining room and finished after he ate a late meal. The easy activity left him in a meditative state. He started his task by cleaning the glass of the French doors that separated the living room from the dining room. With those clear once more, he moved on to the furniture, polishing the sideboard to a high shine.

His work kept his hands occupied, but it could not control his racing thoughts. He thought of putting on some music to block out the nagging voices in his head, but didn't want to stop what he was doing to retrieve Billy's laptop. That reminded him of the record player Billy'd said was broken, up in the attic, and he resolved to bring that in to get fixed. Perhaps they could do it at that dingy record store we were just at the other day, he thought as he worked.

Finishing up, he thought about calling someone, any of their friends, but decided it against it. Picking up his phone, he tapped it against his lip. Looking at the clock, he couldn't bring himself to disrupt anyone's life at this hour. He felt the dull sense of solitude settle on his shoulders.

As he was going to bed, he felt the cold pull of the night wind. He glanced at his window, but, finding it closed tight, remembered suddenly that he'd left the window to the study open. Crossing the hall, he flicked on the light, intending only to shut the window and to go to bed. Once he was there, however, he was reminded of the photo album he'd seen that morning, the one that he'd not opened, but instead left in the open bottom drawer of the desk.

He hesitated, but then pulled the album out of the cavity. He let the heavy weight of the book rest on his knees, unsure if he should continue, but wanting desperately to know what was in there. A horn honked on the street below and he leaned back on the piece of furniture, glancing out the window.

His innate curiosity overcame him and he opened the top cover. Almost immediately, he slammed the book shut again. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and he wished he'd left enough alone, wished he hadn't opened the window this morning and hadn't started cleaning out the desk. More than anything, he wished Billy hadn't left in the first place.

Unwillingly, he opened it up again. There, on the first page, was a series of pictures of a woman, sitting in what he recognized as the bedroom across the hall. Clad in a Phillies jersey, she sat with her heels together, grinning at the photographer. Billy, he assumed. Between her legs, he could make out the dark black tangle of her untrimmed pubic hair. The photo below showed her leaning back, her chest stuck out and an even better view of her nether regions.

Unable to stop himself, he turned the page where he was confronted with a different woman, just as beautiful as the last. This one had nothing overtly sexual about her- she gazed at the camera with a shy smile, her left arm tucked around a narrow waist; still, he felt an indescribable pang glancing down at her photo. Billy'd gone to the effort of getting this picture printed, had pasted it onto the page- surely that meant he'd had some feelings for her. 'May 1965- Bonnie' was scrawled in Billy's neat cursive beside the picture.

He paged through the first quarter of the album, a feeling of unease growing inside of him. Put it away, he told himself, but found that he couldn't break the 'one more page' mentality guiding his actions.

He received the motivation he needed at last about twenty pages in. A strange twist in his stomach greeted him as he gazed down at Billy, his outlaw, leaning against the Thunderbird. The familiar shy smile across his features, the Kid held a cowboy hat strategically in front of him. Next to the photo was an unfamiliar scrawl, which read, 'Thought I'd add this to your collection of nudes. Handsome fellow, isn't he?'

Underneath the picture was the same handwriting. 'And here's one of me- Jeanne.' A Polaroid of a willowy girl, arms crossed under her bosom, her face forever tilted towards the camera, it stared up at him. He dropped the album like it was poisonous, feeling a cold shiver run through his body. He was unsure what to do, but a rattling wind reminded him that he'd been cold. Turning, he shut the window behind him at last.

He felt unsettled.

Sliding off the desk, he couldn't help but pick up the album and, closing it properly, put it in the desk drawer. The magazines, he put on top. Grateful now that he hadn't undressed yet, he decided to take a walk around the block, his mind racing.