The two immortals were doing laundry, or rather, Billy was doing the laundry and Machiavelli was watching him as if he was performing some fascinating task.

"How are you still alive, Mac? You didn't drive and now I find out you don't know how to do laundry." Billy threw a pair of boxers and a shirt in the washer and closed the lid. He turned to scrutinize the Italian immortal.

Machiavelli looked quite unabashed as he leaned on the drier. "I'm a wealthy man, I can afford to pay somebody else to do my laundry."

"But what about before you became immortal. It was my understanding that you were once a man of limited means." Billy hoisted himself up on the washer and looked at Machiavelli expectantly.

The European immortal shrugged. "In 15th century Florence, laundry was considered a woman's chore. I can't imagine it was that much different in 19th century America. Gender roles remained pretty well defined until the 20th century at least.

"I used to help my mama do the wash," Billy stated thoughtfully. "It's funny cause the first time I got arrested was because I stole some clothes from the Chinese laundry."

Machiavelli shook his head. "Why would you do that?" he asked exasperated.

"For fun," Billy said, not bothering to defend himself. He smiled wistfully. "Ah, that was when I began my career of climbing out of chimneys to escape." He smiled dreamily.

"That's why you climbed out of that chimney?" the Italian shouted at the younger man.

Billy scratched at the back of his head. "Come to think about it, if I hadn't stolen the laundry, I wouldn't have broken out of jail, and if I had broken out of jail, I might not have been a criminal. Hmm..."

The Italian couldn't help himself. He smiled slightly. "So you might say, laundry ruined your life."

"Don't be clever," the American said, leaning in to give the other man a fond peck on the cheek. "I'm still going to teach you how to do the wash."

~MB~

"You didn't do any grocery shopping while I was away?" Billy asked, poking around through the cupboards.

Machiavelli blew on his fingertips, futilely attempting to warm them, before replying. "Is this your less than subtle way of saying you're hungry?" Billy nodded. Machiavelli sighed, but smiled. "You did eat today, you know," he pointed out.

"That was so long ago," the outlaw said plaintively.

Machiavelli shifted so that he could see the Shadow, who was extracting her purchases from the trunk of the car. "Do you want any help with that, Scatty?"

"I'm good. It's just the two bags."

"I can't believe you didn't bring a coat," the Kid told her, coming back to stand next to the taller immortal.

"I packed it, I just forgot it in Montana," she said grumpily.

"But haven't you been cold on the days when you and Mac go out on adventures?" Billy pressed, momentarily forgetting his hunger in favor of Scatty's wellbeing.

"I've had sweaters. This is just the first day that even I was cold, walking around."

"We should have just stayed inside," Niccolo said, offering his opinion. "I'm going to make tea."

They'd ventured out, ironically, to the ice cream parlor. Once Billy had become aware of the brownies which Scatty and Machiavelli had made the day before, he insisted on picking up a pint of ice cream. Once he had his ice cream, he'd wanted to get a movie for them to watch after dinner. He had somehow, in true Billy fashion, cajoled them into walking in the opposite direction to stop once more in his tiny little video store.

One thing had led to another and they'd made their way through several shops before either male immortal had noticed that Scatty was unusually cold. Machiavelli had tried to be gentlemanly by offering his coat, but was secretly very thankful when Billy had insisted she take his. They bullied her into the next clothing store they saw.

"Anyways, I've got food for tonight," Machiavelli said, snapping back to the present when the kettle started whistling. "I'm going to make lamb." He looked over at Scatty. "I was going to make asparagus tips and applesauce for the side dishes. Do you want me to make anything else?"

She shook her head. "No, that'll be enough for me."

"I was hoping you were going to make dinner," Billy said happily. He tried to boost himself onto the countertop, but flailed lopsidedly and ended up leaning on it instead, attempting to look suave after his big fail.

"Did you really think I was going to let you cook when you've been injured so recently?"

"No."

Scatty watched him prepare the meat with visible distaste. "Want us to set the dining room table?" Machiavelli nodded.

"That would be nice," he told her. "We cleaned the dining room," he clarified to Billy.

"You guys did a lot." Billy rifled through the utensil drawer, throwing three sets of forks and steak knives onto a placemat. He rolled the whole bundle up. "We'll come back to get the glasses," he said, following Scatty, who'd grabbed plates and napkins.

Machiavelli nodded. "I'll be here." He waited until he stopped hearing the footfalls on the stairs, prepping the food silently but gradually beginning to sing under his breath. He was happy enough in his work, moving by instinct and forgetting where he was briefly. The lamb he put in the oven, before putting the tips in a mixing bowl and pouring olive oil over them. He turned around to get the parmesan cheese and jumped.

Billy was leaning on the door frame. He put a hand up. "I didn't mean to startle you, Mac, it's just that I've never heard you sing before."

Niccolò ducked his head. "I wasn't singing," he said, embarrassed.

