After the pumpkins were carved, and half the household had gone out to celebrate the night before Halloween festivities, Machiavelli suggested to Billy that he take a nap, tired as he was becoming. The American immortal complied, giving Scatty and Machiavelli enough time to have a whispered conversation as they moved the pumpkins out so that everyone could see them, but it wasn't long before they could hear him coming back down the stairs, his steps heavier than normal.
"Well, he slept for maybe a half hour," Scatty pointed out. Smacking her hands together, she stood back to look at the effect of their efforts.
"It looks nice," Machiavelli said, joining her on the sidewalk.
They'd put the pumpkins on the steps. Scatty had lit each one with small flames from her fingers; the flames cast a long shadow into the night. Seeing Billy peek out their front door, they waved him down.
"Hi," he said, stumbling on the last step. Scatty wrapped her arms around him. "Like it?" she asked. He nodded, smiling faintly at the long line of jack-o-lanterns. "We thought we'd surprise you."
"You guys are the best."
"You shouldn't be out here. You'll get even sicker," Machiavelli reminded him.
"I'll come in now. I just was wondering where you guys had gone to."
Machiavelli led the way back into the house. Flicking on another light, he sat back on the couch. Billy groaned, sliding into the seat next to Niccolo and leaned his head against the tactician's shoulder. "You look like you're feeling worse, caro," Machiavelli said critically, glancing over at the younger immortal.
"I feel worse," Billy rasped. "Can I lean on you?" The Italian immortal nodded; after all, the American immortal was already mostly doing that anyways. Billy moved forward a little to let Niccolo wrap his arm around his shoulders, then leaned back in again. Rubbing at his face absently, he sighed and closed his eyes. His ear pressed against the tactician's chest, he likely could hear Niccolo's heart beating. "I'm tired," he murmured.
Niccolo glanced at Scathach, wondering if she would tease him later, and decided she wouldn't do that to him. He kissed the top of Billy's head, sorry to see his affable friend in such poor condition especially when he'd been so happy earlier that evening. "Why? Didn't you sleep?" he asked, again pausing the movie they'd been watching earlier in favor of talking to the American immortal. He stroked the outlaw's brown hair and moved slightly so that Billy could more comfortably lean against him.
Billy tugged the blanket off the back of their couch and covered himself as best he could, his legs sticking out the other end. He snuggled in closer to the other immortal, grateful that the other male immortals were out so that he could do this. Scatty seeing them like this, he didn't seem to mind at all. "Didn't sleep much last night. Couldn't sleep just now. I feel all congested. I think my cold's getting worse."
"Hmm," Niccolo made a noise of sympathy.
"You don't get sick as much as Machiavelli, but when you do, you really go for it," Scatty told the other American immortal conversationally. Sitting on his other side, she sandwiched him between the two of them, resting her face against his.
He laughed weakly. "I know. It's my secret skill."
Machiavelli gave him a half of a hug, knowing that he was probably feeling miserable. Running his hands quickly up and down Billy's arms, he tried to instill some heat in the outlaw's cold form. "What are your symptoms now? You only had a sniffle the other day." He paused. "You've got a fever."
"Do I?" Billy asked sleepily.
"Billy, you're like Chernobyl. In a moment, I'm going to put my face on your other side so that I get an even tan," Scatty joked. She looked to Billy for either approval or derision, but Billy's laugh was swallowed up by a coughing fit that wracked his entire chest. The other immortals leaned away from him momentarily as their companion hunched over, making a variety of rather disgusting noises as the phlegm in his system worked its way up.
"Billy, you sound just awful," Niccolo told him, carefully extracting his legs to get off the couch. "I'm going to get you some cough medicine from the kitchen," he told the other man, encouraging him to lean instead on the Shadow.
