"Oh, Billy, what happened?" Machiavelli climbed up halfway up the staircase, making his way to where Billy was still lying on the stairs.

"Was going to get dressed… felt a little dizzy… I just fell. I'm fine, Mac. Just a little stunned, I guess." He let the Italian pull him into a sitting position, groaning slightly. "I didn't know if you guys had gone out somewhere."

"Of course we hadn't," Machiavelli reproached absently, searching through Billy's hairline for any cuts. Satisfied that there were no noticeable contusions, he stood up.

"We were heating up some soup. I thought you'd probably be still asleep when we came up to get you," Fred called up from where he was standing.

"Oh. Well, I feel like an ass." Billy stood up shakily. He grabbed at Machiavelli's shoulder, hanging on painfully. "I thought… I thought. Never mind. Why am I getting worse? It's been a week. Shouldn't I be getting better?"

"If there is a god, he's punishing you for every time you've said 'I never get sick'," Machiavelli said gravely. He wrapped his arms around Billy's waist. "I'll help you down the rest of the way. We're almost all the way down, you're doing okay. I just don't want you to fall again."

"I guess I should have given you the benefit of the doubt."

"Let's just say it's a good thing we have the landing," Machiavelli intoned ironically. "We're going to lie you down on the bed so I can make sure there's no injuries."

Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, he steered the Kid into their shared bedroom. Billy was shivering; after his soak he'd wrapped a towel around his waist thinking he'd get down to his bedroom on his own. The towel, which had cushioned his fall just slightly, had been left behind on the stairs. His hair was still sopping wet, Niccolo noticed.

"It's our fault," Fred told him, sitting beside him on the bed. "We shouldn't have left you up there alone."

"Well, I'm not a child, you don't have to supervise me." Billy made a hissing sound when Machiavelli lightly probed the bruise forming on his back. Pulling his briefs down lower, Machiavelli checked the rest of him for injuries.

"Well, you have a massive bruise right on the lower part of your back- that's going to hurt- but the rest of you seems fine. Did you hit your arm?"

"No, that's like the only thing I didn't hit. Guess I'm more protective of that now."

Machiavelli skimmed his fingers through Billy's hair again, needing to be sure. "You've got quite the lump forming on the back of your head. Not bleeding though…"

"I'm going to get some ice," Fred decided, pushing off of the bed. "I'll be right back."

"You scared me, William," Niccolo commented, looking over the front of his body now. Billy held his arms out away from him, but, as they'd expected most of the marks were on his back.

"Sorry."

"We're immortal, not invulnerable," he said sternly, knowing that he was repeating himself again but he couldn't help it. "We have to get you out of these wet clothes."

"Sure," the outlaw agreed reluctantly. "Can you get me a towel?"

By the time Machiavelli had gone to the hall closet to grab a towel, Billy had somehow managed to maneuver himself over onto the Italian's side of the bed and under the covers. Machiavelli's quick observation skills detected the wet underpants thrown in the corner of the room. "Here, caro. I'll grab some sweats for you to put on."

"Thanks," Billy said gratefully, grabbing the towel immediately. "And a new pair of underwear too?" he asked shyly. Machiavelli tossed those over first.

"Should have just stayed in bed all day," Niccolo muttered to him, making him smile.

"What's life without a little adventure?" Billy shot back, a grin breaking through despite the obvious pain. Bending slowly, he carefully put each of his legs through the holes and eased it up to the point where he couldn't pull it up any higher without standing up.

Wanting to give him some privacy, Machiavelli left the room to get Scatty's hair dryer. Coming back, he plugged it in by his bedside table. Turning it on low, he began to dry the other man's hair. He stopped when there was no more moisture and the American immortal had stopped shivering.

"Do you want to stay here and rest a bit? So you don't have to move-?"

"Could we go downstairs?" Billy asked timidly. Niccolo raised his eyebrows. "I know. I know. It seems like a bad idea. But I got lonesome up there. I'll still lie down."

"Are you going to be comfortable on the couch?"

The Kid grinned, knowing he'd won. "Course. It's squishy."

