At the midmorning mark, Machiavelli got in Billy's car, backed it carefully out onto the road and drove to the airport. He had the peculiar sense of déjà vu, except that it would have been Billy doing this when they first met. He wondered what the American immortal had been thinking then.
Parking at the airport was remarkably easier for Machiavelli than for other customers. Whereas most people battled for the closer spots, he was happy just maneuvering what was essentially a boat into the first spot he could find, one that was as far away from the airport as humanly possible. Still, with his abysmal parking skills, the Italian immortal was happier having to walk than potentially bumping or grazing or god forbid, smashing the red car against someone else's.
He'd decided last minute to buy a suit for the occasion and he carefully buttoned it as he made his way into the terminals. I'm probably more dangerous than any of them, he reflected, looking at those who'd been pulled aside to be searched more thoroughly. Racial profiling at its best.
Glancing at his pocket watch, he figured he had quite some time before Scatty was due to come in; the whole process of getting here had taken much less time than he had thought it would. He bought a copy of Le Monde at one of the kiosks and sank down into one of the chairs facing the terminal. Though he appeared for all intents and purposes to be deeply engrossed in the paper, he was instead reflecting on things that had already happened, as was his habit.
Knowing the Kid as he did now, he tried to piece together the situation from the other man's point of view, which proved to be harder than he thought it would. Billy had known who he was from the minute he'd gotten off the plane, he remembered. That had surprised him. He took careful pains not to be recognizable.
He turned a page idly, folding the paper over so as to appear more believable in his ruse.
He closed his eyes, briefly, remembering the first scent of cayenne. He'd thought the American would be unlikable, had reached out his hand as only a formality. But Billy smiled at me when I did it. And I felt- something- I don't know what. He opened his eyes again. "He was probably thinking about cars or something like that," he mumbled under his breath.
This time when he looked at the magazine, he did try to read.
Machiavelli snorted, scanning an editorial on Germain, who was 'looking younger than ever' according to one misled fan. We should be glad that we can focus on such lighthearted issues again, he thought, thinking to himself about how different the world might have been, about how the world rose and fell without anyone noticing. The paper itself was actually dotted with references to immortals and occurrences that fell beyond the scope of the normal person. Months after the events on Alcatraz, there were still vestigial effects of the failed coup.
He was surprised at himself, surprised that he cared less now about the undercurrents and power plays moving about the world around him. The newest head of the DGSE could have been easily overcome; he could have claimed his old job at any moment should he want to, yet he found that he honestly didn't desire it anymore. I've grown tired of lies and manipulation; I only want to make myself better now.
He'd actually managed to read through the majority of his magazine, cover to cover, by the time that Scatty's plane came in, three hours later than it should have. By that point, the seat he'd taken had become increasingly uncomfortable and it was with stiff legs that he hobbled towards the gate after hearing the announcement of her flight.
The magazine, he tucked into his black messenger bag. He stood a little apart from the throng and watched the crew attendants roll the stairs towards the door of the plane, knowing that he would stand out to the Shadow. Even if she hadn't been able to scent his aura, he was really the only person in the area dressed as he was, in a full three piece suit and tie.
The first passengers were coming down the steps now and he straightened. He saw a flash of red hair among all the other and he grinned. They locked eyes, she gave him her superior smile and a little wave with the hand that wasn't holding a carryon and pushed through the crowds to where he stood waiting for her.
"Scatty," he said fondly, stooping to embrace her whole heartedly. She gasped a little and grabbed his shoulders when he straightened to his full height, pulling her off the ground by half a foot.
"Put me down, you scoundrel." He complied, but couldn't help but palm her face affectionately. She looked him up and down. "You're tall again, I see," she observed. "Look basically like you used to, except for the hair."
Machiavelli touched his short brown hair, a soft smile on his thin lips. "Yes," he agreed. "I'm back to where I was." He couldn't help but pull her into another hug, swinging her around in a tight circle. She let him, even smiling faintly, though she feigned annoyance.
"I've got a letter for you," she told him, after he'd set her back down. She refused to let him carry her bags, preferring to carry them herself.
"A letter from whom?"
"Nick. It's in one of my bags, I'll find it at your place. We're not taking a taxi?" she asked, confused when they moved away from the main doors to the airport.
"No, I'm driving you home." He correctly interpreted her confusion. "Billy was teaching me how to drive before he left. I'm not awful at it. Except with merging and parking, which is why we're actually kind of faraway… are you sure you won't let me carry your bags? I look like an awful person?"
"I'm capable of carrying my own bags," she pointed out, following him down the sidewalk.
"I know, but it's the gentlemanly thing to do," he countered, successfully tugging one of the bags out of her hand, though he knew that if she'd wanted to, she would have prevented him from doing so.
"So you know how to drive now?" she asked curiously. "Cause back in Paris, Joan said…"
"Probably said that I was awful, yes, well… driving still makes me very nervous, especially since this is Billy's car. But I'm getting a little better at it," he surmised hopefully.
