AN: Gentle reminder that I write emotional/intellectual fluff cause that's the kind of fiction I wanted to read and found lacking for my pairing. If you're looking for a lot of action and excitement, this fic probably isn't the one for you, as I don't have the energy nor the inclination to change my writing style. On the other hand, I'd be happy to help anyone else write a story of their own! Thanks!
The only good thing about their wretched night waiting for the American immortal was that when Machiavelli finally fell asleep, he slept for the majority of the morning. He woke up again close to noon, finding a note on the coffee table and the couch empty.
Getting up, he whimpered with pain, limping over to the table to snatch up the note. Scatty had gone out 'for supplies,' whatever that meant. Folding and pocketing the note, he slipped it into his pocket. He rotated his head, hissing slightly when he reached a block. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around his middle and let aura spill out around him, clearing away the stiffness and exhaustion.
That just left his appearance. Shuddering at the glance he got from the hall mirror, he headed upstairs, deciding to shower in the bathroom off of Billy's, now Scatty's, room instead of the veritable coffin like shower on his floor.
Stripping off his suit and putting it among the laundry, he dug under the sink for the can of shaving cream he knew was there and lathered up his face. Softly he began to hum under his breath, scraping away the traces of the late night he'd had the day before. Satisfied he'd gotten it all, he turned on the water in the shower and stepped in.
He lost track of time under the water, meaning to hurry through his ablutions, but getting distracted with thoughts of upcoming meal recipes and the Jugendstil art movement in Germany. He rotated his neck, feeling one last little pop where he'd been out of whack.
Finally turning off the water when it got cold, he pushed the curtain back and got out carefully. He snagged a towel from the rail under the window and dried off his underarms, then bent to work on his legs. Dimly, he heard a sound at the top of the stairs, but before he could process it-
"Mac, are you in here? Oh-"
"Scatty!" He jumped a little at suddenly finding her in the doorway, and straightening, held his towel in front of him in a vain attempt to shield himself. She turned around, sitting where he could see her on the bed, but facing the opposite wall.
Hurriedly, he climbed into the boxers he'd laid out on the hamper. "I didn't think you would be back so soon!" he called. He roughly rubbed the towel over his upper torso, drying himself as quickly as he could.
"Oh, yeah, well I've been out for a couple of hours, actually. Did you just wake up?"
He threw a white undershirt on and came to sit next to her. He glanced at the clock that was on what had been his nightstand. "I guess about a half an hour ago. Sorry. Sorry about," he gestured behind himself, stammering a little. "Sorry you saw so much."
She had to laugh a little. "Sorry I pushed into the room. I didn't think you were showering… the water wasn't running."
"I had just shut it off," he said, rising. He looked around, wanting to get dressed.
Perhaps sensing that, she got up too, following him down the stairs. He wasn't quite sure what to do when she made herself at home on his bed, but she solved that problem for him. Lying back against the pillow shams, she arched her eyebrow at him. "What, I can see you naked, but I can't watch you get the rest of the way dressed?"
"Did you really see me naked?" he asked desperately, pulling out a suit and laying it at the foot of his bed. The Italian immortal quickly did up his socks and garters before stepping into the suit pants.
"No," she told him, but he wasn't quite sure he believed her, just based on the small grin on her face. He opened his shirt drawer, taking out the iris shirt she'd convinced him to buy and slipped it on over his shoulders. "So what are these mysterious supplies that you have acquired?"
She watched him buttoning his shirt. "Well," she said at last, I figured that you were probably not going to want to leave the house again until Billy gets here… and we still don't know when that will be… So I got some stuff for us to do around the house. I got popcorn and I figure we can watch a movie this afternoon, and then stuff for brownies." She shrugged. "I know you liked doing that with Billy. I'm not him, of course, but I figured…"
"Billy would be over the moon if he came home and the house smelled like brownies," Niccolò laughed.
She grinned. "That's what I figured." She let him pull her to her feet. "You seem like you're in a better mood today."
"I've resigned myself to my fate," he said quietly. "I have no control over when he gets here."
"Well, that's a little fatalistic, but probably for the best," she said softly, touching down on the floor again.