Machiavelli ran a hand over his face, knowing he'd regret this. "Okay, fine. But you behave. And I help you down the stairs." Billy nodded eagerly. "Let's get you on your feet," he added, pulling the Kid up as gently as he could. "Let me help you get the rest of the way dressed. Even though you have a fever, it would be really bad for you to get cold right about now."

"Remember when sweats had elastic at the bottom of the legs? Aren't you glad we made it out of that phase?" Putting his hand on Machiavelli's shoulder, he stepped into the pants, pulling them up himself after Niccolo got them on. "Now maybe I should put on a long sleeve. I guess I'm not getting dressed up after all."

"Were you planning on dressing up?"

"I was planning on putting on a nice button down shirt," Billy said vaguely.

"He wants to go downstairs," Machiavelli told Fred as soon as he came back.

"Kid, don't you think you should stay here?" They watched as he struggled into a pullover.

Emerging, Billy blushed, but looked determined. "I don't want to be stuck up here by myself all day long. I'd rather stay downstairs."

"Alright," Fred agreed. He looked like he disagreed, but kept it to himself. "Are you going to help him down again?"

"Of course," Machiavelli asserted.

Fred led the way down the stairs. Behind him, Machiavelli struggled with where to hold Billy up. He was reluctant to wrap his arm around the man's waist now that he knew it was covered with bruises. "It's okay," Billy told him quietly. "Let me put my arm around you and I think I'll be fine."

Machiavelli took a step down, easing the American immortal down gently beside him. He put a hand on Billy's stomach, more to assure himself that the Kid wouldn't fall than to stop him from lurching forward. Fred reached the bottom long before they did and watched them come down. Niccolo wondered what the Native American was thinking; his face was impassive.

"There you go," he said at last, fondly patting Billy on the side of the face.

"Took a while, huh?" Billy said back, grinning. He leaned on Machiavelli. "Not as young as I once was."

"Oh, Billy, you still seem so much younger than the rest of us."

"That's cause I smile more. Why'd you stop smiling?"

"I've never been one to smile much, the moustache just hid that fact better," Fred quipped. "I put lunch on the dining room table. Do you still want it?"

"I'm really hungry," Billy said immediately, limping down the hall.

"You're always hungry," Fred pointed out. "This reminds me of when you were badly injured at Fort Sumner, do you remember that?"

Sitting together in their sunny dining room, Machiavelli and Fred made small talk. Keeping an eye on the American, Niccolo was concerned that he wasn't eating. "Billy, would you like me to make you something else?"

"Huh? Oh, Mac, there's nothing wrong with this. I'm just having trouble keeping it down, to be honest." He coughed again, a little cough which Machiavelli now recognized as the kind that a person made when they were trying not to throw up.

"Why don't you just have some of the broth?" Machiavelli suggested.

Billy nodded. Picking up his spoon again, he began to scoop up a little of the broth. Halfway through his meal however, he stumbled to his feet and quickly made a run for the bathroom. Getting up behind him, they could hear him heaving. Machiavelli rattled the knob, but Billy had locked it.

He came out a minute later, looking slightly green. "Sorry," he apologized, coming out. His face was damp. They couldn't tell if he was sweating from his fever or if he'd splashed his face with water. "Didn't want you to see me do that. It's not really dignified."

"Billy, you've seen at least me and probably Fred throw up several times," the Italian pointed out. Behind him, the Native American nodded. "Do you want to try some more of maybe a different liquid?"

Billy shook his head. "It's okay. I don't feel hungry anymore."

"Okay, why don't we go into the living room? You can take it easy. I'm going to go get some ice," Fred told him.

Billy eased onto the couch, rolling on his side and drawing his legs in front of him. Fred came back upstairs to find him in a semi-fetal position, Machiavelli talking to him in a gentle whisper.

Fred stood next to Machiavelli. "Lie on your stomach, Bill, we'll put this ice on now." He helped Billy roll onto his stomach, raising the back of his shirt and putting an ice back wrapped in a face cloth onto the small of Billy's back. "Put one on for fifteen minutes, then take it off. There's a couple more in the freezer you can use," Fred told Machiavelli. The Italian nodded, dropping into a seat of his own now.

