"Now, I've got a sort of awkward question for you, Mac," Billy said once the door was closed.
Machiavelli stiffened. He had thought he got off rather easily from what had happened earlier. "What is?" he asked reluctantly.
Billy was trying to undo his belt buckle with his left hand. His fingers fumbled fruitlessly with the clasp. "Can you help me undo my pants?" The Italian blinked. "I just need the fastenings undone and then I can do everything else on my own, don't worry, I'm just not good with my left hand, contrary to popular belief."
Niccolò nodded, coming to stand before the outlaw. He slipped the belt open, then undid the top button of his jeans and the zipper for good measure. "Want me to help you with your shirt?"
"Could you?" Billy looked immensely grateful and slightly embarrassed.
"Course." Machiavelli did his best to slip the shirt up and over the Kid's head without moving his arm. It was funny, but this moment seemed far more intimate than anything he'd done with the redhead from the bar. He was reminded that he couldn't fake true love; his heart wanted what it wanted, not any cheap imitation or simulacrum. "What I did before was a big mistake," he said quietly.
"You're allowed to have fun, Mac. I was just embarrassed for you," Billy said just as quietly. "I just didn't expect that you'd be with someone." He pushed down his pants and stepped out of them, pushing them aside with his leg.
"It's not really the type of thing I do, is it?"
Billy shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. "You always manage to surprise me, Niccolò. Just when I think I've got you figured out, you turn around and do something completely new."
Machiavelli sat on the bed. "You never call me Niccolò."
"I do, sometimes."
"I thought if I slept with this girl, it might distance me from thinking about the one I really want," the tactician admitted. "But it just made me think about the real thing even more."
"Your wife," Billy sighed.
No, Machiavelli thought, you. "Lie down Billy, I'll put the blankets over you." He helped the outlaw settle in and carefully tucked the blankets around him. He couldn't help but tap Billy on the nose, wanting to touch him, but knowing he really shouldn't. "I'm glad you're back. Don't leave again, not for a long time."
"I'll try not to," Billy promised. Machiavelli went around the end of the bed, got in on his side and turned the lamp off by its switch. He curled on his side next to the Kid, intent on falling asleep and putting this strange night behind him. The alarm clock read half past three. "Girl looked like she was enjoying herself," Billy whispered in the dark, cutting through the silence.
Machiavelli was surprised that Billy was still thinking about her. He forced a laugh. "I pride myself on being a good lover."
"You looked like you were into it, too."
"Her lips were on my cock, Billy. Of course I was into it."
"Were you mad at me for being late?"
There was a lot of quiet. "I thought you stopped at the rodeo to have fun. I assumed you were hooking up with some girl yourself before you came back here."
"And that upset you?"
Machiavelli didn't know what to answer. He felt that his silence was betraying him. "No," he said finally. "You're free to have fun," he said, echoing Billy's words from before. Billy started to say something else. "Aren't you tired, Billy?"
"Yeah. I guess so. Mac, I..." The Italian immortal waited, but Billy didn't finish whatever thought he was having.
~MB~
All three immortals slept late that next day, having only gone to bed at the break of dawn as it was. Machiavelli slept longer than either of the other two, being the most sleep deprived. He couldn't have known that Billy lay beside him, his face turned toward him, watching as he slept for the majority of the early afternoon. He didn't know the direction Billy's thoughts took or what they lingered on either. He just knew that when he woke up, it was almost four in the afternoon and he felt incredibly groggy.
He was surprised not finding the immortals on the first floor and continued down to the ground level where he found them in the kitchen instead. Light slanted in through the windows near the ceiling, already darkening and he checked his wrist for the time, realized what was missing and fumbled in the utility drawer for the alarm clock instead. "You let me sleep past two?" he rasped in surprise.
"You looked like you needed it," Scatty told him. She popped raspberries in her mouth, sharp pointer teeth gleaming under the overhead lights.
"When were you in my room?" Machiavelli asked, startled.
"I texted her to come down at one point. I was having trouble getting out of bed cause of my arm."
Scathach smoothed a piece of hair down, fixing it for him. "You look very peaceful when you sleep, Niccolò. We didn't want to wake you."
