AN: Reviews motivate me to write quicker!


Pressing send on his last message, Machiavelli almost dropped his phone as it immediately began to buzz. Billy didn't waste any time, he thought wildly. He came to the wry conclusion that the American immortal must be worried he'd change his mind if given time. Reluctantly, he answered it. "Hey," he said, his voice low as he was a little ashamed of how he'd left things the other night.

"Mac! Why haven't you been answering my calls?" Billy wasn't quite shouting, but he was very forcibly talking. The Italian got the idea that Billy was trying to keep their conversation somewhat quiet, presumably for the sake of someone on his end, rather than to comfort him. "I've called you like six times!"

"Well…" Niccolò felt a flush rise to his cheeks. "I had my phone off for most of today," he was able to say honestly, because he had purposefully turned off the device during his time at the library. He stalled while he tried to decide what the best course of action was. He'd tell the other immortal the truth, he decided, but only if Billy asked him specifics. "But you want to know why I had it off," he supplied with a sigh, finally concluding that since he couldn't slip away from the accusations of the other warlock, he might as well attack it head on. He could only hope this would throw Billy off.

It didn't. "And why you hung up on me yesterday," Billy said promptly, already sounding much calmer. There was a pause where neither immortal spoke. Machiavelli opened his mouth, about to give an explanation when the Kid, who had far less endurance when it came to long pauses, began speaking again. "Are you mad at me?" the outlaw asked softly, surprising the Italian immortal.

"What? No! How could I be mad at you?" Niccolò said with honest surprise.

"Oh, I don't know. I thought maybe you were upset that I didn't listen to you about coming out here and was mad at me…"

Machiavelli closed his eyes. Billy sounded almost pitiful and he realized that he'd left his American cohort with all of today to wonder what was wrong; in a way this was almost worse than what had happened to him with the photo album. Billy had done nothing wrong to him, but he'd let down the other immortal by pushing him away. "I-I…" he sighed in frustration and changed directions, "…no. It's nothing you did that's wrong…"

"But there is something wrong isn't there, Mac?" the Kid pressed him.

Machiavelli sank to the floor, all thoughts of making dinner leaving him. Suddenly, he didn't feel hungry at all and he wondered how he'd ever be able to face Billy after making the scene he couldn't seem to break out of, the interaction he was currently entangled in.

"Where are you, William?"

"Kansas, if you can believe it. We've been traveling by lye gates. Mac, please don't push me away. I'm not an idiot. I know when you're changing the subject."

"I know you're not an idiot," Machiavelli said, feeling increasingly terrible. All of the inner peace he'd built up today at the library was slipping away again. "It's just- I know you can't help me with my problem; I just have to work through some issues. I've been… having these thoughts."

"What kind of thoughts?" Billy asked sharply. "Niccolò, are you taking care of yourself?"

"Of course. I eat and sleep and everything," Machiavelli replied, bewildered. "Oh, you think- no- not those kind of thoughts- it's really inconsequential, Billy. Nothing big at all." There was silence at the other end of the phone line and his skin crawled. "Billy, are you still there?"

"I'm here." The Kid's voice was low and gentle, the way it had been when Machiavelli's body was still very little and he'd been sick. "Mac, would you like me to come home? I can put this, this thing I'm doing right now on hold-"

"That's not necessary." Machiavelli tried to make his voice as normal as possible. He couldn't say exactly why he didn't want the American immortal to come back now, when just two days ago he was longing for the former gunslinger's companionship. Now, however, he felt a slightly queasy feeling, the same one that had persisted since he'd found Billy's old photos. "I'm doing okay, really I am- I've started a new hobby. You'll see it when you get back eventually."

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"Cooking. I haven't done any cooking in a long time. Except for what I did with you, while you were here."

"What did you have for dinner tonight?"

Machiavelli breathed a big sigh of relief. He was glad the American had let them slip into their normal conversational flow. "I haven't eaten yet," he admitted. "I'd just gotten home from the library and I saw all your messages, so I wanted to get back to you." Because I'm still pathetically in love with you, despite all the good reasons not to be. "What have you been eating?"

"Nothing good." Now Billy sounded a bit disgruntled. "If I eat one more bologna sandwich, I'll go ape shit crazy."

Machiavelli leaned his head against the wall, a smile breaking through his features. "So you're saying I should change the planned menu for when you get back to something not bologna related?"

"I'm saying we should put all the bologna in this country in trucks and then drive the trucks into the ocean. We'll have to sacrifice a few people in the process, but it'll be okay in the end. It's for the greater good of everyone that we rid this country…"

"I love you," Niccolò said softly.

"Oh- what was that, Mac? I couldn't quite hear you on my end," Billy stopped babbling.

The Italian immortal shook his head. "I just said I missed you. The house is very quiet without you."

"I thought you told me that I talk too much," the outlaw teased.

"I was wrong. You talk just enough to be perfect."

"Aw, Mac, I'm blushing. I was just thinking the other night that I missed your listening. I like my buddies here," he lowered his voice, "but we all talk over each other. There's not a lot of give and take. Like the other day, I was trying to tell my friend Jesse about the summer we had and he let me get two words in, and then he was off talking about something else and I never did end up telling him the rest of my story. Hey, Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Am I keeping you from eating? It's almost dinner time here, and that's if you have a late dinner. Shouldn't you have eaten already?"

Machiavelli glanced down at his watch. "This would be a late dinner for Americans, but still early for Europeans. Anyways, I'm not really hungry right now."

"So, you're not going to tell me what's wrong, huh?"

"I will if you guess what it is specifically," Machiavelli said frankly and ignored Billy's frustrated sputter.

"Give me a hint," the Kid begged.