~MB~
By the second evening of their waiting, Machiavelli was starting to get anxious. "Where is he?" he asked the Shadow desperately.
She shrugged, not knowing any more than he did. "I'm sure he's alright, Niccolò."
Machiavelli slid out of the armchair to pace again. He looked at the chair, remembering Billy perched there, with his knees up, his dirty socks half scrunched down on his feet; odd details lingered around the corners of the room. "I'm going to call him again," he said resolutely. But the connection never went through, the line endlessly ringing, before he hung up in frustration.
Finally, as it was getting dark, Machiavelli got a phone call. Snatching up his phone, he saw a number he didn't recognize, but answered anyways. "Hello?"
"Hey!" It was Billy's voice, and he half slumped with relief. Putting it on speakerphone, they both frowned slightly; they could barely hear him over a din of noise in the background.
"Where are you?" Scatty shouted over the background noise. Billy said something unintelligible back. "What?" they both exclaimed, the combined frustration of the past few days finally getting to them. "At a rodeo- Black Hawk- phone dead-back-" And the line clicked out.
"They stopped at a rodeo?" Machiavelli said disbelievingly. Scatty started to say something, but he cut her off, feeling suddenly and immeasurably angry. "We've been worrying about him for two days now and they went to a rodeo?" he seethed.
"It sounds like it was Black Hawk's idea." But Scatty sounded doubtful- they really hadn't heard enough of the conversation to make a good guess what was going on.
The Italian immortal was quick to point that fact out. "Oh, come on, we couldn't hear anything with that call. He could have been saying Black Hawk won a wet t-shirt contest, for all we'd know." Machiavelli pushed to his feet.
"Where are you going?"
Machiavelli paused. He didn't really know. He could just feel anger coursing through him. "Out. I've got to get fresh air."
"Want company?" He thought about it, then shook his head. "Okay. I'll wait here for Billy. Call you if he gets back before you do."
"You do that." He realized how awful he sounded and softened his tone. "Please."
"Call me if you need me." He nodded and waved as he went down the steps.
Outside, he took a deep breath of cool air. He turned right down the road. Why am I so angry? He couldn't figure it out, but as he stalked down the road, the thought of Billy's photo album popped, unbidden, into his head and he groaned. Because I don't matter to him the way I want to. And now he can't even make it back when he promised he would.
Stalking down the road, he paused outside of a bar, thought about it, and went in. One drink, he thought to himself, but in truth his anger and the feeling that Billy was out there doing god only knows what, spurned him to drink half a dozen rounds in the span of an hour.
And that's how he ended up back at the brownstone with a redhead from the bar. "Billy back yet?" he asked Scatty tipsily.
"No," Scatty said, dislike etched on her face as she looked at the ginger clinging to his arm. "What are you doing?"
"Isn't that obvious?" he slurred, pushing the woman he'd brought home towards the stairs. "I'm going to upstairs if you need me, but please don't need me." He grinned at her.
Scatty caught his arm in a vice grip, pulling him back as he attempted to follow his "date" upstairs. "You're drunk," she said in wonder and disgust. "What are you doing?" she repeated again.
"The bedroom's one floor up on the right," he told his consort, ignoring her question. Both he and the Shadow watched her zigzag up the stairs. "What's wrong Scatty?"
She punched his arm. "What's wrong?" she hissed. "You're in love with Billy. Not that, that moron," she jabbed her finger towards Machiavelli's bedroom, not bothering to keep her voice low.
Machiavelli, in turn, didn't bother contradicting her either. "Billy's probably shacked up with some rodeo puttana of his own, making a new entry in his photo album. Why shouldn't I have fun?"
She released his arm. "Is that what's wrong? His past relationship with women?"
"No, it's his current relationship with women that makes me feel like a fool," Niccolò retorted, surprised at how much force there was behind his words. He stepped away from her, wanting to take control of the situation again, but not knowing what to do. "I'll be upstairs. Billy's not coming back tonight anyways."
She didn't say anything to him as he left her, but he felt her eyes boring into his back all the way up.
Truthfully, he felt a little guilty by the time he got upstairs. He wished Scatty hadn't been there to say anything. Still, he managed to push away the Shadow's reaction when he entered his room to find that the girl (Jenny? Is that her name?) had pulled off her top and was waiting for him on his bed. He shut the door behind him.
