Somehow, knowing that Scatty was going to join him soon, even if it wasn't going to be today, lifted his spirits irrevocably. From the sound of it, Scatty might not actually join him for a couple more days, but that would give him time to prepare the house, and give him something to look forward to in the process.

He wanted the house to be clean for Scatty when she came to visit, so Thursday morning, he put on some of Billy's work clothes and got serious about his cleaning. The brownstone was beginning to look like a home; now he wanted to finish off the last few stubborn messes.

The first thing to do is assess what is left, he decided. The two bedrooms were now relatively clean, the living room was probably the most put together out of all the rooms, and the kitchen was, by necessity, free from clutter. He'd begun cleaning the study the other night. That left the bathroom on the second floor, the dining room on the main floor, and their garage, which he mentally had assigned to the Kid. "Basically two rooms, I can do this," he told himself.

Despite the relative chill in the air, he opened all the windows to the house. Going down to the basement, he retrieved a bottle of wood cleaner and a bucket, which he filled mostly with water. Pulling the mop out of the front closet, he made sure to wring it mostly dry as he'd read on the internet and carefully mopped the hardwood floors in the front hall and dining room. He began to sing under his breath, smiling in the process.

He used his morning of cleaning as a way to justify what was largely snooping through Billy's possessions. He told himself that he'd never claimed to have been a good person, especially as he crawled around the room, looking through the various drawers and shelves and finding all sorts of knickknacks and other treasures.

He'd found a rather sizable collection of adult vhs tapes in the closed part of the entertainment unit and he thumbed through these tapes idly, flipping some over to look at the back of the tapes. He felt that he was beginning to get a handle on what Billy was attracted to- though he noticed a surprising diversity in the girls that exemplified this quality. As he'd done with the magazines, he set them aside for later perusal.

Going back upstairs, he edged into the study. I've avoided finishing it for too long, he admitted to himself, looking around at the room. He was still surprised by the sheer number of books in here. The room itself was fairly small, smaller he guessed than his bedroom on the floor below, but the floor plans had been flip flopped to give the most space to the bedrooms, so it made sense that space was limited here. Pulling a rag out of his back pocket, he sat down next to one of the book shelves, taking each book down with care and dusting it off.

While the first shelf was primarily car manuals, he was surprised to find a collection of poetry books on the next shelf he dusted. Langston Hughes, he remembered Billy saying he liked, but he also found collected works for Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, T.S. Eliot, and W.B. Yeats. There was a piece of paper shoved in the Yeats book; opening the book to that page, he found the poem The Stolen Child, with the fourth stanza marked in pencil. The paper itself was a decent sketch of the room he was currently in and putting it back where it had been before, he wondered what Billy had been thinking about when he'd first drawn the picture.

Other notable books included an old math textbook which had been carefully worked through, A Separate Peace with the spine cracked, another edition of Catcher in the Rye in a similar condition, and a collection of Irish folktales that left the Italian immortal puzzled until he remembered that Billy's mother had been an Irish immigrant. Opening to the copyright page, he was surprised to find that the book was almost as old as the American immortal was. This book he held with particular care, noticing how dog-eared the pages were. In fact, after almost putting it back up on its shelf, he decided to bring it downstairs instead and set it tenderly on the desk so that he would remember to do just that.

Machiavelli was curious when he heard the bell toll mid-afternoon. He put the rag he'd been using down and walked downstairs to the front door. Sudden instinct made him freeze with his hand on the knob though, and he instead discreetly peeked out through the curtains. And groaned.

Missy leaned on the doorbell again, then gave it up and began banging on the door. "Niccolò! I know you're in there. I heard your music." Why on earth did I tell her my name? he thought, mentally banging his head against the wall. I'll just go upstairs again, like a big coward. The hammering at the door continued.

With one foot on the first step, he stopped. You've faced sovereign enemies in the past and you can't face her? How will you live with yourself? He turned around to tell her off again, but his phone rang. "Thank god," he said in relief, grabbing his phone. It was Scatty. "Hello!" he said so cheerfully that even he was a little suspicious for a minute.

"Are you drugged?"

"No, I'm just really glad to hear from you," he told her. "Except that I can hardly hear you. Would you excuse me for a second?" He pulled the front door open, cradling the phone in his left hand. "Missy?" he asked, deliberately adding a note of confusion to his voice.

She stood in front of him, obviously quite irate and defiant at this point, and also a little abashed now. For a minute, he almost felt sorry for her, but he forced himself to maintain the same cool exterior as before, lest he give her false hope. "What's up?"