"Let's just say there's a body of proof and leave it at that."

"You're speaking in riddles. Hmm, I'm going to have to think about this and get back to you… We should talk on a more regular basis," he added thoughtfully. "Like every three days or so."

"I'd like that." And, to make the conversation a little lighter- "So you're with a group of people?" Machiavelli worked hard to keep any trace of jealousy from his voice.

"I am. Black Hawk's here, Doc Holliday, Jesse Evans, two cowboys- I don't think you'd know them at all, but they're good guys- and one of the old Regulators I used to ride with."

"I thought you were the last Regulator left."

"I thought that for a long time too," Billy admitted. The ambience around him changed slightly; the outlaw had apparently gone outside because Niccolò could hear crickets. "Fred Waite had been a Regulator, a good friend of mine actually, but he went back to his people and turned his life around. I thought he died a natural death in 1895- there weren't a lot of details- imagine my surprise when Black Hawk mentioned like fifty years later that he'd met the guy!" Billy sounded a little indignant.

"Why didn't Black Hawk tell you earlier?" Machiavelli asked curiously.

"I don't know!" Yes, Billy definitely was not pleased about this particular detail. "He gave some lame excuse about not knowing that we'd known each other…"

"It must have been a very strange experience to find out that a friend of yours was still alive after so much time," Machiavelli said sympathetically. He crossed one long leg over the other, leaning against the wall. "I had a similar experience with a writer I knew… it's a disconcerting feeling. Obviously, you're glad that they're still alive…"

"But it makes you feel strange inside. Like they didn't care about you that much, to just let something like that slip by," Billy agreed.

"Mm. Hey, Billy, what are you doing right now?"

"Right now? I'm looking at the stars. They're just beginning to come out now." Machiavelli glanced out the window to the backyard. It was already dark over here; he just hadn't noticed. "Go outside," Billy prompted him.

"Why?" the Italian asked, already climbing to his feet. He brushed off the seat of his pants as he moved around the bags of groceries towards the backdoor. If he was going to go outside, he'd rather risk breaking his leg in the obscurity of twilight than potentially get mugged on the well-lit sidewalk in front.

"Cause I think you should look at the stars too," Billy told him.

Machiavelli climbed up the steps and stepped into the underutilized outdoor space. He turned his thin face up towards the burgeoning night firmament, feeling a little silly. "Can't see much," he admitted, shielding his eyes, as if that would help him.

"Aw, that's cause of all the city lights. That's the problem with living all surrounded by lights and houses and cars. We should live somewhere in the country next," Billy decided. "That is, if we're going to continue to move around together," he added shyly.

Machiavelli was torn. For one fleeting moment, he felt he should say something mean, that he wanted to hurt the American the way he had been hurt. The feeling went away almost as fast as it had come. He felt a slight twist of shame. "I think for the time being, we should just assume we're going to continue to live together," he said mildly. "I promised I'd train you once my aura was back and besides, I like the companionship."

"Me, too!" The Italian could almost feel Billy's smile coming through; the feeling was strangely painful. "Oh, Mac, I don't know how much longer I'm going to be out here. We don't seem to be getting any closer to doing whatever it is that Black Hawk wants us to do. I don't know why I'm out here! What am I supposed to be doing, Mac?"

Niccolò was surprised to hear the frustration in Billy's voice. Up until this moment, he'd assumed that the Kid was enjoying his adventure. "I don't really know, tato." He opened his mouth, wanted to say words to comfort the outlaw, to tell him what to do, but he didn't think there was anything he could say to improve the situation. "So you don't know if you're going to be away for a while?" he asked despairingly.

"No. No," Billy decided. "I'm going to stay a week, maybe two weeks more, then I'm going home. It's not worth it, all these little skirmishes."

"Really?" Machiavelli couldn't mask his surprise.

"Yeah, no. They're making Black Hawk feel better and the other guys are bored, so it's fun for them, but me… am I changing, Mac? I think I would have acted differently a year ago." The American immortal sounded uneasy.

"A year ago, you had a better relationship with your Elder, tenuous as it was even then," Machiavelli reminded him. "And I think you're just getting a little more cautious. That's not a bad thing."

"I guess so." Machiavelli could almost seeing Billy rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess it's just kind of scary to change, especially when you've been the same for so long. You know?" The Italian made a little noise of agreement. "Oh, well. I've got to go eat, Mac. You should eat too."

"Yeah, okay."

"I'm serious, now. Next time I call you I'm going to ask you what you ate."

"Billy, that's ridiculous." Machiavelli found that now that he had to let the outlaw go, he really didn't want to. The day of avoiding the other immortal's texts and calls seemed very silly now.

He could have been imagining it, but he felt that the Kid didn't want to hang up just yet either. He kept talking, regardless of the fact that he'd been the one who said he had to go. "Are you feeling a little bit better now?" Billy asked worriedly.

"Yeah, I'm better. I just needed someone to talk to, I guess. William?" He faltered. He wanted to say that he loved him, but found that he couldn't. Unable to say that, he didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"I know."

"You know?"

"Yeah, me too." Billy made a clucking noise. "We spent a lot of time together. I know what's in your head. For the most part, at least, except for this thing…"

"Well, good," Machiavelli said dizzily.

Billy cleared his throat. Machiavelli thought he was going to get something personal back, but all the American said was, "eat your dinner. Get some sleep. I'll call you soon." And the line clicked out.

Gazing up at the night sky, Machiavelli pocketed the phone. Unable to see the stars, he made a small noise of frustration and pirouetted so that he was facing the house again. He closed the door smartly behind him and stooping, retrieved the bag of groceries. Do I feel better or worse?