Scatty didn't quite look like she believed him, but she did put her bags in the back seat and climbed in.
"Luckily, we're in between the major traffic hours," he told her, backing out slowly. "Doesn't help that this car is so much bigger than others," he added, putting a hand behind her seat to twist a little.
"Is it bigger? I guess so."
He coasted to the end of the aisle and waited for several cars to pass before he'd pull out into the traffic. "It is. It's at least a foot longer than most American cars these days and three feet wider."
"I'm guessing you don't just know this off hand," she observed cheerfully.
He shook his head. "Billy and I were in this car for a week, traveling across the country." He made a vague gesture with his hand before gripping the wheel again. "He babbles."
"I know."
"There was almost no filter."
"There almost never is," she agreed. Cranking down the window, she trailed her hand out in the air, letting the breeze slip over her fingers. She looked over at him. "Does this make you cold?"
"No, I'm okay. I've got a few layers on. And my hair's too short to mess up."
She scoffed. "I just need the fresh air."
"Why, are you feeling sick?" He looked over at her and the car drifted to the right. He swore a little and corrected. "Scatty, are you okay?"
She rubbed her forehead. "Traveling always makes me feel a little sick. Flying isn't quite as bad as ley gates though."
"Is that why you were out of it when we first fought in Paris?" he asked curiously. "Because you had just come through the ley gate?"
"I wasn't really out of it," she protested. "We still beat you at your own game."
"Yes, that's true," he agreed amicably. "I never said I was sorry for sending you back in time." He gave her a coy smile. "Sorry."
She punched him, lightly, on the shoulder. "It's okay, that's just what friends do. I guess…"
"Are you hungry?" he asked her. They crossed the river, the GPS telling them where to go, though it seemed counterintuitive to him to cross the bridge, when he knew that he was going to have to double back again. She nodded just slightly.
"Are we going to eat at the house?"
"I had a meal planned, yes, unless you would like to go out to dine?" She shook her head and he focused on again on the road. "I didn't think you would." They reached another intersection and he turned onto the bridge crossing the Schuykil. At least the buildings looked more familiar once more.
"Billy lives in one of these?" she questioned, looking at the brownstones ducking by them, slouching down to see under the branches of the trees, leaves still in riotous color, bright splashes of yellow obstructing the sky.
"I was a little surprised too," he allowed. "But Billy bought his apartment before this area was desirable…"
"I'm always surprised that Billy has so much property around the country," she commented. "I guess it makes sense though, he moves around more than we do."
"Don't get out, just yet," he told her. He pulled open the garage door and parked the car. "Okay, we're stopped now." He looked around. "Let's go in through the front door, okay? Your bags will be hard to get up the stairs in the kitchen. He grabbed the two biggest bags before she could object.
They exited through the garage door and pulled it shut behind them. Scatty was looking up at the white-gray stonework. "We didn't have to move around as much as he did cause we have chosen to stay in big cities for the majority of our immortal lives," he said quietly. "I can't picture Billy staying here very long." He put down a bag to unlock the door. "Anyway, here we are."
Scatty dropped her things in the front entranceway. She turned in a slow circle, looking around. "It's not nearly as messy as you made it sound," she said thoughtfully.
He took her hand. "I've been working on it," he told her, gently pulling her into the living room. "Let me show you around. This is the living room, obviously, and through these doors," he crossed the room and opened the adjoining doors, "is the dining room which could still use some work. All the rooms should probably be painted when we get the chance," he added ruefully.
"That's such a small backyard!" she called, peeping out the windows to their little boxed in space.
"I know." He put a hand on her shoulder. "That apartment directly across from ours is where our friendly neighborhood stalker lives. See the pink curtains?"
"I hate pink," Scatty said decisively, looking up at the window he'd indicated. "Well Scooby, this explains a little better your situation. You're practically living on top of her."
"Scooby?" he groaned.
"My new pet name for you."
"Ah, but I thought- oh, never mind. So if we go through this door, we're in that little hallway that runs parallel to the stairs and the living room. The kitchen's down there, along with the garage- I'll show you that afterwards. Upstairs is the rest of the house." He made a motion and lifted all three bags into the air, levitating them before him up the stairs.
"Brownstones are kind of strange in that they're vertical versus horizontal," she commented following closely behind him.
"This is actually closer to what I've become used to living in, in the past few centuries. Space is at a premium in Europe." They stopped on the second floor. He skipped the first door, the one closest to the back of the house, and opened the second door on the left. "This is going to be my bedroom from now on," he told her. "We just painted it."
"What was the other door?"
"World's smallest bathroom," he quipped.
"And why is this suddenly your bedroom? Where have you been sleeping up till now?"
He ducked his head. "I've been sharing a bedroom with Billy. We didn't have a second mattress until just the other day," he said, sounding somewhat defensive.
