The boat ride back to the mainland passed by fairly uneventfully. Of course, after the night the immortals had suffered through, a bomb could have blown up in the middle of their ship and none of them would have batted an eye. They made an odd group: an elderly couple, a Native American, a young man with a not quite yet closed stomach wound, and a little boy. All of them, except perhaps Black Hawk, splattered with mud, blood, and countless other substances that they didn't care to think about.

By the time they reached the shore, Billy had fallen asleep again and when they got off the boat, Nicholas and Black Hawk hefted him between them to his convertible, while Perenelle picked up Machiavelli. Entering the city, they sent Black Hawk out to find lodging as he was, surprisingly enough, the most normal looking individual within their group at the time. He set them up in a seedy motel where nobody looked at the odd group twice and headed out again to get food and clothing.

In their motel room, Nicholas settled Billy into one of the double beds. Perenelle excused herself to take a shower and Machiavelli climbed onto Billy's bed. Having finished settling Billy in, Nicholas came around the bed to Machiavelli's side. "We're allies now, aren't we Niccolò?" he asked, careful not to wake Billy.

Machiavelli nodded. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," he said.

Nicholas patted his shoulder. "Good," he said. "I'm glad." He hesitated a moment and then suggested they get the Italian's dirty clothes off of him. Machiavelli agreed rather reluctantly, feeling as private as ever despite his younger body. Still, he had to acknowledge that he wouldn't have been able to undo the buttons on his shirt himself. His fingers seemed oddly uncoordinated, a feeling he couldn't get used to.

"How'd you get the Codex back?" he whispered to Nicholas, motioning towards the book the Alchemyst had set on the bedside table.

"The hook handed man came to us, early this morning," Nicholas explained in a quiet voice. "He gave us back the book and also gave us some energy to keep us alive."

"Oh, that's why you look better than me."

Nicholas actually snorted. "I suppose so." The Frenchman was quiet for a moment. "Strangely enough, I'm not sure I want the Codex anymore. Not after all the trouble that came from it. But," he smiled slightly, "I guess I'd better look into your condition, shouldn't I? You know, once I foolishly thought that I knew all the secrets of that book."

Machiavelli smiled too. They heard the shower turn off and Machiavelli hurriedly clambered under the covers, making sure he was almost entirely covered. Moments later, Perenelle came out with a motel bathrobe tightly tied around her. "Hello, Niccolò," she acknowledged and kissed her husband on his cheek.

"Mrs. Flamel," Machiavelli rejoined politely.

"I think I'm going to lie down now. You should clean up, Nicholas, catch some sleep."

Nicholas and Machiavelli nodded. Nicholas climbed wearily to his feet and headed to the shower. Moments later, they heard the water start. Perenelle, who still seemed terribly tired, laid down in the other double bed and soon drifted off, but Machiavelli who had slept for most of the morning was fairly awake. He climbed out again and scooted backwards on the bed until he was off the blanket. Once the blanket was free and clear, he pulled the blanket down and Billy's shirt up so that he could see Billy's wound.

"Checking out my gorgeous figure, are you?" Billy drawled unexpectedly and Machiavelli jumped guiltily. The outlaw grinned wickedly. "Yeah, I'm awake now."

"Checking out your figure anyways," he said cheekily back and Billy laughed.

"You're one to talk right now," the outlaw said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What are you modeling for, the Bold and the Beautiful?" He made a slight hand gesture towards the whole of Machiavelli's body. The Italian had given up on trying to cover himself properly. When they had taken him off the island they had left him his white button down shirt, but this was so ripped and dirty that Machiavelli had given up on it as soon as they had secured the hotel room.

The Italian shrugged, tinting red slightly. "You just wish you could look this good." He smiled wide when Billy laughed. He stopped smiling right away though, when Billy grimaced and pressed a down on his wound. It appeared that his body's movement from laughing had caused him some amount of pain.

Machiavelli pulled the blanket back up. "You're a good man William Bonney. I can't lose you."

"You're a good guy too Niccolò." Billy's eyes were soft and soulful. He smiled, said, "Look." Purplish red smoke spilled out of his fingertips and he pressed them to his wound, sealing it mostly shut.

"That's better," Machiavelli said excitedly. He climbed back under the covers, pressing himself close to the American's form. Billy radiated heat. For the Italian, it was a welcome change to the cold, damp air of the ocean.

"We're going to have to get you some clothes," Billy said sleepily.

"Can we get a suit?"

"No!" But Billy was laughing. "You'll outgrow it in like, a day."

"Won't," Machiavelli said stubbornly.

Billy smiled sleepily. He rubbed at the Italian's stomach with his knuckles, lulling him back into a sleepy state. "You know, Mac, when they told me I was going to work with you, I was prepared to dislike you. But you got to me. Now I can't help but love you."

~MB~

Machiavelli slept on and off for a week. Though there were times when he was keenly awake, for the most part, he seemed to require far more sleep than the other immortals did. Nicholas suggested that his body was recovering the spent aura he had lost in the past few days.