"I like to be told what to do," she whispered in his ear.
Machiavelli thought about the album again and felt the blood rush in his ears. "Good. I've got a lot of ideas." He fiddled with the strap on her bra. "Take this off, for one thing."
She did, letting the garment slip down and off. He cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple until he felt it harden. "Get on your knees," he commanded. Niccolò opened his zipper and pulled himself out. "But I don't have to tell you what to do, do I?"
She smiled, leaning forward to capture him between her lips. He felt his need grow. Tangling a hand in her hair, he pulled her close, then let her go. He pulled her to her feet again. "Kiss me," he said roughly.
She tasted like cheap whiskey and bubblegum and he cursed internally, disliking the taste right away. He fumbled with her skirt, looking for a zipper or clasp to undo. Groaning in frustration, he ended up pulling the skirt up instead, essentially flipping it inside out. With one fluid movement, he turned her around and bent her over the bed. He pulled back on her hips and pushed her legs farther apart with his knee so that she lay in front of him, her ass raised and spread to leave little to the imagination.
"Like this?" he asked her. She moaned and nodded into the mattress as he slipped a finger under her lacy undergarments. Her whole body shook as he found her clitoris. And then-
Knocking. And Billy's voice. "Hey, Mac, I-" The door was pushed open. Machiavelli had a brief glance of Billy standing with his hand on the knob, Scatty halfway up the stairs, before the scene seemed to register with the American immortal. "Sorry," he said, pulling the door shut again with a smart snap.
Machiavelli could hear the other two immortals speaking in low tones. He was frozen, rooted to the spot. "Billy," he mumbled, his mind sluggish from shock and alcohol. He withdrew his hand from where it was it was resting. "You should… You should probably go," he said faintly. "Sorry, I just- I'll call you a cab."
"What?" she asked in surprise, but he was already pulling his pants up. "Oh, come on," she grumbled, tugging her skirt down. He handed her bra which she snatched from him.
"Sorry." Machiavelli apologized again. Inwardly, he reflected that this was not a situation he'd anticipated being in. A year ago, this would have never happened.
After he'd gotten her in the cab and given the driver the address on her license, he reluctantly climbed the front steps and entered the living room, where he could hear the other two talking. He came through the entranceway and leaned against the door, his back pressed against the wall jutting out. He was glad there was only the one light on. "Hey," he said softly.
Billy got up. "Hey, Mac," he greeted the Italian. He ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry about that. Scatty tried to warn me. I thought she was kidding me. I just thought you were sleeping…" He grinned nervously and blushed. "Guess you weren't."
"Yeah, sorry you saw that," Machiavelli mumbled. "We've been waiting for you."
"And, what, you got tired of waiting?" Billy joked.
The tactician winced. He stumbled over his words awkwardly, feeling like there was cotton in his mouth. "No. I really have missed you. I just…" He looked to Scatty, unsure if she'd be willing to help him or if she was angry with him.
"You just had a lot to drink cause you were worried," she said softly. "But Billy spent the night talking to an old man," she told him and he knew she wasn't mad.
"At the rodeo?" he asked timidly, afraid now that he'd irreparably damaged his friendship with the American immortal. Billy shook his head. "Where, then?"
"I took a bus up from Nashville," Billy explained. "The old guy was in the seat next to me." He stretched his legs experimentally. "The seats were very uncomfortable after awhile, but I like that man. Great guy!" he said enthusiastically. "We talked about cars mostly. He has a Shelby Cobra Roadster."
"Why'd you change your mind about being at the rodeo?" Niccolò asked. "That seems like the kind of place you'd enjoy being in."
"Normally, I would. But I never wanted to be there in the first place!" Billy scowled. "The guys wanted to stop at one bar last night, and I wanted to keep going, but… I thought we'd just be there for the one night and then I'd run back and be here by morning… But then they stopped at another place. I couldn't explain why I was running to be back here, but…" Billy blinked at him, eyes wide. "I couldn't stand to be away any longer. I ended up leaving Black Hawk there. I don't care what they say about me."