"Oh, thanks," he mumbled. Knuckling his eyes before opening them, Machiavelli glanced over at the outlaw. "Billy, that's a… interesting choice in attire."
Billy was sitting cross legged on the counter. He'd managed- somehow- to pull a sweater over his head, rather ragged and split on one of the cuffs, an antique car design faded on the front, but had otherwise 'come as he was'. Niccolo could see the soft gray white of his briefs and true, the American immortal was wearing a saggy pair of socks, but otherwise, it didn't appear that he'd gone to any great lengths to make himself presentable.
"Are you going to walk around all day in your underwear?"
"You're in your underwear," Billy pointed out comfortably.
"But I'm wearing boxers, at least. That leaves a little more to the imagination," Machiavelli argued, focusing on Billy's face in a futile attempt to avert his eyes.
Billy took a sip of his coffee, coughed a little and ended up spitting some of it out on the counter. Rubbing his chest, he shook his head. With his good hand, he tugged on the sleeve of Machiavelli's undershirt, drawing him closer. "Not when little Niccolo's showing," he said in a low voice.
Glancing down, the Italian immortal quickly shifted his underpants, pulling them down slightly and making sure that they covered- everything- before he would look up again. "Sorry," he mumbled, while Billy gave a high chuckle. The American's eyes were crinkled with amusement. "Billy? How'd you even manage to get the sweater on?"
"I helped him," Scatty called. She was poking through the refrigerator.
Billy nodded. "I was going to put on my robe, but she pointed out that it was basically falling apart. It's one good tug away from a good time," he teased, eyes flashing. "So the sweater actually covers more. But I don't have any pants. I put in a load of laundry." So saying, he sat, swinging his legs back and forth.
"Niccolo doesn't know how to do laundry," Scathach tattled.
The Kid looked over at his Italian companion in surprise. "Really?" he asked, with interest. "I didn't know that. We're going to have to teach you querido."
Machiavelli wished to deflect all the attention he was suddenly receiving. "How'd you get dressed these past few days anyways?"
"I've been doing it myself mostly. I just end up rolling around a bit, which is hard cause I've rolled on my arm a couple of times and it really hurts!" He thought for a minute. "Black Hawk's been helping out with the fastenings though. He's not been too happy about that, but I haven't done such a great job figuring out how to do that on my own."
Scatty came over to sit with them at last. Sitting on the other stool, she motioned to the Italian. "I elect Niccolo to be your official dresser until you get your arm back."
Billy slung his arm around the Italian as best he could. "We'll have fun, buddy," he promised. "Don't worry, I can get most things on myself." He hesitated. "But I'll need help with the bandages."
"When was the last time it was changed?"
The outlaw tapped his fingers on the counter. "Friday," he said finally.
"That's going to get infected," Scatty predicted.
Billy hopped down. He landed and stumbled. "I'm going to take a shower now," he decided. "Then we can put a new bandage on?"
"Sure."
The outlaw meandered over to the stairs. "Can you bring me some pants when they come out of the dryer?" he asked, glancing behind him.
"I can do that," Machiavelli agreed. He was itching to talk to Scatty, but at the same time was afraid of what the Shadow might say to him when they were alone. He backed away from her, vague ideas of heading outside in his head.
"We're going to be outside for a little bit, so shout out the window if you need us," Scatty called after him, her gray eyes piercing the Italian's. He sighed, just slightly, but nodded to her.
"I just want to get dressed first and then I'll come out." Hurriedly, he headed upstairs where he pulled a sweater on over his undershirt and slipped into yesterday's pants. He forgot once again to put on his watch, which wasn't like him, but grabbed a pair of socks out of his dresser as he padded around on the parts of the floor not covered by the rug.
Machiavelli hurried down the stairs to the basement and back up the back steps to where Scatty was, one of Billy's leather jackets wrapped around her skinny frame.
"Sorry," he apologized, feeling a little winded at the unexpected cardio. He clutched a stitch in his side. "So. I know you're mad at me, but-"
"I'm not mad at you," she interrupted. "I was last night," she clarified, seeing his surprised expression. "But I had all night to think it over and I guess I understand why what happened did happen, even if I think it was wrong."
