Early the next morning, Billy shook Machiavelli awake. "What's up?" The kid asked groggily and groaned in the early morning light. He rolled away from Billy and snuggled deeper into the blankets. Billy rolled him back over.

"We're going on a trip," Billy explained.

Machiavelli checked the clock on the bedside table. It was 5:32. "The others agreed to this?" Machiavelli questioned dubiously. Billy shook his head and explained that the two of them were going alone. Machiavelli groaned again, but clambered out of bed before he thought better of it.

"Good man," Billy clapped him on the shoulder and assessed him critically. He shook his head. "You shot up again, Mac."

Machiavelli looked around. It was true. Yesterday when he climbed out of bed his feet hadn't touched the ground. Now he could sit easily on the edge of the bed with his feet flat on the floor. He realized with a jolt that he had gone through a similar growth spurt nearly five hundred years ago. The change hadn't seemed so drastic back then because Florentines in the 15th century dressed in fairly loose clothing.

Now however, the change was much more noticeable, particularly the elastic digging into him. He slipped out of the underwear, rubbing at the angry red marks on his skin. "We should put me in looser clothing at night. That's when I seem to do all my growing," he told the American.

"Hmm," was the answer he got back from the man. Billy was rooting through his bureau. The Kid was muttering to himself, but the Italian couldn't make out what he was saying. Every once in a while, he would hold up a package of underwear, look at the size, and shake his head. He tossed the offending package on the ground beside him. Soon, he had a ring of clothing around him.

"What's the matter? You can't find any in my size?" he stepped beside Billy.

"Not in the right size yet," Billy responded distractedly. He was now elbow deep in underwear. Machiavelli watched Billy's expression light up when he at last found the right size. He wondered how Billy could live his life so openly. He had once been known to say 'Everyone sees who you appear to be, few experience who you really are.' It just didn't seem to apply to Billy. Billy seemed happy, through and through. He wandered over to his bed.

He blinked when something soft and cotton hit him in the head. Billy had slingshotted a pair of Ninja Turtles underpants at him. Machiavelli climbed into them, mumbling how there was no record of Raphael liking pizza.

Billy tossed a pair of shorts behind him. Machiavelli supposed that meant they were for him. The Kid was still rooting through his bureau. "Ah," Machiavelli heard him say. "Found it."

"Found what?" Machiavelli asked suspiciously.

"The best shirt ever!" Billy said excitedly. The outlaw unfurled his prize. On the shirt he held out was a copy of the famous tintype of him and under it was western style writing which spelled out 'Billy's Kid.'

Machiavelli sighed but held out his hand. Billy grinned and handed it to him. The Italian grumbled a bit, but pulled the shirt over his head.

Billy pecked him on the cheek and pulled him into a one armed hug. "Yeah, Mac," Billy smiled. "You're one good looking kid."

Machiavelli blushed. To change the conversation's direction, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"Don't know." Billy's smile never dimmed. He caught Machiavelli's incredulous look. He shrugged and motioned to Machiavelli's suitcase. "I figured you'd pick. You're paying after all. Now help me pack."

"You didn't even pack!"

Billy stood again, hands on his slender hips. "Well if I had packed, we would have had to repack it anyways. Yesterday, I had a five year old. You went and grew again."

Machiavelli shrugged. "Parenting's hard," he quipped.

"So how about Disney World?" Billy suggested.

Machiavelli pulled a face. "Poked, posed, and demeaned by men in costumes with big heads? Not a chance," he said decisively. He threw a stack of clothes in the suitcase and glanced sideways at Billy. A smiled furled at the corners of his mouth. "I know where I want to go Billy."

"Where?"

Machiavelli wouldn't give it away that easily. "You might not want to go," he cautioned. "See, Black Hawk was telling me last night about this museum in New Mexico." Billy made a face, but kept packing. Machiavelli pressed on. "They do tours on some cheap bum named William H. Bonney."

Billy dropped the suitcase on his foot and jumped a bit. The Italian smiled angelically up at him. "Guess it could be cool", the American said reluctantly, rubbing his foot.