Billy hobbled into Machiavelli's bedroom the next morning. Niccolo was just beginning to wake up; he gazed at the American immortal blearily. "What time is it?" he rasped.

The Kid sat on the edge of his bed, smiling broadly down at him. "It's still pretty early. About nine o'clock, I guess."

Machiavelli rolled over partially and looked to his right. Fred's side of the bed was empty and pulled into some semblance of an order. He was confused as to why he was the last one awake, and also, why Billy was still clearly favoring his right foot over his left. "What's going on? Where are the others?"

"Perenelle's in the kitchen making breakfast and she asked me to come get you. But I would have volunteered anyways," Billy said, whispering the last part. "I miss sleeping with you. There's nobody to cuddle…" His bright blue eyes roved the area right next to the Italian immortal but then there was a loud clanging from the kitchen and he jumped up, looking slightly guilty. "I miss…"

"I miss you too." Dragging a hand out from beneath the covers, Machiavelli made a motion for the American immortal to come closer. Billy dipped down quick enough to steal a quick kiss, though both men broke it off rather early, afraid of being discovered. Getting up and limping over to Machiavelli's side of the closet, the Kid began to take clothes out for the tall immortal. "Black Hawk and Fred went to find Langston," he continued, as though there had been no distraction. "I'm glad you're meeting him. He was a great guy. Super smart. You're going to like him. You'll have someone to keep up with your smarts for once."

"That's what I have you for," Machiavelli protested, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Billy laughed. "I mean it," he called indignantly.

"Sure, I know you mean it, Mac, but we can't pretend I'm anywhere in your league," the outlaw said cheerfully, without turning around.

Niccolo wanted to argue more about this point, but also wanted to talk to Billy while he could. They didn't have much time… how long would really be believable for the outlaw to wake him up? He plunged forward. "Why are you still limping? Why didn't your aura fix it?"

Billy looked down at his foot, frowning slightly. "I think I'm still just a little run down from our last adventure," he said mildly. "It's better than it was last night… It'll heal in due time."

"I can heal it," Niccolo said, coming to stand beside him.

Billy had to look up to look into the tactician's gray eyes. "Nah, Mac, it's not critical. It'll right itself in a day or so. In the meantime, you can take care of me." He waggled his eyebrows, giving the Italian immortal his best enticing look. "I like it when you do."

Machiavelli couldn't help but grin shyly at him. "I'll always take care of you," he promised.

There was a little half smile on Billy's face as he turned away. "I believe it," he said, waving his hand as he made his way towards the door. "I'll tell Perenelle you're awake."

~MB~

Black Hawk called them mid-afternoon to say that they'd gotten back to the city with their friend. Billy got up from the couch, wobbling a little as he stretched his legs. "Coming, Mac? Perenelle?"

"Sure," the Frenchwoman agreed, putting down a tome that she'd been perusing.

"How about my Mac?"

"Your Mac?" Niccolo asked smoothly, getting up and taking his suit coat off the back of his chair. "Since when am I yours?"

The Kid hopped along on his good leg. "You know you love me," he said teasingly.

"I feel no such thing," Machiavelli argued, not sure why he was pushing back on this. He smiled at the outlaw to show that there were no hard feelings, but part of him- and it wasn't to say that he didn't understand Billy- part of him didn't want the American immortal to joke about this when he wasn't willing to be honest with the others.

Something of what was flashing through his mind must have shown on his face because Billy looked sorry and Machiavelli knew the minute he saw this, that it wasn't what he wanted the outlaw to feel. Of course, Billy had his reservations… he knew that… "Naturally, I love you," he said at last, kissing the younger immortal on the cheek.

They got on the elevator, waiting for the doors to close. Billy's eyes were shining. "You're just saying that cause you sprained my ankle."

Machiavelli spluttered, looking over at the American immortal. "I did not. I didn't sprain his ankle," he said insistently to the Frenchwoman.

"This sounds like something you'll have to work out amongst yourselves," she said mildly, a smile curving on her lips.

"Mac loves me," Billy insisted from his spot on her right. "Not just because he did irreparable harm to my body but because of my charming demeanor and amazing good looks."

"Not to mention your impeccable sense of modesty," the Italian immortal shot back, leaning against the wall.

Billy grinning, huffing a little. He shrugged, smiling at the two European immortals. A minute later, the elevator dinged as they reached the main floor and the doors opened. He led the way across the lobby to the main seating area, clutching Machiavelli's arm almost painfully. He seemed cheery, but there was a definite undercurrent of pain in the way he moved which worried Niccolo a little.

"Let me fix it," he hissed.

"Not right now, querido."

They approached the little group sitting by the indoor waterfall. Black Hawk and Fred were deep in conversation with a well-dressed man. Black Hawk waved to them, seeing them approach, and the man stopped talking to turn and look at them.