"You didn't answer the door," she said aggressively. The sliver of fragility he'd glimpsed went away, but he knew it was still there.

He held up the phone. "Sorry, I was talking to someone. Can I help you?"

She stepped back. "No. No, never mind." She turned on her heel and jogged down the front steps, throwing him a nasty look before turning the corner.

He put the phone back to his ear. "Hi, Scatty."

"Was that your neighbor that you were telling me about?"

"Yeah." He watched her retreat down the sidewalk before shutting the door. "It's kind of funny. She's aggressive and wildly inappropriate, but I just felt sorry for her."

"It must have been a visual thing then, cause she just sounded aggressive and wildly inappropriate to me."

He laughed. "She's definitely no prize, but I wonder what made her this way. I feel like her parents didn't do a very good job," he said thoughtfully, climbing over the couch and sinking into the cushions. "You are still going to go along with the ruse, aren't you?" he asked, a little worried now.

"Oh, yeah. You definitely need a fake girlfriend at this point."

"Thank- thank you?"

"To scare away your crazy neighborhood stalker," she clarified impatiently. "I'm not questioning your sexuality. Didn't you say she watched your bedroom window at least once?"

"She did, that. I will be eternally grateful for your support in this matter. When are you coming?"

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about that, that's why I called. Would you be ready for me if I came in two days?"

"I would be ready for you if you came today," he told her excitedly.

"Good. Then it's decided. Perenelle's going to drive me to the airport. It's about a 6 hour flight to Philadelphia. I'll be there by late morning or early afternoon, Saturday, depending on delays."

"Fine. Text me your flight details."

"Alright, I'll do that when I find where I left the tickets." She sneezed and he toasted her health out of habit. "So what are you doing right now anyways?"

"I'm finishing cleaning the house," he explained promptly, picking at a spot of bleach on Billy's work pants.

"You're cleaning the house?" Scatty sounded shocked.

"I can pull my own weight," he defended himself. He softened his tone. "Billy was helping me, but he had to go away before we finished all the rooms. I've only got two more that I've been working on."

"I can't picture you mopping." Scatty let out a yipping laugh. "Are you wearing a suit?"

"No, I'm wearing some of Billy's older clothes and then I'm going to throw them out when I'm done. I probably look a little ridiculous," he admitted, glancing down at his outfit. Because of the height difference between the two immortals, he was showing several inches of ankle right now, the pants themselves torn and stained in several places. The shirt he was wearing at least fit better, but it was no less unkempt. "Oh, god." He had a sudden realization. "I opened the door wearing this."

"What are you wearing? It can't be that awful."

"It's pretty bad. It's like Billy's fashion sense completely tanked in the eighties."

"To be fair, you could say that about almost anybody. Send me a picture," she attempted to induce him.

"There's no one here to take a picture of me, you wouldn't get it all."

"Good god, man, they told me you were good with technology. Find a full length mirror and take a picture of yourself."

"We have one in the bathroom on the top floor," he mused.

"Good, use that one."

"But that would mean climbing all of those stairs…"

She sighed. "What are you 90? Go upstairs and take a picture of your ugly clothes like a real adult Niccolò."

"Technically I'm 546," he told her, but he found himself already heading for the stairs.

"Shush. Are you heading upstairs?"

"Yes, dear," he said automatically.

"We're going to have fun as a fake couple, I think," she told him conversationally. "You seem fairly compliant, all things considered."

"I have a hard time disobeying the women in my life," he told her, snapping a picture. "It comes from being Italian. Here's my outfit."

"Oh. Oh, Niccolò. You didn't mention the flowers."

"You're not even trying not to laugh at me." Unconsciously, he straightened the collar to the shirt. "I plan on destroying this shirt and several others. I've also got my eye on some ties, but I don't know if I have the nerve yet."

"Did he wear the shirts and ties together?"

"I don't know. Last night I laid out all of his old shirts and ties and tried to match them up as best as I could."

"And how'd that work for you?"

"I had eleven shirts and eight ties I couldn't do anything with."

"How many shirts and ties were there to work with?"

He sighed. "Eleven shirts and eight ties."

"Well, if your number one fan saw you in this outfit and still wants anything to do with you, maybe you should pursue something with her," Scatty suggested most unhelpfully. It didn't help that she let out a loud snicker.

"That doesn't mean anything. Under this hideous outfit, I'm still beautiful," he joked back.