"Where are you going?" the Kid asked, craning to look up at them.

"I promised I'd go over to Billie's apartment. That's where Black Hawk and Scatty are. Apparently we're moving furniture?" Fred shrugged. "I said I'd help out."

"When'd they decide that?" Billy asked, turning as much as he could towards his old friend. He propped himself up.

"Black Hawk asked me last night. And he just texted me now, asking if I'd come."

"Oh. Well, tell them I'd join them if I could," the Kid said, putting his head down again.

Machiavelli crossed one leg over the other. "I'll be staying here, of course, with Billy. Will you be back for dinner?"

Fred tugged at his chin. "I don't know. I'd hope so. I'll have Scatty text you if we're not…" Collecting his coat, he waved goodbye and turned to go. Calling after him, Billy indicated that the man should take his car. He made Fred solemnly swear he'd protect it like it was his own child.

Alone again, they were both quiet. Billy was the first to break the silence. "What are you doing, Mac?" He tried to move so that he could see the Italian immortal, but Machiavelli had taken a seat in Billy's armchair and it was nearly impossible for the Kid to angle himself so that he was within his line of sight.

"I'm just starting a book," Machiavelli told him, getting up and sitting on the coffee table in front of him so that would Billy stop trying to turn. Reaching out, he rubbed at Billy's shoulders. Under his touch, the Kid relaxed. "I thought Fred would stay longer."

"I think he's uncomfortable around me."

"I don't think that's it," Niccolo said gently. He had a feeling the Native American had left so that they'd get the chance to be alone. He felt grateful, but he didn't want the American immortal thinking his old friend disliked him in any way. "He probably just felt obligated to help Black Hawk."

"I guess so."

"Are you uncomfortable around him?"

Billy was still, thinking it over. "A little. He's so different. He got so… old." He huffed a little laugh. "Sorry."

"I wasn't offended until you apologized."

"There's nothing wrong with being old, Mac."

"Look at me, Billy, I'm what 22, 23? I'm not old," he pointed out smugly. "At least not yet."

"You were never that old," the Kid pointed out fondly. "Mac, querido, sit on the couch. You can't be very comfortable sitting perched there like some big bird." Machiavelli ignored Billy's last words and pointed looked up and down the couch for space. Billy patted the place where his head was resting.

"Where's your head going to go?"

"In your lap?" Billy asked innocently. "Like you did last time I was feeling this bad, after I got stabbed. Please?"

"Alright, although you weren't facedown last time," the tactician argued lightly, slipping around Billy to sit down. Taking the ice off, the outlaw turned on his side, resting his head on Machiavelli's thigh.

"Mac, you promised you'd teach me how to speak Italian," Billy reminded him.

"And you want me to do it all this afternoon?"

"Yes," he agreed, with a little grin.

"Well, I did agree to teach you," Machiavelli agreed, shutting his book. "I take it you would like to begin now?"

"Well, I thought it might be a good time since I have to stay lying down. But you know you don't have to keep me company," he added.

"Do I look like I want to move furniture? Have I ever looked like I want to move furniture?" Billy chuckled and shook his head. Machiavelli fixed the blankets around the Kid's shoulders, fondly running his fingers over the shell of his ear. "Of course I have to stay with you. I have to take care of you- you took care of me."

"I loved taking care of you," the outlaw assured him. "You were so small and you needed me. I love being needed." He sneezed.

"So how should I teach you?"

"I don't know," Billy said thoughtfully. "I've been practicing my vocabulary. I can say basic things like 'io sono un uomo' and 'io ho una mela', but I'd like to know more interesting things than that."

"You seem to pick up languages pretty easily," Niccolo observed. "And it should help that you already speak Spanish and French-"

"-Could hurt me too, though-"

"I'd like to think of it as an advantage," Machiavelli continued doggedly. "I think the best thing for you is for us to hear the language. You can practice the pronunciation once you're well, but for now I don't think we should tax your voice. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Billy agreed right away. "Te amo, Mac."

