"What are you doing?" Machiavelli said sleepily.
Billy jolted up, the remote he'd been balancing on his stomach falling to the ground. He fished it off the floor again and tossed it on the coffee table. "Oh, hey, Mac. I couldn't sleep. I'm just watching some TV."
"Oh. I woke up and you were gone." Machiavelli rubbed at his stomach absently. The floor was cold beneath his feet and he wished he'd thought to put some socks on. He blinked in the dim lighting. "What are you watching?" he asked as the commercials came on. He settled onto the couch.
Billy laughed. He wrapped an arm around the Italian's shoulders, pulling him close. "It's a special on the Chicago Blackhawks, which I thought was silly, so I'm watching it."
"The Chicago Blackhawks," Niccolo said slowly. Billy was looking over at him with a grin, his glee ever present. "This sports team isn't named after our Native American friend, is it?"
The Kid nodded vigorously. "A sometimes dubious honor," he said solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Seeing as some years they perform better than others. Usually, they are good though. He's pretty smug about it." The commercials ended and the outlaw paused. "This is basically all about the 1967 trade the Hawks made with the Bruins. Worst trade they could have ever made. They gave away Phil Esposito, Ken Hodge, and Fred Stanfield for Pit Martin, Jack Norris and Gilles Marotte. Can you believe that?"
Machiavelli shot him a side glance. "Kind of. Pretend I'm stupid."
"Oh, yeah, you wouldn't know sports. Well, Martin did star for the Hawks for a long time, but the three people the Hawks gave up, they led the Bruins to the top," Billy explained, his lips close enough to Machiavelli's ear that the effect was distracting. "They won two Stanley Cups during those years and Esposito went on to be one of the NHL's all-time greats. He's in the hockey Hall of Fame now."
"So, they made a really bad trade," Machiavelli surmised.
"Mm hmm," Billy agreed. They both watched the screen until the next commercial came on. Machiavelli was trying not to yawn. He could maybe summon the strength to watch an actual hockey game, but a documentary about it seemed to be asking too much. "Why couldn't you sleep?" he asked finally, resting his head against the outlaw's, since Billy didn't seem to mind so much.
Billy rotated his shoulders. "It's nothing really, I was just thinking about something…"
"It seems like you've had something on your mind for the last couple of days," Machiavelli told him curiously. "Or do you always have this much trouble sleeping?" he wondered. Searching his mind, he tried to remember if he'd ever actually caught Billy sleeping. It seemed like the American immortal was always already up by the time he got out of bed.
"Meh, from time to time, I go through periods of insomnia," he hedged, shaking his head back and forth slightly as he thought about it. "Usually, it doesn't matter much cause I mean we're immortal. Like Billie's always telling me, we don't actually have to sleep that much. I just like it, cause I get to be comfortable and I like being comfortable. You know, Mac, I need more socks."
"Billy, you're babbling," Machiavelli said sternly. He tapped the American immortal's face with his hand. "So, you're not going to talk to me about it?"
"I swear it's nothing big," Billy insisted. He looked over at his companion. Letting go of his shoulders, he moved over to give them both more space. Machiavelli instantly felt colder. "You know, Mac, we have a very strange relationship. We don't act the way typical guys do. Everyone thinks we're too close."
"Who?"
The Kid looked pained. "Nobody. Nevermind."
Machiavelli felt a little hurt, betrayed, like there was a hole in his gut where Billy's words had punched through. I thought we had a good relationship, he thought dizzily. "No, come on, Billy," Machiavelli argued. "Talk to me about it. This was what you were alluding to in the restaurant tonight, isn't it?"
"Well, that's part of it, but…" Machiavelli waited but the American didn't continue his thought. He frowned, his eyes fixed on the television.
The Italian took off the necklace he kept tucked under his shirt. He held it in front of the Kid, soft light glinting off the gold. "Do you want this back now? I know I'm not your kid anymore."
Billy pushed his hand away; he looked sharply at his companion. "Of course not. I gave that to you, Mac."
"Well, I thought you might have felt differently now," Niccolo mumbled. Running it through his fingers, he made to set it on the table in front of them, but Billy grabbed his fist and pushed it back towards his body, away from the table. "I just didn't want to hit you with my elbow, fastening it again," he explained. "I can put it on later."
"I'll duck," Billy promised. "I like you wearing it. Cause then wherever you go, you'll have to remember that- that- that people love you. I do," he said, jabbing his chest. The pained expression was there again. "When I come home late- or you don't hear from me- it doesn't mean a thing."
