Machiavelli felt heavy, like he was being pulled to ground by forces beyond his control.

Behind him, the Flamels were still trying to wake up Areop Enap. He should be helping them, he knew, but he had been distracted by the sight of the two American immortals huddled together, looking at the Karkinos. Anticipating what was about to happen, he struggled to reach Billy, but already the other immortals had sprung into action and he wasn't going to be quick enough, he just knew it. He was left helplessly framed in the doorway, watching as the younger man crept toward the gigantic crab. "Don't do anything stupid Billy," he begged softly.

But it was too late. He watched as the American stepped away from the side of the building and in front of the Karkinos. He could only watch in horror as the crab slammed one foot down, impaling the man he loved most. Machiavelli lurched forward, intent on saving Billy, but was thrown back by Mars Ultor.

Nearly hyperventilating, he clawed at the wooden doorframe, desperately trying to keep his legs under him. ""Billy," he whispered, watching the Native American immortal carry the outlaw back to the warden's house. He knelt beside him quickly, noting the blood on his lips, the jagged cut into the man's chest. He raised a hand to force his aura through the wound, but felt a hand grip his wrist. He looked up to see the Native American looking down at him.

""You can't help him. He's already dead.""

~MB~

"Mac!"

Machiavelli awoke with a start. The light in his room was switched on and Billy was leaning over him, looking down with concern. The Italian touched his face which was inexplicably wet and stinging. "What hit me?" he asked confused.

"I did," the American confessed. Looking at him, Machiavelli saw that Billy looked a little shaken, an expression the Italian had never seen on his face before. Billy cupped his face lightly, touching the area where he had smacked the boy. "You were having a bad dream. I couldn't wake you up."

The Italian lay there, his chest heaving. He stared up at Billy, alive, in sharp detail. The echoes of his nightmare played on the edges of his mind and his face crumpled. He threw his arms around the outlaw's neck and broke down entirely. Billy was clearly baffled at what was going on, but ensconced the Italian in his arms nonetheless, and stroked his hair. Machiavelli couldn't stop crying and this frightened him almost as much as the nightmare had. His whole body heaved.

Billy, to his credit, allowed the Italian to cry himself out. Only after Machiavelli loosened his grip, hiccupping, did Billy ease him back down onto the bed. He leaned over Machiavelli and swiped away at the boy's tears. "Feeling better?" he whispered, looking into the Italian's gray eyes. He sighed a little when the boy whimpered and shrugged helplessly. Bending a little more, he gently kissed the Italian's face. "What's happening?" he asked, feeling powerless.

Machiavelli blushed and pulled at his blanket. "I dreamed you were dead," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. He gripped the comforter over him.

Billy stroked his hair. "I'm right here with you. Thanks to you. You saved me." He glanced out the window, giving the Italian time to compose himself some more.

Machiavelli wiped at his face roughly. "I'm sorry, Billy," he whispered. The American looked back at him with surprise, tilting his head questioningly. Machiavelli clarified: "I don't know why I keep crying so much. I knew the whole time that you were alive. It just seemed so real."

"You don't have to apologize," Billy admonished softly. "We all get nightmares. I don't particularly like to think about that night myself." He smiled ruefully at the Italian.

"I don't want to close my eyes," Machiavelli confessed.

Billy rubbed at the side of his head. He glanced at the clock on Machiavelli's side table. "You don't have to. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. I can read you the rest of Treasure Island if you want. We were just about to finish when you fell asleep earlier."

"Okay," Machiavelli tried to sound calm. "What about after that?"

Billy tilted his head and looked off in the distance. "After I finish the book? Anything you want- I'll even sing for you if it helps." The outlaw still looked concerned, but waggled his eyebrows at the tactician. He commenced to finish off the book, which took very little time, all thing's considered. They'd been closer to the end than Machiavelli had realized.

Billy then sang him only the happy songs from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, something he'd never heard of before, that Billy apparently adored. The American immortal had even danced a little at the end which made Machiavelli smile. Billy's even timbre had a soothing effect on him and against his will, he felt his lids dropping closed again. He struggled against it for as long as he could, but eventually couldn't resist, and slipped off.