"I wish I hadn't done what I did." He felt very wrong-footed, more so now that she was calmly conversing with him, when he'd fully expected her to shout at him. "I didn't- I- last night," he stammered. "I hadn't done anything too serious with her. But I should have listened to you. You tried to stop me."
She shrugged. "You were drunk and upset."
He ran a hand through his hair. "So you're not mad at me?"
"Do you want me to be?" she asked curiously.
He shrugged helplessly. "Kind of, yes. I'm angry with myself."
Scatty sighed. "I know you are. But you have to let it go. Billy's not mad at you; neither am I." She shifted uneasily. He realized that the Shadow was just as uncomfortable in the moment as he was. "Are those the pants you were wearing yesterday?" she asked, eyeing him critically.
"I was in a hurry to get down here," he said distractedly. "I thought this was going to be a longer conversation and we don't have long before Billy gets out of the shower."
He thought she was going to say something else when she opened her mouth, but after pausing, she seemed to abandon their earlier conversation entirely. "You look cold, Mac."
"It's ten degrees," he said, checking his phone.
"No," she said laughing. "It's cold, but not that cold. It's in the fifties today." He gave her an exasperated look. "… oh yeah, ten degrees Celsius. Never mind."
"Americans, really now," he muttered under his breath. He pulled her towards the house, delving into the relative warmth of the kitchen. "I should bring these clothes for Billy," he said faintly. "In case he gets out soon."
She nodded. "He's been in there a while."
He grabbed a pair of pants off a hanger and rifled through the dryer. He could find any of the American's undergarments, which were, apparently, still in the washer. Giving up, he headed upstairs and grabbed a pair of his boxers before edging into the small bathroom. "Billy? You okay?"
"I'm fine," he called back through the curtain. "Just finishing up." A second later, the water turned off.
"I'm going to wait in the hall, but I've left some clothes for you," Machiavelli offered. "You don't have any clean underpants. I've got a pair of mine for you to wear today."
"Big shoes to fill," Billy joked. "Okay, I just have to get out of here in one piece," Machiavelli heard him say under his breath.
The Italian waited outside the bathroom, wincing when he heard a loud thump. "Okay?" he called through the door.
"Yep. Minor accident," Billy announced. There was the sound of something falling, a few echoes, and the outlaw mumbling under his breath. All of this took several minutes.
Niccolo arched an eyebrow, wondering what was going on behind him. "Need help?" he asked finally.
"Just in bandaging my arm." Billy limped out, carrying the rest of his clothes. He snapped the elastic of the boxers. "I left the shirt off so it wouldn't get in the way."
"And your pants?" He asked, following the American immortal into his bedroom.
"Ah, I need to be sitting to get those on with one arm."
Machiavelli eyed him critically. "Your hair is sopping wet," he observed. Watching Billy rub at it ineffectively with his left hand, he took pity on the outlaw. Pulling the towel from his hand, he wrapped it around the Kid's head, toweling him off gently. It reminded him of his children somehow. "Must be hard to lose the use of your dominant hand. Let me know if I hurt you."
"I've had a bitching hard time brushing my teeth in the morning," Billy said conversationally.
"Brushing with your non-dominant hand is supposed to build new connections in your brain," Machiavelli said idly. Running a hand through his companion's hair, he made a few last sweeps before folding the towel over his arm. "Okay, let's look at your arm."
Billy uncovered it carefully, hissing when the bandages pulled at his skin. Machiavelli bit back a groan, looking at it. Just the sight of it uncovered made him feel a little nauseous. "What did Black Hawk do to you?"
"It's not so bad," Billy said bracingly. Machiavelli quelled him with a sharp, incredulous look. "Okay, well it hurts a lot, but this is actually better than it was right after it initially happened."
"I don't know how that's possible." Billy's arm was severely burned on one side, a two inch strip wrapping its way up the side of his limb. Just below the elbow was two vertical cuts. And-
"Yeah, it's a little bit broken," the Kid said quickly, trying to fend off Machiavelli's deadly gaze. He shifted away. "Just a little bit," he offered hopefully.