This is why I stay on the sidelines. Emotions are only easy to control if they belong to someone else. He made to get up. "Well, I think I'll let you watch your show, Billy. We've been talking through it too much as it is."
"Are you sleepy?"
Machiavelli shrugged. "I don't know. Not really anymore I guess. I think I'll read for a little while, then try again."
The Kid hesitated; he seemed to be turning over something. "Could you stay with me for a little bit? I've missed talking to you, really I have," he begged.
"You could have called," Machiavelli said without thinking about it. "I mean…" He looked awkward.
Billy tilted his head, thinking about it. "I'm really sorry I haven't been calling you, Niccolo. I just…" he made a face. "The other guys…" He stopped again. "I really wanted to talk to you. And then I felt bad cause I hadn't called and I didn't know what to say." He glanced sideways at the Italian immortal.
"I figured that you must not want to talk to me, otherwise you would call. So I didn't want to bother you," Machiavelli explained. He sat down again, gingerly. "I thought maybe now that you'd reconnected with your old friends, that you didn't need me now. You don't need my friendship the way I need yours."
"Querido, you're an indispensable friend."
"Anyways, Scatty told me you weren't mad or anything. So I'm not too worried about it, either way."
Billy looked over at him quizzically. "What else did she tell you?"
"Nothing else," Machiavelli negated, shaking his head. "She said I should talk to you."
"Oh," Billy said thoughtfully. Worry lines creased his forehead. "A couple of the other guys kept teasing me after I talked to you. Said I sounded like a fag." He glanced quickly at the Italian immortal. "I don't mind being mistaken for gay, but the way they went on… I was thinking that I didn't want them thinking about you like that either."
Machiavelli was quiet, digesting what Billy'd said to him.
"I shouldn't have stopped calling for that," Billy babbled, sounding truly recalcitrant. He bumped his shoulder against the Italian's. Machiavelli smiled at the pseudo-masculine form of affection.
"It's hard when those around you cling to ideals of the past," he said softly. "I imagine it's even harder when it's your friends, people that you like."
They sat in silence, watching the program for a long time. When the Black Hawk documentary ended, the Kid turned it over to an old western channel, dialing down the volume considerably so they could talk over it. Flickering waves of light bathed the room in a gentle blue gray glow.
"You got closer to Scatty while I was away," Billy commented.
He sounds almost jealous, Machiavelli observed. "We were close at the cabin too," he pointed out.
Billy nodded. He stretched his legs out in the air, then let them drop back down to where they'd been resting on the coffee table. "But you still love me best of all, don't you?" he asked, half joking, but also somewhat serious.
Set up some boundaries or you'll keep getting hurt, Niccolo. "Billy, you just said we had a strange relationship because people think we're too close," the Italian pointed out. He watched the Kid's face fall. He ran a hand through his hair. I can't do it. "Of course, I like you more than the others. None of them would have liked me if it wasn't for you."
"That's not true," Billy said instantly.
"Well, I think it is."
The American immortal was quiet. "Do I let you down, Mac?"
"No, William. I just got used to being around you twenty-four seven. It was strange to be apart." He paused, watching an absurd fight scene between two cowboys. One punched the other, who flew across the room and over the bar, his legs comically flying up in the air. "Do I seem upset?"
Billy shrugged. "Maybe a little? If you tell me what's bothering you, I'll tell you what's bothering me."
Machiavelli mulled it over. He liked knowing secrets, but on the other hand, disliked divulging secrets. And how could I ever tell Billy that I'm getting a little depressed because I'm in love with him? That's not fair… "I think for now, I'll sit on mine."
The Kid looked greatly relieved. "Okay. Hey, Mac? Forget what I said before. I like the relationship we have. I love all of my friends. Why shouldn't I tell them I love them?" Machiavelli nodded, but that last part seemed to be more to someone else than to him. He wondered how much Black Hawk and the others influenced the way Billy interacted with him. It seemed like on some level, despite his bravado, he still cared deeply about what the others thought.
"We're not typical people in general. Why should we have a typical friendship? That would be boring for the both of us," the tactician pointed out. "Let's go back upstairs, Billy. You're going to be tired tomorrow morning, I know it."
"Are we going to do anything tomorrow?"
"I was going to let you call the shots again." He turned the TV off and pulled Billy to his feet. "You know you can always confide in me, William."