"Oh, te amo, Billy," Machiavelli said immediately, surprised at the admission, at the words in his native language, and getting that warm feeling in his chest again. "I do love you," he said without reservation. Even if Billy never knew the extent of his love, Machiavelli was contented to share his feelings and have them interpreted as they may. "I don't really know how to teach you Italian," he confessed. "I don't know where to start?"

"Ask me how my day is," Billy suggested.

"Well, I would say 'Come stai?' because we know each other well, so we can use the familiar," Niccolo began to explain. "You would say 'sto bene' or 'non sto bene', although in this case, you would probably say something along the lines of 'sono malato.' That means you're sick. Want to try?"

"Sure," Billy said, licking his lips to wet them. He rolled back on his stomach. Taking this as his cue to put the ice pack back on, Niccolo set it in place. "Okay, Billy, come stai?"

"Sono… ma-la-to… Mac? Don't I have to use the word 'io?' In the sentence?"

Machiavelli shook his head. "Not in conversational Italian. You can drop the subject of the sentence because the verb is conjugated in such a way that people will always know to whom you are referring. The important thing to remember is…"

~MB~

After spending much longer than he had thought they would, going over the intricacies of Machiavelli's native tongue, it seemed like he had finally tired the American immortal out. Except for getting up every once in a while to wash their bed clothes, or to fetch another ice pack, the two spent a quiet afternoon in the living room.

Billy had requested that the other immortal read to him, and while Machiavelli was happy to oblige him, he felt himself going rather hoarse after hours of working his way through Billy's dog-eared copy of Cannery Row. Resting one hand over Billy's heart, he began to read silently as the American immortal began to drift off.

It was only when his phone buzzed with a text and he put the book down to check his message that he realized somewhere along the way, Billy Bonney had woken up again. "I thought you were still asleep," he commented, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

"I just woke up again." Billy yawned and sniffled. "I like the nearness of you. I couldn't help myself."

Machiavelli patted him idly. "The others are heading back here now," he read from his phone.

Billy uncurled from his current position. "I should get my face out of your crotch before Black Hawk comes back. He'd never let me live that one down…"

"That would probably be wise," Machiavelli agreed, knowing that if Billy was on the receiving end of Black Hawk's comments, he himself wouldn't be far behind.

"What time is it? Are we ever going to eat?"

Machiavelli arched an eyebrow. "Is that your less than subtle way of saying you're hungry?"

"I'm starving. Io ho…" he stopped to think about it. "Hunger," he finished, rather anticlimactically.

"You were doing so much better," Machiavelli teased. "Hunger making you stupid?"

"Mac, I've got a fever of 103," Billy said, gesturing to the thermometer they'd thrown on the table. "And I've never been that smart, you know…" He gave the Italian a crooked little smile.

"Well, you'd be a lot less hungry if you had eaten lunch when we made it." Machiavelli knew as he was saying it, that that wasn't very fair. Billy had been sick, he remembered.

Billy didn't seem offended though. Hearing footfalls on the steps up from the kitchen, he sat up straight in the chair. He arched his back slightly, whimpering.

"What happened to you?" Scatty asked him, leaning against the back of the couch. He jumped; they both did, in fact. She had snuck up on them so quietly neither had heard her until she was almost literally right on top of them.

"I fell on the stairs," he mumbled.

"Did you slip?"

"No… It was more like I got dizzy… and then my legs went out from under me. Next thing I knew I was sitting on the stairs." He smiled at her, but it looked painful. Machiavelli got up from where he was sitting.

"More like, lying on the stairs," Machiavelli corrected, coming back into the room with a thermometer in his hand.

"Well, yes, that too." Billy rolled over. Pain registered on his face; he tried to hide it from them but that only made his grimace more grotesque. "Ooh…"

"Is he hurt bad?"

"I'm fine," Billy tried to say, but the Italian talked over him.

"I checked him for abrasions. He's got a nasty bruise on his back; that's why he's in pain right now. And he's got a lump on his head." So saying, he held out the thermometer for the American immortal to take. Billy opened his mouth, so he slipped it in. "He should be better in a week or so."