"I don't need any of that medicine," Billy protested weakly, making a face, but the older immortal was already moving out of the room and just waved a dismissive hand at him. When he came back, he'd grabbed another blanket out of the hall closet, which he tossed carelessly over Billy's knees, before measuring out some of the cough medicine into a little cup. Despite not wanting to drink the awful stuff, the American immortal sat up obediently so that Niccolo wouldn't accidentally dump the medicine on him. "Bleah!" He complained immediately.
"It'll make you feel better," Niccolo told him gently, tossing the cup onto the bottle of medicine and unfolding the blanket so that he could cover the man better, something Billy had been wondering if (and hoping) he was going to do. "This is what you get for pushing yourself so much the past couple of weeks. I told you that you needed to rest up."
"I like to get out of the house," Billy defended himself. "Clears my head."
"That's cause you're lightheaded," Niccolo told him, unceremoniously climbing over the American's legs and wedging himself in the space that had been his, which had now been swallowed up some by Billy's loafing. For a moment, the two of them fought over the shared space, wordlessly duking it out for the most comfortable position. Finally, they managed to find a place that sort of worked for both of them, with Niccolo's arms slung carefully over the other man's shoulders. The Kid's fingers stretched fruitlessly towards the remote he'd discarded on the foldout table. Machiavelli let him struggle for a moment, jammed as he was in Niccolo's armpit. "I don't think this is going to work," Billy mumbled after half a minute.
"I can get it," Scatty sighed, leaning forward to grab it.
"No, not that," Billy replied, moving again. "Although that is a help. I wondered if you guys were going to leave me to struggle for the rest of the night. No, my arm's going numb. And I can't see the TV." Finally, after much moving around, they ended up with Niccolo slightly higher than Billy, propped on the pillow he'd been leaning against before, and the American leaning heavily on his chest. "Good, that's better. Are you comfortable?"
"Va bene," Niccolò acknowledged back, feeling Billy's fever send hot waves through his own body. "Want us to start the movie over again?"
"What were you watching?" They'd paused it on an inconspicuous scene- a train was just leaving a station.
"In honor of the holiday tomorrow, we're watching Young Frankenstein with Gene Wilder. Here, I'll rewind it," Scatty said pressing some buttons. "Machiavelli's never seen it."
"You'll like this, I think. I hope. It's a great movie. Of course, I like anything with Gene Wilder, so…"
Scathach cut him off, both of them knowing that the Kid might babble for another hour or so. She pressed play and the credits began to roll across the screen again. He wrapped his arm around Scatty so that the three of them were wedged together on the couch. "Can we have a movie marathon tomorrow night? There's a lot of horror movies we've got to watch before October ends. We've already watched the Shining, but we haven't seen Psycho and then there's V/H/S, that was scary and also, weird…" He quieted only when the movie began, laughing at all the jokes again, even though he'd watched the movie several times over.
"I'm going to a haunted house with Black Hawk and Fred," Scatty commented as one scene faded into another.
"I'll stay home with you," Machiavelli offered shyly. The Kid nodded eagerly.
Billy went into peals of laughter when Gene Wilder stabbed himself in the thigh. Machiavelli could almost feel the smile on the other man's face. He laughed himself at some of the more absurd language jokes, the doctor's effort to distance himself from his heterodox ancestor failing repeatedly. As Billy got more tired, he cuddled more into Niccolo's body, which the tactician let him do with very little comment. At one point, his stomach began to make itself known and Niccolo paused the movie. "Billy, we still haven't had dinner. What time do you want to eat?" he asked in Billy's ear.
"What are we having?" Billy asked distractedly, already enraptured in the movie's antics.
"I've got shish kabobs marinating in teriyaki sauce or I could make you some soup, seeing as you're sick. I have to make a vegetarian option anyways."
"I can make food for myself," Scatty reminded him. "I could make his supper too," she added, jerking her head at the sick immortal in their midst.
Billy was considering his options carefully. "Soup," he decided finally, after another coughing spell. His stomach rumbled again and he ducked his head. "Sorry."