"You were," Billy said, smiling. He beamed and moved into the room, moving a hand behind the Italian immortal's ear. "I didn't know you sang," he told him.

"Just when I think I'm alone."

Billy clucked at him, his smile not fading a watt. "You have a beautiful voice. You should sing more often."

"I'll consider it," Machiavelli agreed smoothly. He put the asparagus tips in the oven as well and turned around again. "I suppose Scatty sent you down here to get the glasses?"

"One arm, one glass, but with your help, sir, we could have three," Billy enticed. "Follow me up!" Niccolò gave him a look, which he ignored, but he grabbed two more glasses and they went up the stairs. Machiavelli made the Kid go up first, give him a push from behind. "Ooh, saucy, Mac," Billy yipped.

"Oh, shut up."

"Trouble in paradise already?" Scatty asked from where she was sitting at the table. They joined her at the table, Machiavelli sitting at the head of the table and the two Americans flanking him. He handed the last glass to the Shadow, who poured them all a glass of wine.

"Mac's feeling me up."

"Ooh."

"I was not," Machiavelli groused.

"Well, we know do know Niccolò is good with his hands," Scatty quipped. Billy snorted into his wine glass.

Machiavelli climbed to his feet. "I think I'm going to go work on dinner."

"No, no don't," Billy begged, getting to his feet. He pushed Machiavelli back down in his seat. "We won't tease you anymore, I promise. Sit with us."

"Do you think I have a drinking problem?" Niccolò asked, looking at the liquid in his glass. "I make very poor decisions when I drink."

"Everyone makes bad decisions when they drink too much," Billy said wisely. "You've had wine before and didn't do anything crazy. Why, how much did you have last night?"

"I had six shots," Machiavelli murmured, his mouth covered by one hand.

Billy coughed a little, the last sip of wine apparently not going down the right way. Scatty got up and thumped him on the chest. "Six? In one hour? Everyone makes bad decisions after six. We're lucky you found your way back here after that."

"Mmm." Machiavelli wished he hadn't said anything; he hated causing Billy worry. Looking up, he was surprised to see Scatty looking steadfastly into his eyes. She gave him a sympathetic smile. He cocked his head. "I think that's our timer," he said, listening intently. They all got up but Machiavelli pointed at Billy. "We'll get the food. You stay here."

Billy opened his mouth to protest, but Scatty pushed him back down in his seat as she passed. He gave up remarkably easy, taking up his wine glass again. "We have a dumbwaiter, use it," he called as they disappeared down the stairs.

They weren't too sure about the dumbwaiter, despite Billy's recommendation but it ended up working fine in getting their food up to the first floor without incident. Machiavelli handed the Kid a plate of food, then realized after watching him struggle for the first minute that Billy wasn't able to cut the meat with his one good hand. "Sorry," he said, getting up to help him. "I should have remembered you only have the one arm."

"It's okay," Billy said, watching the other man cut up his food into bite size pieces. "I keep forgetting myself."

"But I should have remembered," Machiavelli asserted stubbornly. The lamb all cut up, he put the knife down on the side of the plate. "Since I've been worrying about your arm all day."

"Have you really?"

"Of course, you're hurt." Machiavelli cut his own meat, the fork grasped in his left hand. He looked to Scatty. "Can I get anything for you?" She shook her head, daintily eating the tips. He looked over at Billy again. "Tell us more about your trip," he suggested.

Billy brightened. He launched into a spirited tale of the first day of their trip, sparing no detail. Machiavelli was spellbound, not so much by the story, which ranged from inane to interesting, but by the man behind the story. He knew that he was probably being fairly obvious, the way he was acting, but he also knew Scatty wasn't going to judge him.

It was a nice meal overall, Billy's story capturing their attention for most of the evening. Eventually, Billy's over the top story telling sparked some competition from the Shadow and the two played off of each other, telling ridiculous tales in the vain hope of outdoing each other. Occasionally, Machiavelli felt compelled to either drop in a story of his own or bring them back into the realm of possibility when they got a little too extravagant.

Scatty got up to use the bathroom at one point and Billy leaned in close to the Italian immortal. "Hey. I promise we'll stop teasing you about the other night," he reiterated.

Machiavelli handed him a piece of bread, buttered. The Italian immortal had a feeling that his American counterpart felt bad about bringing it up before, but he'd known that Billy had never meant any harm by it and just didn't realize half of what he was feeling. He shook a hand. "It's okay. You should just probably never mention it to Black Hawk," he said shrewdly, thinking that the Native American immortal was probably the last person he wanted to know this particular detail, though either of the Flamels could make a close second.

"Although, he might give you more respect for that kind of thing," Billy said thoughtfully. He caught the micro-expression on the tactician's face. "But I won't say a word."

"How much did you see anyways?" Machiavelli asked, turning slightly pink. He pushed the last bit of asperagus around on his plate before stabbing it.