"A week!" Billy yelped. The thermometer fell out and he sneezed. His whole body jolted and he moaned pitifully. "I've got to sit up," he decided. Pushing himself up by sheer force of will, he leaned heavily on his knees, panting.

"Are you okay?" Black Hawk asked.

They all jumped. "Did you just come in the room?" Machiavelli asked in surprise, eyes flashing.

"Yeah, we just got here. Fred's still in the garage, I think." Black Hawk came around the other end of the couch, touching Billy's shoulder. "What did you do?"

The Kid waved a dismissive hand. "I don't want to tell the story again. I just fell, is all. And I have a bit of a fever." He put his forehead down on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs for support.

"He's burning up. You're burning up," Black Hawk told Billy. "Have you tried taking a bath? That might make you feel better." Billy grunted but didn't respond.

"That's why he fell," Machiavelli told the Native American immortal. "Hello again, Fred," he added as the final member of their party came up the stairs. "He was trying to come downstairs and he got dizzy," he added in an undertone to the man to his right. Bending down, he picked up the thermometer off the couch. "Want to try again?"

"Sure," Billy agreed, taking the thermometer back. He stuck it back in his mouth. "It's hard to talk with this in," he mumbled around it.

"So don't talk," Machiavelli advised him.

"All these years, this is all it took," Black Hawk joked, sitting down behind Billy. He wrapped an arm around the Kid's shoulders. Machiavelli was rather surprised to see such close contact, but Billy seemed comfortable with it. He leaned back, resting his head against the back of the couch and looking immensely bored.

"Did you have dinner yet?" Scatty asked Niccolo.

"No, did you?" He took the thermometer back. Scatty nodded. "All of you? Okay, I guess I'll make something for me and Billy. Your fever is 38," he told the outlaw.

Billy made a face. "Which is what in Fahrenheit?"

"Oh, sorry," Niccolo looked down. "101."

"Jesus, Billy!" Fred interjected.

Billy made a noise of pain and shifted around so that he was lying down again. He rested his feet in Black Hawk's lap without asking. "Everything hurts…"

Machiavelli knew he wasn't to blame, but he still felt guilty. If he hadn't suggested the bath in the first place, Billy wouldn't have been upstairs and he wouldn't have fallen. Patting the American immortal on the head, he headed for the kitchen. Scatty trailed after him.

"It's too bad he's sick," she said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Si. He's been uncomfortable all day. I offered to give him some of my aura, but he didn't want it prolonging his cold…" Machiavelli looked around the kitchen. "What should we make for him, for dinner?" We can't make anything heavy cause we had soup at lunch and he couldn't even keep that down, so…" He began opening the cabinets, looking through the shelves. "Maybe we should just heat up some broth?"

"Yeah, I don't know," she said offhandedly. She pulled herself up onto the counter and sat, watching him. "I'm not good at taking care of other people. What did you do when your kids got sick?"

"Looked for my wife?" he suggested dubiously. "He's been coughing all afternoon, maybe I'll just bring him some ice cream."

"Okay," she said distractedly. "Listen, Niccolo, I came down here cause I wanted to let you know about something."

"Let me know about what?"

"Well, Black Hawk seems to have picked up on some of the vibes between you and the Kid, enough so that he's feeling a little threatened." She shrugged, making a face. "I don't think he's homophobic, but he's got it in his head that you and he are going to go to a bar tomorrow night and have some great time while he basically proves or disproves your masculinity…"

Machiavelli stood frozen halfway through scooping the ice cream. "What?" he asked, understanding but not really understanding anything she'd just said.

"Black Hawk's just bummed out because Billy's closer to you than to him now," Scatty said patiently. "He wants you to go out and hit up a lot of women so that he'll feel better."

"But I don't want to go to a bar with Black Hawk. He's going to make me do hyper-masculine things…"

"Well, here's why I wanted to talk to you," she said thoughtfully. "Obviously don't do the things you aren't comfortable with, but I think you should go out with him. We can only hide you so many times in Nora's apartment. And Black Hawk's sure to blab all about the night."