"It's quite alright. You want to stop the movie for now so I can make dinner?" Niccolò asked, reluctantly pushing himself up into a sitting position. Billy nodded. He kept himself covered with the two blankets, leaving the tactician to fend for himself. Niccolo shivered in the sudden dramatic change in temperature. "You know, William, you probably wouldn't be so cold if we'd thought to close these windows," he pointed out, noticing for the first time that all the windows in their living room were still open. He turned off a lamp as he passed it and worked his way around the perimeter of the room, closing windows and the blinds so they had more privacy.
Billy fumbled for the remote, turning off the TV. "I didn't know they were open." He got up, ditching his blankets at last, to follow the two older immortals into the kitchen.
Machiavelli snagged a vest out of the laundry, pulling it on over his button down shirt as he thumped down the stairs. Self-consciously, he straightened his tie.
"Want me to do anything?" Billy offered.
Scatty was already pulling some cans down from their cupboard. "You can start opening these if you want."
Billy looked at the cans as he opened them. "I'm guessing you're not making me chicken noodle?" he asked drily, noting that most of the cans seemed to have 'spicy' written somewhere on them.
"No, I'm making taco soup," Scatty told him. "We're going to burn the cold right out of you." Impatient to speed the process along, she warmed a pot full of chicken broth with her aura, filling the room. The smell seemed to wake Billy out of his sleepy stupor, animating him, so that he whirled around the kitchen, a mass of energy to his previous comatose state. After opening all the indicated cans, he began to chop small red peppers directly on the counter. Machiavelli not so subtly handed him a cutting mat.
"I shouldn't be sick," Billy told them, sounding a little resentful as he worked. "I eat too many spices. The wonder is that you still manage to get sick despite all the good food I put in you," he told the Italian. He dumped the peppers into the pot and waggled a finger at him.
"I've always had a delicate immune system," Machiavelli said, snagging one of Billy's oversized sweatshirts as he passed the dryer. He pulled it over his shirt, more to protect it, than because he was cold. The open cans, he began to hand to Scatty.
"When I do get sick, I tend to stay that way for weeks," Billy revealed reluctantly. "Last time I got sick was in the eighties. I was already kind of down anyways though, so I didn't mind the excuse to feel a little beat up."
"Why were you sad?" Scatty asked.
Billy shrugged. "I had gone through a period of dating a lot of women and I guess I finally realized that things weren't going the way I wanted them to…"
"So, what'd you do?" she pressed, intrigued. She needn't have looked over at the Italian; they both felt this was connected to the photo album Machiavelli had found.
"In the end? I just stopped. Cold turkey. I haven't been in a relationship in a long time," Billy admitted. He looked embarrassed.
"Neither have I," Machiavelli murmured.
"Yeah, me either," Scatty agreed.
~MB~
"Mac, can I ask you something?" Billy asked as soon as they heard the shower running that night.
Machiavelli hesitated, sure that he was in trouble in some way. "Of course, Billy."
Billy looked embarrassed. "What we were talking about earlier today… my 'hot streak' in the eighties? I had some stuff left over from that time… do you think you might have seen it when you were cleaning?"
"Some stuff, like what?" Machiavelli stalled, but he knew it was no good. "Okay, fine, I might have found what you're talking about," he unwillingly admitted. "At least I think it's what you're talking about."
"If you don't want to talk about it, we're probably talking about the same thing," Billy pointed out, jamming his hands into his pockets. "See- don't judge me now- the thing is, I had a photo album of some of the girls I dated."
"This photo album?" Machiavelli asked, opening the drawer to his bedside table.
Billy winced. "That's the one. You found it upstairs?"
"Yes, in the desk up in the study," Machiavelli agreed, feeling it would be stupid to pretend otherwise at this point. "I came across your magazines and…" he was scarlet himself now, "and you know that was when I was really hormonal, I'm just getting control of my body now…"
"Those magazines aren't too bad compared to things I've seen nowadays," Billy prompted him.