"Not much," Billy valiantly lied. He received a look from the Italian immortal and he gave in, just slightly. "Enough to say you have nothing to be ashamed of?" He smiled charmingly at the Italian. Scatty came back in at that moment and they both switched seamlessly to another topic. "So then Black Hawk said to me…"

Machiavelli couldn't even pay attention to Billy's story beyond nodding occasionally when the American paused. Had Billy been flirting with him? What had he meant by that last comment? He could have meant the girl, but once again he felt the familiar twist of hope, pitted deep in his stomach. He didn't know what to feel…

~MB~

"Oh," Billy groaned, flopping into his armchair. "Ow. Oops." He grimaced, rubbing his arm, having apparently landed on it rather severely.

Machiavelli and Scathach looked at each other. The Italian decided to be the one to speak up. "Billy, you can't just flop around like that. You're seriously injured."

"I forgot for a second."

"You forgot?" Scatty broke in. She looked incredulous.

"He did this last night too," Machiavelli told her, sounding exasperated. They talked over Billy's head, him looking back and forth between them to keep up with the conversation. "He turned over in on his side and nearly crushed his bad arm."

"I'm right here, you know," Billy interjected cheerfully. He'd been following the conversation like a tennis match. Now he gave a little wave.

"Was that the high pitched whining sound I heard around five in the morning?" Scatty asked with interest. He tapped her hand and she absently began stroking his hair. Billy shook his head, but let her pet him, even closing his eyes and leaning closer to her.

"Yeah, that was me," Billy admitted, leaning his head back. "But Mac made me feel better."

"What'd he do, finger you?" The Kid jerked his head up and Machiavelli blushed. He grimaced at her and vehemently shook his head. "Oh, you're never going to live that down," she told him.

The Kid slapped her on the ass. She looked affronted. "Leave my stud muffin alone," he defended the Italian, beginning to laugh. In between bursts of laughter, he explained what happen. "No, Mac rolled me back. Put a heating pad on it. Tucked me in again. Did you sleep with Mac, while I was away?" he asked earnestly.

Both of the other two immortals looked down at him in puzzlement. "You know what I mean. No, not that! Did you share a bed with him?" Billy clarified. "Mac's going to be a great person to sleep with in the winter. He radiates heat." He got distracted when he looked to his right. "Hey! You got my records out."

"There's a reason for that," Machiavelli said. "That is, unless we want to continue to harass each other about our sex lives, of which right now, only I have one." That shut them both up. Machiavelli didn't bother hiding his half smile. "Anyways, I fixed your record player."

"You fixed it?" Billy got up.

"Just needed a new arm," Machiavelli said, walking over with him.

"Ah, just like me." Billy bent over the player, inspecting it closely. "This is good work." He looked over at Machiavelli. "How'd you know I missed my record player?"

"Billy, you have over a hundred records in my closet. It was a lucky guess."

"So, what are you going to play?" Scatty interrupted from where she was lounging on the couch.

"Hmm…" Billy held his arm as he sidled around the Italian immortal. "What do I want to hear? What do you want to hear?" He looked in between his legs at her. "Hmm… ah, this!" He pulled one record from the shelf and handed it to Machiavelli. "Could you? For me? I've just got the one arm."

"Sure." Machiavelli turned it over in his hands. It was Ella Fitzgerald's cover of Don't Fence Me In and he smiled; this was the perfect song for his American friend. Billy beamed as the music started. He pulled Scatty off the couch with his good arm. Niccolò perched on the side table, smiling a little as he watched Billy do his best to dance with the Shadow and thinking how he'd made a terrible mistake. He sat, watching them dance.

Billy was singing along with the record.

"…give me land, lots of land under starry skies above, don't fence me in. Let me ride through the wide open country that I love, don't fence me in…"

He spun Scatty in a tight circle, holding her close to his frame with his working arm, and she was actually laughing.

Machiavelli was conscious that he was happy, that happiness was the emotion he wanted to hang onto more than anything else, but also knew that deep down, in that tiny part of himself that he kept under lock and key, he felt just the smallest pang of jealousy. He tamped it down, unwilling to indulge the emotion. He was surprised then, when the Kid looked at him over Scatty's shoulder and winked.

He tilted his head and grinned.

When the song ended, Billy released her. "I'm so glad you came down here Scatty. I've missed seeing you," he told her.

"Same here," Machiavelli told her. Since she was in an unusually affectionate mood, he got up and held his arms out, giving her the option to refuse.

Surprisingly enough, she accepted his invitation. She had to hug him around the waist, tall as he was, but she did wrap her arms briefly around his skinny frame. "Well, I guess I'm glad you guys like having me around," she mumbled into his chest. He settled one hand on her head, stroking her hair. Overall, he was unsure how long she'd let him continue; he was surprised she hadn't already yielded contact.

"We love you," Billy told her, speaking for both of them. He looked at her fondly.

"What about Niccolo. Don't you love him?"

"Of course I love Mac. I love both of you. I'm so glad to be back with you again."