"I know. It's just a little thing I'm turning over in my mind. If it really gets bad, I'll tell you about it. I promise." He yawned. "See, I'm falling asleep now. I just needed to watch some television. Thank you for watching my boring documentary with me. I appreciate your being here."
"Don't mention it," Machiavelli sighed. "Ever again." He was surprised, after Billy's earlier comments, when the American immortal slipped an arm around his waist and helped him up the stairs.
"Did I tell you? I'm learning a little Italian."
"I thought you didn't want to get it mixed up with your Spanish."
"I'm working on it," Billy said eagerly. "It can be a bit confusing at times, but I wanted to impress you. I do pick up languages relatively quickly."
"Well, I can start coaching you a little if that's something you're interested in." He pushed the Kid towards his side of the bed. Billy eased onto his side of the bed and switched off the light on his own, so Machiavelli climbed in on the other side. He continued to talk to the American immortal. "I don't think Italian's a hard language to pick up, but then I could be biased…"
"Hey, you found my momma's old book," Billy interrupted, leaning across Machiavelli to reach for the book that he'd left on his nightstand table. "I- can't- get- it," he strained, and gave up. "I've been looking for that. You found it?"
Machiavelli carefully took the tome in both hands. "I did," he admitted shyly. "When I was dusting the books upstairs and… it seemed special, so I brought it down here." He made to hand it to Billy, but the American put up a hand refusing it at the last moment.
"I wouldn't be able to hold it with just the one arm," the Kid explained, scooting closer to where the Italian sat so that he could look on. His eyes were bright with excitement. "It was my momma's," he reiterated, tracing one finger over the cover of the book. "She brought it over when she came from Ireland. She used to read the stories to me. In English, mostly, cause she wanted me to have a chance of a future-that's what she'd say anyways- but in Gaelic when she was tired." He motioned Machiavelli to open the book. "It's all written in Gaelic, you see. I can't read Gaelic."
Machiavelli didn't know what to say. His companion seemed to both adore the book and be saddened by it. "I can't read Gaelic either." He turned the pages slowly. "Wouldn't Scatty potentially be able to read Gaelic?" he wondered out loud.
"I thought Gaelic was native to Ireland. Isn't Scatty Scottish?" Billy asked sleepily.
"There's Scottish Gaelic and there's Irish Gaelic. To be honest, I don't know what the differences would be…"
"I should ask her if she could read some tomorrow." The Kid hesitantly took Machiavelli's hand with his good one. "I miss my mother."
Machiavelli couldn't help but stroke the American's head, brushing the hair from his face absently. "That's understandable, tato. It must have been terrible to lose her. Especially when you were just a little boy."
"I was almost fourteen," Billy corrected him.
"That's still little. Remember during the summer when I was "fourteen", you still wanted to baby me?"
"You were my baby," the outlaw said dazedly.
Watching him, Niccolo decided he looked a little pale. He slipped off his side of the bed and went around the bottom to sit on Billy's other side. "I'm going to check your bandages before we go to sleep." He began to unwind the bandages. "So how's that any different from what I said?"
Billy smiled, then winced when his arm was finally unwrapped. "It just was. Mac? What's wrong?"
"Your arms bleeding. I'm going to fix it." Machiavelli let his aura flow out of him, tracing sparks on Billy's skin. The cut closed again and after examining the American immortal's arm for further injuries, he redid the bandages.
The color came back to the outlaw's face. "Thanks."
"Anytime." Turning, Machiavelli began to dispose of the older bandages. Behind him Billy began to speak again.
"My mother was sick for a long time." Machiavelli turned around; Billy was looking at the ceiling but, perhaps feeling the Italian's eyes on him, he turned ever so slightly. "When she got really sick- the last time- I knew that it was best for her to go, instead of being in pain, instead of dying slowly. But…"
He turned off the lamp next to Billy, gently took the book away, placing it on the bedside table, then finally climbed into bed beside him again. "But it's not easy to lose the ones you love."
The Kid nodded, his throat tight. "When the doctors said she wasn't going to get better," his voice was scratchy, "I felt like I was panicking or suffocating or something. I didn't know how I was going to get by without her."
Machiavelli's fingers closed around Billy's hand. "I hope we find her."
Billy smiled at him through bright eyes. "Me too."
The Italian searched desperately for a way to make Billy a little less sad. "Tell me about when you were little," Machiavelli prompted. He switched off the last light.
Billy laughed. "I was a very sweet kid," he began immodestly, "but I was also probably pretty difficult to deal with at times. My mother had a lot of patience."
"What'd you do?"