Billy, on his part, was still mostly bedridden. While the wound itself was closing more each day, he had still expelled almost the entirety of his aura. Like Machiavelli, he required a lot of rest, though not as much sleep as the toddler seemed to.

The few times Billy got out of bed were to bathe and to use the bathroom. Three days after they moved into the hotel room, he decided that Machiavelli and he had better shower, being the last ones in their group to clean themselves up. Afraid that Perenelle would nix the idea, Billy waited until she had gone out shopping with Black Hawk before he tried to get out of bed.

"What are you doing?" Nicholas asked, looking up from his puzzle.

"I want to take a shower," Billy explained. He scooped up the Italian, who was still out of it. "I figure I'll bring him along with me." He pulled at his shirt and smelt it, made a sour face. "We both smell. Since he's asleep, he won't see anything."

"Do you think you can stay standing for that long?" Nicholas asked dubiously.

Billy waved a hand. "Oh, yeah. I'm almost completely healed. And even I'm not okay with how much I smell anymore. I won't be long." He saw the doubtful expression on the Frenchman's face. "I'll leave the door unlocked just in case," he promised.

The shower worked out alright, though Machiavelli did wake up at one point. While this made it easier for Billy in some respects (he could put the Italian down), it did mean that Machiavelli saw more of Billy than the American had originally intended. Luckily, Billy wasn't self-conscious because the Italian couldn't help looking at Billy's body more than he would have had he been an adult.

Other than these 'outings' he did everything from his bed, which was fairly boring to the American immortal who was used to perpetual motion. Without much else to do, he amused himself by watching the Italian sleep. He was delighted to find out that Machiavelli, at semi regular intervals, cooed in his sleep and that he could almost begin to predict these time intervals after carefully watching him.

"What are you doing?" Black Hawk asked one afternoon, finding Billy turned on his side, contemplating the Italian.

"He's so cute when he sleeps," Billy said happily. He looked up, his face shining happily. Black Hawk gave him a haughty look, clearly unsure why his best friend was acting this way. Billy stopped smiling, neutralizing his expression. "Look, he has squishy knees," he said, by way of explanation, rubbing Machiavelli's knees with his thumb.

"I suppose so," Black Hawk said, sounding bored. "But why do you care?"

"I like kids," Billy said quietly. He carefully brushed some of the Italian's brown hair out of his eyes. "This could be my only chance to have one," he said to himself.

~MB~

"I am not wearing that," Machiavelli said flatly. He crossed his chubby arms and frowned up at Billy from where he sat on the bed.

Billy sat beside him. "It's all we have left that fits you. You grew so much this week- I think you might be a whole year bigger." He held up the yellow sweatpants enticingly. "Come on, Mac, you're a very little boy. And little boys look cute no matter what they wear."

"I won't wear it." Machiavelli edged away from the sweatpants as though they were toxic. "I will wear jeans, even t-shirts, but never sweatpants. Especially yellow ones."

The American frowned. "Mac, I hate to tell you this, but one way or another you are going to end up wearing these sweatpants or you can go naked. Now what's it going to be?" Machiavelli tilted his head, thinking about it. "Oh, come on!" Billy said impatiently. The Italian reluctantly took the sweatpants and rolled about on the bed, pulling them on. He had a hard time lifting his body off of the bed and Billy ended up pulling him up for a minute with his hand.

"Please tell me there isn't a sweatshirt to go with this," Machiavelli said, looking very disgruntled in his new sweatpants.

"There is actually, but I won't put you through that," Billy told him. He unrolled one of his t-shirts, revealing a faded Sgt. Pepper design. "It's going to be a little big, but I thought you could wear this." He helped the Italian into the shirt. It ended up falling past the Italian's knees.

"It covers most of the yellow," Machiavelli remarked, cheering up considerably. He began to head for the adjoining door to the Flamels' room where the others were waiting.

Billy threw an arm out in front of the Italian before he could go anywhere. "Are you going down looking like that?"

"Like what?" Machiavelli asked confused. Billy turned him so that he could see his reflection in the glass of the window. "Oh. My hair's a mess."

"I'll say," Billy agreed. He licked his hand and smoothed down Machiavelli's unruly hair.

"Billy! That's disgusting!" the Italian squawked. They continued into the other room, squabbling back and forth. The American's comments about Niccolò's pretty curls only made the boy blush more, especially when the other immortals looked up.

Billy scooped him up and set the Italian on his hip. "This was quite the ordeal just to go out to eat. We're all ready."

Perenelle eyed Machiavelli's outfit with some visible distaste. "You didn't dress yourself, did you Niccolò?" The Italian vehemently shook his head and the Frenchwoman looked almost accusingly at Billy. "We've got to get him some better clothes."

Billy waved a hand. "I'll bring him out tomorrow." He bounced the Italian up and down and hummed happily. "How about it, partner, you want some new duds?" Machiavelli frowned at Billy's word choice, but nodded still.