"You're a very sexy man, Machiavelli," she told him tiredly.

He knew she was teasing him, but he couldn't help but blush. "No, I was just joking," he protested lightly.

"I know you were, but I wasn't. You need to have a little more self-confidence when it comes to matters of love," she told him.

His heart plummeted. "You really think so?" he asked curiously.

"Maybe just a little. You're confident in everything else. If you were a little more confident, I think you'd have no trouble getting a date. Not that I think that's what you want," she amended and he laughed softly. "What's up?"

"You and Billy read me far more easily than I enjoy," he confessed. "I think I have enough confidence personally. Back when I was mortal, I enjoyed the company of many women, but after my wife died I promised I'd stop that behavior. And I have… I guess maybe that's why things will never work out with Billy. Well, one of the reasons."

"But it's this that I'm talking about. If you just fold, without even trying, of course you'll never get where you want to with him."

"Scatty, it's hard enough to make someone fall in love with you, even if they're of the appropriate orientation. I have a whole album proving that Billy is very clearly not interested in men!" He realized he was almost shouting the last bit and quieted. He took several deep breaths. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. What album are you talking about?"

"It was the thing I was going to show you when you came," he mumbled. The conversation had taken a turn into a direction he hadn't wanted it to. Desperately, he struggled to reclaim the flow. "Will the Flamels be able to come visit with you?"

"Unfortunately, no. They're very dedicated to getting that shop into shape. Often times if I want to have dinner with someone, I have to hoof it over there cause they're down there half the night."

Maybe she's been lonely too. "Sorry."

"Ah, it's okay. I'm used to living alone anyways."

"So am I, but I don't really like this either."

Scatty's tone was brisk. "Well, it'll be good to get out of Montana for a while anyways. I'm used to living in cities anyways."

~MB~

Knowing that she would be at the apartment even sooner than he'd expected gave the Italian immortal the motivation he needed to finish what he'd started. He spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the entire house, top to bottom.

The living room, he decided would look better if it could be painted fresh, but looking around the room, he wasn't sure he'd be able to complete such a task by himself. Instead, he touched up the paint on the trim, being careful not to spill any of the white paint onto the floors. This in itself was much more involved than he'd figured on, but he didn't mind the task except for the ache in his knees.

It was almost evening before he'd finally finished the last window frame. Machiavelli leaned back, looking at his work. It looks much better in here, he decided. Like people could actually live here.

Pushing up to his feet, he stretched his legs. The muscles tingled from the half crouch he'd been in for the past couple of hours and he limped over to Billy's armchair. "I should have appreciated my wife more," he mumbled to himself, remembering how clean she'd always kept their home. Dagon, he'd treated better, but his wife… he'd learned too late all that she had done for him. He shook his head. Sometimes when it was quiet like this, he had a hard time getting his wife out of his mind. And why should he? He still missed his wife, even after he'd met Billy.

Shoving away that sliver of guilt, he pulled his notebook out of his knapsack and opened it to a clean page. He pulled the cord on the lamp closest to him, in order to better see what he was doing in the gathering gloom. On the top of the new entry, he wrote her name- Marietta ('Marry me, Marietta?' And she had said yes. It seemed so long ago).

He paused, tapping the pen against his lips. Despite everything he'd done to her, he'd never doubted her love in return. He smiled lightly. He remembered getting married to her- it had been in August and it was hideously hot, even for their Mediterranean standards. He'd snuck over to her house the night before, unbeknownst to either of their families… He'd taken her down to walk beside the Arno river and she'd held onto his arm the whole promenade. His fingers flexed- for a minute he imagined holding her hand again.

They had always lived near Florence, he reflected, though his business trips had taken him all over Italy. Still, Marietta had rarely accompanied him on these obligations, preferring to stay close to her family. After his imprisonment, they'd moved to Sant'Andrea, but even that was only a tiny province of Florence overall. Moreover, he felt sure that she would not have chosen to remain there; the memories of their hard times there had perverted the estate in her eyes. Then again, perhaps he should check there anyways…

That left Florence, the city proper, though that didn't help him much, the city being incredibly large. And many of our old landmarks are gone, he thought, feeling a touch melancholy at the thought. Taking up his pen again, he scrawled several likely locations and put the list aside. Looking outside, he watched as the sky darkened. Why hadn't you been true to her when you had the chance? he wondered for the thousandth time.

Soon, Scatty would be here, he told himself, distancing himself from the regrets of his past. He sat, feeling the cold air of night spill into the house around him.