Machiavelli climbed on the hamper in the bathroom, watching Billy shave. "Why, in this day and age, would you shave with a straight razor?" he asked the American.

"It's what I learned to shave with," Billy mumbled, jutting his chin out. "Anyways, it's not like I have to do it a lot. Once a month or so, just so I know I still have a chin."

"I like you better clean shaven. You should do it more often," the Italian told him.

"You really want me to?" Billy frowned at his reflection. "It makes me look even younger than I am."

"You look fine to me," Machiavelli told him. He continued, "I was lucky, I never had much hair. My son Lodovico took after my wife's father. He'd shave in the morning and have a beard by the afternoon."

Billy laughed. He wetted down his face and washed off the rest of the lather. "Come here, Mac, you've got something on your face."

"I don't see anything." Machiavelli dropped off of the hamper and climbed onto the stool to look at his reflection in the mirror. He turned to tell that he didn't see anything and got a face full of lather. Billy smiled at him, dabbed the shaving cream on to fully cover his face, then whisked it away with the straight razor. Machiavelli stayed perfectly still, feeling Billy expertly handle the razor.

When he had cleared all the lather away from the boy's face, Billy leaned in and tenderly kissed him on the cheek. "There," the American said. "Now we're both clean shaven."

~MB~

"Are we going to the park again today?" Billy asked Machiavelli.

The Italian nodded. "I told John we were coming back."

"Have you found out what's up with him yet?" Billy called from the kitchen. "He acted like he hadn't ate in months yesterday."

Machiavelli played with the pendant around his neck. "I asked him where his parents were. He said his mother was at work. He didn't mention his father. I get the feeling he's not around him."

The American handed him the basket. "Well I packed extra food for him. Since you've got a friend, I'm probably going to spend the time reading."

"Are you still reading that biography on me?" Machiavelli asked the outlaw, somewhat grumpily. Billy nodded. The two immortals got into the car. "Learn anything interesting yet?"

"It's talking about your father a lot right now. Bernardo. Didn't you name one of your kids that too?" He glanced sideways at the Italian. "It says you had a great relationship with your father. That must have been nice."

Machiavelli touched the pendant again. "We did." He smiled fondly, remembering. He looked over at the American, wanting to ask him about his father, but didn't dare bring it up. Billy parked the car a moment later and Machiavelli stepped out, figuring that he had lost the moment.

The two separated after entering the playground. Machiavelli ran over to John who was waiting at the top of the boat structure. Billy set off in the direction of the gazebo, presumably to read some more of his book. Machiavelli was sure that he should be finished it sooner rather than later, considering the speed he had seen the American read at.

~MB~

Billy was just finishing his book when he felt his cell phone buzz. Rolling over on his back, he fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. He grinned, recognizing the number as belonging to Black Hawk. He flipped it open and held it to his ear. "I was beginning to think you guys had forgotten about us," he scolded by way of greeting. He grinned at the response from the Native American immortal.

Hanging up a moment later, he checked his watch and decided he'd better grab the boys if they were ever going to eat. Looking around the playground, he wondered where the Italian had gone to and hoped he hadn't managed to hang himself or something to the effect. He spied the boys, kneeling behind a copse of trees.

Initially, he considered calling out to the boys, but then quickly came up with another plan. Instead of calling out though, he decided he was going to sneak up on the two boys, which would serve two functions: first, he would see how rusty he was at being detected and two, he remembered his early curiosity about what Machiavelli could possibly talk about with other children.

He padded through the sand, his footsteps soft and deliberate. He dodged from the ship structure to a telephone booth. Had there been any other parents there that day, he undoubtedly would have looked like a psycho or a pervert, but as it was, the day was cool and breezy and they were the only ones there. He made it to the other side of the trees without, he was pretty sure, any detection on the part of the children. Here, he settled down on the grass and shamelessly eavesdropped.

He caught the even timber of Machiavelli's voice in midsentence: "...he's been really nice to me, but sometimes I feel guilty thinking about my real father and how much he loved me. I kind of feel like I'm betraying him somehow."

"Do you think he's trying to take your father's place?" Billy was taken aback. He hadn't considered anything of this sort, and suddenly felt that eavesdropping hadn't been a good idea at all. He strained to hear Machiavelli's reply.

"No, I mean, that's the difficult part. I know that Billy wouldn't do something like that, so I feel worse that I love him, cause sometimes I feel like I love him more than my own father and my father's dead, so he's not here to defend himself." There was a pause. "I don't really think about these things very much. Things are nice how they are. Every day is special. But I feel like I'm going to mess it up somehow."

John's voice was raspy, like he had been crying. "You're lucky you've had two fathers who love you. My father could never stand me. I think that's why he went away.

Billy decided he didn't want to hear any more of this. He felt funny, like he had barged in on something delicate and broken it to pieces. Only he hadn't seen any of it coming. He crept away and doubled around the structure once before calling out the boy's names, calling them to lunch.

~MB~

"John thinks we have a weird relationship."

"Why?" Billy tilted his head. "We have a great relationship."

"He heard me call you Billy. He thought that was odd. I told him that you adopted me." He looked over at Billy. "You think that's an acceptable story?"

"Sure," Billy asserted. "We just have to remember to stick with whatever we tell him or we're cooked." He paused. "Do you think we have a weird relationship?"

Machiavelli shook his head, then nodded.

"Well, that clears that up," Billy's rare sarcasm had come to the surface and Machiavelli bit back a laugh. "Thanks for settling the score."

Machiavelli tried to explain. "It must look a bit weird from the perspective of a normal human. You don't work and in a month or so when children everywhere are going to school, I assume I won't be. We spend all of our time together and never with people our own age." He traced quotation marks in the air around the words 'our own age.'

"I suppose." Billy sat beside Machiavelli on the couch. "Then again, most people our own age are dust by now. So that kind of throws a wrench in the works. But while we're on the topic of people our own age, the other immortals are coming up to stay with us for a while. They'll be up in a couple of days."

"That's good," Machiavelli said. "I was getting tired of seeing your ugly mug alone." He smiled, but then sneezed.

Billy wiped snot off of his shirt sleeve. "I'll have you know that my mug is beautiful. Girls from miles around used to come to cast their eyes on this mug."

The Italian giggled. "Can you read to me?" he asked, suddenly changing the topic. "We've only got a little bit left of Treasure Island left.

"Sure," Billy agreed. He picked up Treasure Island again and read aloud in his silvery voice. As he read, he felt the Italian settle into his side and when he was certain that Machiavelli was asleep, he shut the book. The boy's breaths came in heavy and uneven, his head cradled in Billy's lap. Billy didn't dare get up for fear of waking him. He remained on the couch, Machiavelli's head heavy in his lap, his words weighing on Billy's heart, and all the while snatches of Robert Louis Stevenson's words rolling through like the tide breaking on the beach.