"You're still trying to make him jealous? He's got a fever of over a hundred. I doubt he's paying attention to what I do."

"Oh, Mac, he's always paying attention to you."

"You really think so?" Part of him felt that Scatty was just being nice to him, but another part of him- the hopeful part- felt a flicker of heat spark in his heart. He grinned either way. "I could be good for him, couldn't I? I make him laugh."

Scatty nodded, her eyes crinkled. "I think you would."

"I, maybe- I think that sometime I will ask him if he loved me," Machiavelli said, stumbling over the words, but feeling a warm sensation of confidence fill him up. "I know I move slow, I'm sorry Scatty."

"It's okay," she told him, touching down. "You're just cautious."

The ice cream seemed to help a little. Billy ate it, and managed to keep it down, as he watched one of his shows. Finally, when the outlaw's head was bobbing and the bowl seemed to be in danger of falling to the ground, Machiavelli pulled it gently out of his hand and set it aside. He and Scatty dragged the Kid upstairs.

"Billy, caro, I think I'm going to sleep down here with Scatty, at least for tonight," Machiavelli said, glancing from American immortal to American immortal. He indicated the futon that Scathach was already sitting on.

Billy blinked. He looked confused. "Why? Oh… cause I'm sick?" He coughed into his elbow. "Yeah… I guess that does make sense."

"It's nothing personal," the Italian immortal continued earnestly. "It's just that I want you to be able to get better and I want to be well enough to take care of you in the meantime."

"No, no, that's fine, Mac. I just like having you nearby…"

Machiavelli sat on the edge of their bed. Reaching out, he smoothed the hair away from Billy's face. Under his fingers, he could feel the heat radiating off of his American friend. Billy leaned in to the touch, clinging to his arm like it was a lifeline. Standing over him, Niccolo felt his paternal instincts overwhelm all other feeling in his body.

Perhaps Scatty could tell that he was losing his resolve because she stepped in at that point. "He'll be right here, still, kid," she pointed out. Tossing over their extra pillow, she helped Machiavelli prop the other man up in the bed.

"You might find that you like having the bed to yourself again," Machiavelli pointed out softly. Bending over the Kid, he rubbed Billy's cheek with his thumb. "Let me give you a kiss- you look awful William."

"I don't know if I want to live, if I can't be beautiful," Billy joked weakly. He let the Italian kiss him on his temple. Machiavelli laughed and couldn't help himself- he threw his arms around Billy's shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

Easing back, the Kid squirmed slightly; his discomfort was apparently too great. Shifting around, they could hear him moan, then roll on to his side. Finally, he made himself comfortable (apparently) by lying on his stomach with his feet on the pillow and his body angled towards them. "Hey, guys," he said in a muffled voice.

Scatty arched her back like a cat. "Oh, Billy, what are you doing up there?"

"Everything stings," he mumbled. Propping his head up, he peered at them through the dark. "Don't you think you guys are sleeping awfully close together?"

Scathach glanced behind her, then scooted even closer to the Italian immortal. "What's it to you?"

"Well, it's just that you have all that space on both sides of you. Don't you want to," he made a motion with his hands, "move apart?"

She sat up. "Billy, are you suggesting we leave room for Jesus?"

Machiavelli let out an undignified snort. They both looked over at him. Covering his mouth slightly, he bit his finger to stop himself from laughing. "I'm sorry, I've just never heard that expression before."

"You're just jealous, cause I get to sleep with the hunk tonight?"

"You're damn right I am," he crowed, banging his fist against the side of the bed. "He's my hunk. Don't you damage him!"

"I'll return him in roughly the same condition I got him in," she said saucily back.

They waited for Billy's cutting reply but instead heard a soft snoring.

"Think he's comfy like that?" Machiavelli asked. Scatty shrugged. Bending forward, Machiavelli pushed Billy's arm back onto the bed so that it wouldn't go numb. Leaning back, he laid down again beside the Shadow, pulling the blankets up. "Good night."