Unlike Lady Day, Scatty didn't make much of his omission. "And you don't want to keep on sleeping in Billy's room while you can?"
He paused. The thought hadn't occurred to him at all. "I don't know…" he said hesitantly. "Billy went to a lot of effort to get this room presentable for me to use; we'd have to switch again when he came back. And I should probably get used to separating from him." They both looked around the room.
"It's a nice room. Did you pick the color?"
"I did. It seemed nice and neutral." He couldn't help but glance at the nightstand where the pictures of Billy were hidden. "We'll figure out the bedding situation."
"If you change your mind, we can always switch, even just for a little while."
"Ah, but I made up the room special for you. And I think my original line of thought was that you would have the nicer bathroom."
"Careful on the triangle steps," he told her rounding the corner of the stairwell. "Billy's always tripping on those."
"I don't need a big bathroom," she told him, following him up the stairs to the top floor.
"I figured you'd say that, but I still want you to have it. Besides, if we're going to pull of this ruse, it will help for her to see you up here." He edged down the narrow hallway. "Okay, here we are. So this will be your bedroom." He opened the door, and let her go through first.
Scatty looked around the room. She smiled at him. "It's pretty. You must have cleaned it up for me."
"I did. The whole place was kind of one big bachelor pad," he admitted. "Billy was kind enough to take down all the pictures of girls off the wall for you before he left."
"Aw, that was nice of him." She laughed. "So is this where you and he-?"
"Yes." He rubbed his nose self-consciously. "I pushed him up against that wall," indicating the space in between the bedside table and the window, "and then backed him onto the bed. He pulled on my tie and…" He coughed and looked up at her. He couldn't read the expression on her face. "But he doesn't remember any of that."
"No," she agreed. "It would appear he doesn't. But he might remember at some point."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said, sitting beside her at the end of the bed. "Anyway, I hope it doesn't bother you, knowing what we'd done, or at least started, here. The sheets are new. So's the mattress pad."
"I wasn't really worried about that. Knowing Billy…" she trailed off.
"Yes, I have conclusive proof that he's had sex in this bed. Yeah, I'll get to that in a minute," he added, answering her look. "Oh, I made something for you. The other day. I put it in the other room."
"You made something for me?" She got off the bed, following him across the hall.
"I think the size is wrong, but I can fix that right away." He crossed the room to where he'd left the ring in the desk and pulled it out. "It's a ring. Is that weird?"
"You made this," she asked, taking it from him. "For me?"
He shrugged uncomfortably. "I wanted to practice using my aura. It's alchemy. I thought of you first…" She cut him off, surprising him by standing on her tiptoes to hug him. "I can resize it."
"It fits my middle finger. I'm going to wear it there." She looked down at the ring. "Are those emeralds?"
He nodded. "Nicholas isn't the only one who enjoys alchemy. Like him and Germain, I've supplemented my income over the years with the creation of precious gems." He ran his fingers over the band. "I designed it so that none of the stones stick out so that it doesn't interfere with what you do."
She nodded. "So Billy keeps a study," she commented looking around the room. "Who would have thought?"
"Who indeed," Machiavelli agreed. "A lot of mornings I'd wake up to find him sitting on this desk watching people out the window. I sat with him a couple of times. It's a good thing the desk is well made."
She laughed. "Why not just pull up one of these armchairs to one of the other windows. Both of these ones would be easier to look out of."
"Ah, you know Billy. He's one of a kind."
She glanced back at him. "You really are in love with him."
"Unfortunately." Machiavelli pulled back the curtains of the window in the middle and watched two teenagers skateboard by.
"And I'm still the only one who knows about this?"
Niccolo laughed. "I don't have that many other friends, besides you and Billy."
"Niccolo, you have many friends. The Flamels, Black Hawk, Joan and Germain, me." She grabbed his arm.
"Oh, I know. I'm just closest to you and Billy." He looked down at the desk and decided to wait until later to show her the photo album. "So, you're getting hungry?"
She nodded.
"Good, I'll make you dinner now. The kitchen's all the way at the bottom of the house." He lead her back out the way they had come. "I'm really glad you're here, as I need your help with an important matter," he told her.
"You mean your neighbor? What are we going to do to her?"
Machiavelli looked horrified. "No, not her. I mean, yes, her, but I wasn't talking about her and I certainly wasn't planning on doing something to her… What were you planning on doing to her?"
Scatty neatly but conspicuously sidestepped that remark. "So what do you need my help with?"
"I'm running out of laundry," he said helplessly.
The Shadow looked at him quizzically. "Like what, you've lost some of your clothing?"
"No, it's just all dirty."
Scatty actually laughed. "And you, what? Don't know how to do laundry?" He was silent and the grin slid off her face. "You really don't know how to do laundry? How is that possible? Have you been still beating your clothing on the rocks in the Schuykill?"
Niccolo flushed, but refused to blush.