"No, they're relatively tame, all things considering, but… I was interested in them and I took them out. And that's when I found your album." He handed it to Billy.
Billy's ears were bright red. "Did you look in it?"
"Well… yeah," Machiavelli finally admitted, feeling it would be stupid to try to salvage the situation at this point. "I mean, who would turn down a lot of pictures of naked women, especially when you've just injected a half a dozen years of hormones into one week? And I'm a curious person, you know that Billy," he pleaded.
"It's okay, Mac… I'm just glad you found it and not… not someone else. I guess Black Hawk would be cool with the girls, but I don't know if you noticed…"
"There are some pictures of you," Machiavelli said, completing the thought. "I took them out and locked them in the little desk drawer the other day, before everyone came back. With us switching rooms a lot…" he trailed off.
"I appreciate that, Mac," Billy said gratefully. His face was scarlet though.
"You weren't naked in any of the photos," Machiavelli pointed out.
"I don't have much on, though, you've got to admit. I should have known those pictures were going to come back and bite me in the ass." Billy pushed his jeans down and quickly scrambled under the covers, perhaps self-conscious because of their conversation.
"Well," Machiavelli began, folding back the blanket and climbing into bed, "I'm pretty sure you saw more of me that first night that you came back than you'll admit to me, so we're probably pretty even."
Billy propped himself up on one elbow, watching his companion. "Do you think I dated too many women in the eighties?"
"No, we've both lived so long, it's surprising the numbers aren't higher. Why, do you?"
"A little bit. Remember, this summer, I told you I got close to a woman named Erin? Back when I was living up in New Hampshire? After things fell apart there, I came down here… And I really went wild for a time."
"What stopped you?" Machiavelli hadn't expected to ever have these questions answered; they certainly confirmed some suspicions he'd been forming. Since Billy had brought it up first, he felt he could push it for as much information as possible.
"It wasn't enough." Billy struggled to put it into words. "I realized I wasn't going to get what I really wanted, I mean we really can't, can we?"
Machiavelli felt an ache in his heart. "I don't know. Maybe we can."
"I don't want to run around my whole life through," Billy murmured. "I want to have someone who loves me."
The Italian ached to tell him how he felt, but the seconds lengthened into a minute and they heard a key turning in the lock downstairs. The shower shut off a few minutes later. "You'll be okay, Billy," he said instead. "I know you will. You just feel sad tonight cause you're sick."
"I'm not too sad," Billy told him, surprising him. "How could I be sad when I'm with you?" He smiled at the Italian. Rolling over, he switched off the light on his side. Rubbing at his stomach, he looked up at the ceiling, so Machiavelli looked in the same direction. "Wait, Mac," he said suddenly. "You found the album while I was fighting Kulkulan?"
"Yeah…" Machiavelli said slowly. They could hear Scatty talking to the others downstairs. "Why?"
"You said you were upset at the time… because of something you'd found. Was it the album?"
Machiavelli ran a finger under his nose. "Maybe…"
"Oh," Billy said thoughtfully. He laid down again, quietly deep in thought. "Huh."
Niccolo sat up to defend himself, but Scatty came up and their conversation got cut off. "The others are all back, then?" he asked. "Did they have fun?"
"Seems like it. I told them to keep it down though, cause Billy's sicker."
"You didn't have to do that…" Billy breathed, his eyes fluttering shut.
Machiavelli jerked his head in his direction. "He's almost asleep as it is," he explained. "You were in the shower for a long time…" They continued to talk in low whispers, Scatty climbing onto the bed next to him. Billy's comments got further and further apart as he got sleepier until finally he began to gently snore. "He knows about me finding the album," Machiavelli alerted her at last. That prompted several smaller conversations until finally even they were tired.
Scatty crept over into her bed and he switched out the light. Machiavelli fell asleep listening to the gentle syncopation of the others breathing.