Machiavelli got a good look as they approached, especially when the immortal stood, looking delighted to see Billy. Lanston Hughes was a short, light brown skinned man with close cropped hair. He'd forgone the mustache which characterized many of the pictures that the Italian immortal had seen of him, but remained impeccably dressed and distinctly stylish. Billy seemed to have noticed the similarities too. He murmured under his breath, "you and Langston can always talk about suits, if nothing else."

"Billy," he said warmly, reaching out his hand as they got there at last. "Look at you, kid, you haven't aged a day. He caressed Billy's face with one hand.

"You don't look so bad, yourself." Glancing to his side, Billy grinned at Machiavelli. "Let me introduce you. This is Niccolo Machiavelli. You've probably read his works before. And this is Perenelle Flamel…"

Machiavelli took a seat beside Fred, listening to the rest of them talk, but concentrating on the outlaw, his outlaw. There was something in the way the Kid looked at Langston which was complex. The poet was older than both of them at their current "ages", but there was something almost fatherly in the way Billy regarded the newest immortal which made him look much older.

When there was a break in the conversation, the Italian immortal leaned forward and addressed Langston. "How did you meet Billy?" Machiavelli asked, trying not to look too interested.

"I was living with my father down in Mexico, for a period of time back in 1919. Billy was down there, doing something for his master- I didn't know that at the time, of course- but he found me trying to run away. My father and I…" Langston trailed off. "We didn't get along very well. The Kid took care of me. I was always amazed by his willingness to look after me, even though we'd never met…"

"You took care of him?" Machiavelli asked, feeling a strange sense of jealousy as he looked over at Billy. He pushed down on the feeling, knowing that it was irrational.

"For a bit," the outlaw said quietly.

"For a couple of weeks," Langston corrected him. "He brought me back to my mother. I was afraid you were going to take me back to my father," he confessed, looking at Billy.

"No, I understand- I understood- what it felt like to have a father figure who was…"

"Frightening," Langston supplied. "Disappointing. Of course, I didn't know my mother very well either at that point. I had been raised by my grandmother," he clarified, seeing the look on Perenelle's face. "She died when I was thirteen. That was when I was brought to my father's place, but he wasn't… wasn't to my liking."

"So you ran away," Machiavelli surmised, beginning to see the similarities that would have drawn Billy to the young Langston.

"Yes, eventually, and then I got into a bit of trouble," he agreed, beginning to laugh. "Do you want to tell that story?" he asked, lightly kicking at Billy's knee, though mercifully not the injured leg.

Billy had the ghost of a grin on his face. "Langston, here… stole my car."

"The Thunderbird?" Perenelle gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.

"My Thunderbird," Billy agreed. "Everyone is always stealing my car. I understand that it's wonderful, but…" He scowled, but the rest of them laughed. "So Black Hawk and I were attempting to capture something that Quetzelcoatl wanted and we've been searching all day. We went into a little cantina to have dinner. We're sitting there. And the owner comes over to our table and says "Perdóname, pero tu coche se ha ido."

"Forgive me, but your car is missing," Black Hawk translated, laughing. "Billy stood up so fast the table turned over. I paid for the damages while this one took off running. And then I had to run after him."

"What were you planning to do, run after the car until you caught up?"

"That was the plan, yes."

Machiavelli glanced over at Billy, who was looking at him with barely suppressed laughter. A sly grin across his features, the American immortal tightened his lips over his teeth. Niccolo couldn't help it; a short bark of a laugh escaped him. "How did you catch up with him?"

"With my amazing physique."

"I hotwired a car," Black Hawk broke in. "And grabbed him on my way out of town."

"That too." He coughed. "I was going to kill whoever it was when we finally caught up to him, but we finally get him over on the side of the room without a way out and it's this little kid- ("I was seventeen," Langston objected)- this little kid who's stolen my car."

"I still thought you'd kill him," Black Hawk said, leaning back.

"But you didn't."

"No, cause you looked so small and miserable… and it reminded me of myself…"

"So we split up. Billy went with Langston and I continued on with our mission."

The poet nodded. "And Billy turned me around. It had been a long time since someone cared about me the way he did. You saved my life, handsome."

Billy blushed. "I wouldn't go that far. I just took you for a ride."

"And did you eventually make up with your father?" Machiavelli asked, thinking about his relationship with his own children and wondering, for the thousandth time, what they had thought of him after he had left.

Langston thought about it, rubbing at the bridge of his nose absently. "We always had a hard relationship. I suppose in some ways we reconciled, but it was a bumpy relationship until the end. He sent me to Columbia University to get an engineering degree… needless to say, I did not succeed. I think he was disappointed in me, but I resented him for pushing me down a path I clearly did not want to be on."

Machiavelli nodded, feeling an uncomfortable drop in his stomach. More and more, he thought of Ludovico, his obviously gay son. He hadn't been able to accept Ludo as he was… and now he was going to spend the rest of his life regretting it.

"I forgave my father eventually, you know." Langston had been watching him.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I did. Perhaps too late to make much of a difference, but I did." Langston patted him on the arm. "I like you, Mac. Billy's clearly very fond of you for good reason."