For the first time, Machiavelli noticed the absence of the Native American immortal. He gave the American immortal a questioning look. Billy hastened to explain. "Oh. He'll make his way over here in a day or so. He was the one that wanted to go to the rodeo when he saw it. I just really wanted to get back to you."
"I really missed you," the warlock repeated. He felt the remaining tension in the room dissipate.
"Good. Give your old man a hug?" Billy joked, holding out one arm. "So you picked up a lady, Mac?" He grimaced.
"Billy? What's wrong with your other arm?" Machiavelli asked, dodging the question. The outlaw's right arm was hanging loosely and he realized that since Billy'd arrived, he hadn't seen the man move it once, not even slightly.
Billy looked down at his hand. He wiggled the fingers and hummed with pain, which he quickly tried to conceal. "Oh, that. Umm…."
"You're hurt."
"A little. Say, Mac, do you know you smell like grapefruit now?"
Scatty sighed, causing them both to look at her. "Do you two ever have a normal conversation? Without one of you changing the topic?"
"Good point. Let's talk about your arm," Machiavelli said firmly. "What happened to you? You didn't mention that when we talked on the phone last?"
"It wasn't broken then. And I probably wouldn't have told you anyways, to be honest, on account of me not wanting to worry you," Billy said, sitting gingerly in his armchair. He motioned towards the coach. "Cause then you might have come rushing out to where we were- you're so smart, I knew you'd find us too- and then you'd blow your cover. We, uh, weren't completely successful in killing Quetzalcoatl. But you didn't want me to kill him anyways." Scatty shot him a look. She'd refused to sit down, even after both the male immortals had sat. Machiavelli rearranged his face in what he hoped was an innocent expression.
"I just think he should have the possibility of revoking his immortality when he wants to," Machiavelli explained. Feeling a little more confident than he had before, he snapped impatiently at Billy. "Continue."
"We did manage to collapse his Shadow realm though- that big grassy place he loved so much? Yeah, it's completely gone. All of his knickknacks too. He wasn't too happy about that. Escaped through a ley gate though."
"And your arm? What about that?"
"Well, once we collapsed his shadow realm, we all really had to run like hell. Kulkulan tried to tie me to the realm so that I couldn't escape, used some of his aura to bind me to that ugly sword he had, you remember that Mac? And he rammed it into the ground. Black Hawk and I, we got it out and dragged it to the entrance of the realm, but it was collapsing so fast, we weren't going to make it, so Black Hawk, he…" Billy grimaced and made a motion with his good hand. Machiavelli and Scatty both winced, despite having only the vaguest inclinations of what that hand gesture might mean. "Anyways, he got it off and my hand should heal in a week or so. We had a shaman look at it. They put some stuff on it. I don't really understand but…" He shrugged, the movement apparently caused him some pain, and he let out a pathetic squeak.
Machiavelli got to his feet in an instant. "Billy," he breathed, putting both hands on Billy's face gently. "Stop moving your arm. You're just hurting it more."
The outlaw stilled. He gripped Machiavelli's hand with his good one. "I'm trying not to, if it makes you feel better."
"You should get some rest," Scatty suggested. Machiavelli dropped his hands; he'd forgotten they weren't alone, that this night had hardly went the way he'd planned. He nodded. "Why don't you sleep in Niccolò's room tonight?" she suggested and he looked up sharply. She smiled thinly at him. "He can make sure you don't use it and you wouldn't have to go up to the top floor."
"I'm not an invalid, I can walk up the stairs," Billy laughed. He looked from Machiavelli to Scatty. "Okay. Okay, I'll go with Mac. Just like old times, huh, old buddy?" He went to grab his bag, but Scatty snatched it away from him. "I can't carry my bags up?"
"No."
"I've still got one good arm, you know. Oh, well, I could get used to this. Does this mean you're sleeping in my bedroom tonight?" He asked, following her up. Machiavelli clicked off the last lamp and followed them up. At the first landing, they said goodnight to Scathach; she left his bag inside the door, and they parted ways- Billy and Machiavelli on the first landing, Scatty heading up the stairs to the top floor. Once they were in the room, however, Billy wheeled around to face the Italian immortal.