"One afternoon, when I was very young, I climbed into the hay loft of the neighbor's house and fell asleep. I ended up sleeping all afternoon. Uh, unbeknownst to me, my mother had noticed that I was missing, obviously-"
"She must have been out of her mind," Machiavelli interrupted.
Billy nodded. "She ran around to all the neighbors carrying my brother- he was maybe six months old at the time and she's saying, 'I can't find Billy, have you seen him?' so everyone is looking for me. Apparently, they started searching the river, my mother was crying- everyone thought I was dead for sure- and then around dinner time, I wandered over to our house again. My stepfather drags me out to the search party and he says 'he's right here, everyone go back to your own business'."
"Your stepfather didn't look for you?"
Again, Billy shook his head. "I don't remember why," he admitted. "But no, he was at the house."
"Pierro walked into the woods behind our house one time," Machiavelli remembered, "We didn't know where he was and I felt like my life was over. Why didn't they search the hayloft though? You wouldn't have gotten far."
"Mm, well apparently they didn't think I could climb the ladder. The river was equally nearby, just in the other direction. It ran behind our house." Billy scratched at his stubble.
"So, was your mother mad?"
"No," Billy negated. "You'd think she would be."
"Well, she was probably just glad you were safe."
"Mm, I remember she slept in my bed that night. I liked it so much, I asked her to do it every night." Billy huffed a little. "She said no, obviously, but I really tried to convince her that it was what she really wanted to do."
He rolled over on his side. "Let's see… Right around that time, I remember being a little unhappy, not in a big way, but she'd just gotten married in the last year, and my brother was born… it had been just the two of us the first few years… That was probably tough for her but I liked it, personally…"
"Were you jealous when your brother was born?"
"Yeah…" Billy's leg twitched; he apologized. "Josie wasn't an easy baby, he was born premature and needed a lot of special care and I was only about three years old when he was born and was used to being the baby myself… I didn't take it very well when he came along. I tried to put him in the outhouse once."
Machiavelli laughed; he couldn't help it. "Your mother must have loved that."
"She took it in stride but my father was furious. He backhanded me. So I'm crying and Josie was crying and my mother's trying to keep everything together."
"He sounds like a nasty man."
"Mmm, he got very attached to Josie right away cause he was his son, but he never cared for me too much. I think my mother shielded me from a lot of it. I don't remember being that unhappy, growing up, to be honest. Do you really like these stories?"
"Sὶ."
"I learned to love my brother. It just took a while…"
"Getting tired, Billy?" Machiavelli asked.
"A little," the American immortal said comfortably. "But I like talking about my mother. I miss her."
"Have you been thinking about where we might find her?"
Billy nodded. "I've been putting a list together, while we were chasing Kulkulan down. I've got a few places I want to try… Feel bad, though. I can't really narrow it down very much. I don't know where she'll be. What if we can't find her?" He propped himself up on his good arm to look at the Italian.
Machiavelli also sat up, hunched over in his sleepiness. "We won't stop looking until we do," he promised solemnly. He brushed his knuckles over the American immortal's arm.
"I hope she's not in Ireland," Billy murmured. "I don't know where she lived there. I barely know where she lived over here."
"How old was she when she emigrated?"
"My age. Twenty-two. She was with my birth father, but he died shortly before I was born. I never knew how. Strange, isn't it? Not to know where you come from."
"She didn't talk about it?"
"My stepfather didn't like her talking about her previous husband."
Machiavelli pushed Billy down, as gently as he could, and laid down himself. "So, where do you think she might be?"
"I've been thinking about where we've lived. I was born in New York, then we moved to Indiana when I was eight. When I was eleven, we moved to Kansas. We moved to Colorado when I was twelve. We didn't stay there long before moving to New Mexico. She died there, a little while later," Billy ticked off the locations. "I don't think she'll be in Colorado cause we were only there a couple of months. And New York seems unlikely too, cause she didn't have an easy life there."
"That leaves Indiana, Kansas, and New Mexico. Is this why we moved to this safe house? To check out some of the locations?"
"Nah, I just thought you'd like the city after being in the country for so long. Indiana is actually about 8 hours away."
"We should have stopped when we drove through last month."
"I thought about it. But it was raining and I just wanted to get to where we were going. We could have been searching in Indianapolis for hours anyways; it's all become so developed."
"That's how I feel about Florence." Machiavelli would have continued talking but just then a snore escaped from the other side of the bed. Sighing, he pulled the blanket so that it was covering them both more. "Good night, William."
