AN: I have this ready early, so there's no reason not to share it now. Excited to finally be getting to the part I wrote a long time ago!


Early the next morning, Machiavelli set himself up at the window seat in the front window. He brought with him Billy's T.S. Eliot book, but couldn't focus on it, glancing up every few minutes as though he could force the American immortal back sooner by sheer force of will.

He knew that he was making Scatty nervous with his restlessness, but couldn't bring himself to leave the apartment. He had the paranoid feeling that the minute they left the house, the American immortal would arrive and he refused to leave it to chance that Billy might come back to an empty house. "How is he getting back? By plane? Does he need a ride?"

Scatty put up her hand, warding off his string of questions. "He didn't say. I asked if he needed a ride, but he said no, that they had a way."

"He didn't give you a hint? Or more specifics on when he might be coming back?"

"We didn't talk that much about it," she told him gently. "Really we didn't. He asked about you though."

Machiavelli brightened slightly; he couldn't help it. "Did he really?" he asked, hoping that Scathach wasn't just trying to cheer him up.

She nodded. "He wanted to know if you've been eating and he made me tell him what you've had recently for food. What's the story behind that?" she asked, confusion forming creases between her eyes.

That made Machiavelli laugh. "We just disagreed on one of our last conversations about dinner. That's why he's doing that. He thinks I don't eat."

"Why would he think that?" She asked, glad to have gotten him talking. She sat beside him, crisscrossing her legs beneath her.

"One of the times we called, he mentioned having dinner and I said I hadn't had mine yet. And because of the time difference, he thought I wasn't planning on eating," Machiavelli explained. "But that wasn't it. It's just that Americans tend to eat earlier than Europeans, just from what I've seen."

"We eat at like, seven, you and I."

He nodded, straining when he saw a flash of red coming down the street, even as he knew that the Thunderbird was parked in the garage. At any rate, it was a normal, ordinary car. "Seven's okay, though I'd normally eat at like eight or even later when I was mortal. But Billy conditioned me over the summer to expect dinner at five or six, so I'm all mixed up now." Realizing that he still had the book of poetry in his hands, he set it aside.

They lapsed into silence. "Scatty? I just don't understand why he's stopped calling me. He missed the last two phone calls, but before that we were having fun talking, at least I thought we were."

"You should ask him about it when he gets here," she told him. "Just not around Black Hawk or any of the other guys that might come back with him."

He looked at her. "Do you know why?"

"Yes," she revealed reluctantly. "But I really think you should talk with him about it. And I would explain to him that it hurt you, cause he doesn't mean to and I don't think he thought about how it would."

Machiavelli didn't know what to say. "Huh," he said, to make some sort of indication that he'd heard her, even if he didn't quite understand.

Scatty shuffled her feet nervously. "I'm going to go for a walk. Come with me."

He considered, briefly. "I'm okay, thanks. Take your time though. There's no reason for both of us to be stuck here, waiting."

"Come with me," she pleaded. "He said he might not be able to make it back here today, just that he 'might be coming home tomorrow'. We could leave a note and we'd be back. I think you'd feel better…"

"I'm okay, really I am," he assured the Shadow. "I'm uh, going to get a different book. He kissed her cheek and slid down from his place at the window. See you in a while."

After that, she had no choice but to leave for her walk, though he had the feeling that she'd only been going out to try to get him to come with her. He felt bad, but was resolved to stay.

Still, without Scatty the whole house was deafeningly silent.

The minutes dragged by.

With the passing time, Machiavelli's fears grew. He didn't know exactly where Billy was, but he could imagine that Billy had somehow gotten hurt or killed in between calling him and trying to get back to the city. His self-doubts came into play, suggesting to him that perhaps Billy had simply left Machiavelli and had gone somewhere else. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing into a more meditative state.

Billy's fine, he told himself repeatedly. He's just a little late. Scatty said he might not even come today, you have to be prepared for that. Breathe in.

By noon, he couldn't take it anymore, so he got up and wandered through the brownstone. He paced through the rooms, needlessly straightening what didn't need to be straightened and looking out all of the windows that faced the street. When he got to the top of the house, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He could feel the disappointment wash over him. Where was Billy?

There was a sound below him and he sat up with a snap. There was the sound of a car pulling in to one of the homes around theirs. It could be Scatty, he thought, attempting to protect himself against further disappointment. It's probably Scatty. Seconds later, though, he heard the sound of a key scraping the front lock.

He couldn't help it. He slipped off the bed and padded to the top of the stairs, looking down to the door. Never had he been so disappointed to see the red-headed immortal, though he hid it well, pasting a small smile on his face as he came down to see her.

"I brought us lunch," she said, holding up a bag.

"What did you get?" he asked, following her into the dining room at the back of the house.

"Gyros," she answered, pulling them out of the bag. "There's a cart selling them in the park today."

"Gyro's have meat in them," he told her, wondering what she was going to eat.

"There's a vegetarian version. And I also got you something for dessert cause I know you have kind of a sweet tooth. I don't know how to pronounce the name though- they're fried dough balls with honey and cinnamon?"

"Sounds like loukoumades," he said idly.