Machiavelli straightened up. Backing away from him, he went out into the hall and stood at the bottom of the landing. "Scatty! I'm going to need you." He came back to the room. "What are we going to do with you Billy?" He inspected the arm carefully, not really sure how to hold it. "Does this hurt?"
"It's okay," Billy said through gritted teeth. "I just need you to sanitize it and rewrap it, okay? Please?"
"What's going on?" Scatty said from the doorway.
"Scatty, come in," Machiavelli invited her distractedly. "Look at his arm."
She made a face, inspecting it as the diseased object it was. "What the hell?'
"Exactly," Niccolo said sharply. He got the salve out that Billy had indicated, gingerly applying it along the burn. Billy hissed and jerked his arm. Afraid that he was going to damage himself further, Machiavelli held the one art of his arm that seemed safe- his wrist which was remarkably free of damage. "Careful, the lower part of the arm is broken." His voice rose a little at the last word.
"And aura doesn't fix this?" Scatty asked, letting her dark gray aura spill over the two cuts. "Apparently, not," she mumbled.
"It's mending, really it is," Billy said quietly. "The first day I felt like I had a million needles sticking in the bone."
Machiavelli wiped his hands on the towel. "We just have to rewrap it now," he told Scatty. "Can you do that, tightly? I'm going to hold him so he doesn't shift." They swapped positions, the Italian sitting next to Billy on the bed.
"This is probably going to hurt, kid," Scatty said.
"That's okay."
Machiavelli wrapped his arms around the outlaw, bracing him. He felt Billy's whole body tense, he took a sharp intake of air, and clenched his teeth. "You're okay, Billy," the Italian said urgently. He was surprised that the other man was silent; he thought he would yell out with Scatty binding his arm, but except for one groan, Billy was remarkably restrained.
Scatty did up the arm as quickly as she could, fixing it at the top. "Okay, how's that?"
"It's good, thanks," Billy said, lowly. He smiled at her, but his mouth twitched slightly. He rotated it carefully. "Think it's going to heal up soon," he decided, fairly optimistically, Machiavelli felt.
"You really think it's going to be healed in a week?" Machiavelli asked incredulously. Aware that he was still holding Billy, he let go, getting up. He stood next to Scatty, both of them looking down at the American immortal. Perhaps a little put off by the attention, he grabbed his clothes, holding them in his lap.
"Don't move your arm at all," Machiavelli ordered.
"Give me my phone. Please," Billy added. So Scatty retrieved his mobile from the bedside table. "Look, we've got a picture of when it first happened," Billy said, scrolling through his options. "See?"
He turned the device around so they could see it. Machiavelli felt the bile rise in his throat a little and he had to swallow quickly. Next to him, Scatty surmised what he was thinking fairly effectively. "That's your arm?" she asked.
"See! So it looks much better now." So saying, he shook open his jeans and carefully threaded his legs through the legs. He had to yank the legs up and then kind of shimmy them up his legs, standing and lying down to accomplish his task. "I just- want- to- wear pants," he mumbled furiously. Standing up again, he spun in a circle, trying to half jump, half pull his way to pantsdom.
"Oh, for god's sake," Machiavelli finally said. He didn't think he'd be able to watching Billy… jiggling, for much longer. He pulled the jeans up the rest of the way and had to fiddle with the clasp, the act of dressing someone else not very familiar to him. "Give me your shirt," he commanded, slipping it over the bandaged arm. "I'm going to put a long sleeve shirt over this, so that if we go out, you won't get a lot of weird looks."
"I don't know, I think I'm kind of rocking this look," Billy said, looking to Scatty for approval. She tousled his hair affectionately, but shook her head.
"You look like some emo high schooler."
"Don't."
"Do."
"Children…"
Billy struggled to his feet. Grabbing the front of Machiavelli's tie with his left hand, he pulled the Italian closer to him. "Now tell me honestly, Macaroni," Scatty tittered to his left and Machiavelli shot her a disgruntled look, which she ignored, "did I smell brownies downstairs?" Billy's eyes were soulful.
"I don't know, do you?"
"Don't tease me, Niccolo," Billy begged.
He ducked his head down, hiding a small grin at hearing his actual name for once. "There might be brownies in the kitchen," he allowed.
The Kid beamed. "You're my favorite!"