"That sounds like what the vendor told me," she agreed. "Do you like gyros? I know you're Italian and these are Greek, but I thought…"

"I do," he assured her. "Both are based on a Mediterranean diet. I never learned Greek as a child," he continued, "but I wanted to. It would have rounded out my classical education. Still, I can't complain. For a family within our means, I received a very good education."

"Was your family poor?"

"We weren't poor, per se, but we certainly weren't as rich as perhaps we should have been," he said, thinking about it as he unwrapped his sandwich. "I was just reading an article, I believe in the New York Times- or perhaps the New Yorker?- about how in Florence, the same families have remained the wealthiest of all since the 15th century. I think I know which families they were talking about too, but the article didn't give specifics…"

To fill the time, he and Scatty played an extended version of twenty questions. He beat her only because he'd picked as his mystery object, Zelda Fitzgerald, which he hadn't expected she'd guess. Switching gears, she pressed him with personal questions through the afternoon, asking him over and over about his family, his wife, his childhood, his experiences, and his theories.

By the time evening arrived, his voice was almost worn out from talking, but there was still no sign of his American immortal.

Machiavelli thought he'd managed to keep himself pretty well occupied over the past week or so, but this last day had seemed rather endless to him. He'd hoped that the American immortal would come back before the day ended, but as night crept forward, he had to admit that it was becoming increasingly unlikely.

Knowing how the Shadow hated being confined indoors, he suggested that she take the car to a store and that he would be fine alone. He was surprised, but secretly grateful, when she ignored his suggestion and stayed with him. "You're just staying with me because it's getting colder," he teased.

"I'm impervious to temperatures," she shot back, skulking around Billy's DVD collection. "Also to Billy's DVD collection. He has way too many westerns."

"It is surprising that he'd want to watch all these shows, having seen it play out in his own life," Machiavelli agreed, happy to talk about his favorite immortal. "Especially since they're usually wholly inaccurate." He paused. "On the other hand, I think that might be what amuses him so much. Once, over the summer, I came across him watching Bonanza or Gunsmoke or something. He and Black Hawk seemed endless entertained by the portrayal of Native Americans."

"I would have thought Black Hawk would be offended by their portrayal," Scatty said, pulling out another DVD idly and replacing it again.

Machiavelli nodded, but shrugged. "I think it was so bad, it was funny. The 'Native American' was a white woman with blue eyeshadow on. I guess you can't take these things too seriously. I don't find the portrayal of most Italians to be very accurate either."

"Ah yes, the gangster slash mama's boy stereotype. I see a little of that in you," Scatty said mischievously, laughing at his response. "Only kidding." She gave up on the movies and plopped down next to Machiavelli on the couch. He took her utter lack of gracefulness as her being completely comfortable around him. "What's the matter kid? Haven't I been company enough for you?"

Machiavelli had been looking towards the front of the house, ears pricked for the sounds of the garage opening, a key in the front door, anything. He started at her question. "Sorry, no. I mean yes. I just miss him," he said, trying to apologize. She tapped him on the nose and he knew that she wasn't really upset, that she'd been kidding but he felt a strong desire to explain nonetheless. "I guess I'm just used to him always being around. We haven't really been separated since we met back in July."

Scatty nodded, surprising him by leaning heavily on his side. He took a chance and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't fight it, so he left it there. "That's probably why Billy called me," she speculated. "I don't think he likes to leave you alone. He's a good guy."

"He trusts you," Machiavelli pointed out.

Scathach didn't deny it. "I make a lasting impression," she agreed and he laughed. Her bravado reminded him of Billy; both immortals were immensely self-assured, an enviable trait for a person who sometimes wondered if his whole life was based on a mistake made long ago. "Billy must have told you about our adventure." Machiavelli shook his head, no. Rare surprise briefly surfaced on her features. "Oh, well, I hadn't told him not to tell anyone about what happened, but he must have decided to keep it to himself anyways." Seeming to need something to do, she described their adventure to the Italian, who was her rapt audience.

Machiavelli was rather horrified by the whole description of their adventure, the danger they'd been in seemingly made worse by the Kid's current absence. Despite the grave nature of Scatty's story telling, he had a feeling that this American immortal enjoyed the attention just as much as his other American friend would have. She left out no chilling detail, most of her descriptions graphic and prolonged.

"So," she concluded, poking him painfully between the ribs. "I gave you all the details of my innermost troubles. Now you know how Billy and I came to meet."

"After that," he said slowly, picturing it in his mind, "you came with him to this house."

"But then I had my disagreement with Billie Holiday and we split again. I went back to California, and he continued to roam the country."

"Hmm," he said, shifting so that she could lean against his chest. Idly, he stroked her hair. She lay her head against his torso; Machiavelli was sure she could hear his heart thump in his chest. They were quiet, both immortals relatively talked out for the time being.

~MB~

The two immortals waited for Billy all that night, but he didn't show. Scatty opened her mouth to say something several times but shut it again. She watched the Italian immortal pace instead. Around four in the morning, he fell asleep in the armchair that Billy normally sat in. When he woke up again, he'd been covered by the old comforter from the back of the couch. The Shadow was stretched on out the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor. Getting up, he tucked her arm in under the covers again, glanced at the street, and fell heavily back into the chair.