The next morning, Machiavelli didn't get up until it was nearly noon and when he did come down, Billy took one look at him and told him he couldn't go anywhere. "Too sick," he said, tapping the boy on his nose. "I think all the worrying you've been doing made you sick," Billy told Machiavelli sounding guilty. He felt the Italian's forehead, then shook his head, paused and kissed his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"Apparently, you can check for fevers this way. But I can't make heads or tails of it. We're going to have to get a thermometer." He stroked Machiavelli's flushed face.

Machiavelli leaned into his touch. "I can never tell when I have a fever. Marietta always took care of the kids when they were ill. She used to kiss them on the forehead too, but I thought that was just to comfort them." He paused, thinking about how he had missed his chance to do a lot of things. He tried to quash the feeling that he'd made a terrible mistake. Instead, he tried to divert his feelings by going back to the conversation at hand. "Anyways, Billy, I don't think your emotions make you sick," he told the American.

"Maybe not," Billy admitted. "But my mother used to say that sickness followed sadness. I guess part of me still believes that." He paused. Machiavelli let him be quiet, knowing that someone who loved to talk as much as Billy did wouldn't stay quiet for long. "You know, one time I asked her if she got sick because she was so sad after my father left. She never answered." Billy laughed weakly. "Kids ask stupid questions," he told the Italian.

Machiavelli kept quiet, but he shook his head at the outlaw. He didn't think it was a stupid question, remembering some of the questions his children had asked of him, how some of them had really broke his heart. But he said nothing, knowing that Billy had never mentioned his father before, and might not continue now if he broke in. He wondered how much Billy knew of his father.

Something of his question must have showed in his face because Billy answered his thought. "I don't remember my father. He left shortly after I was born," he paused. "Possibly because I was born." Machiavelli winced, knowing that his children had seen very little of their father when they were growing up. He wished he could take it back now. Meanwhile, this conversation wasn't going at all the way that he had wanted it to. Instead of taking his mind off of his children, it was reminding him of his faults. He looked up. Billy was busy measuring out cough medicine.

Machiavelli tried to forestall the awful tasting medicine. Climbing up onto the kitchen stool, he looked over at the American. "What about your stepfather, Billy?" he asked.

Billy paused, "I told you about my stepfather. He left after my mother died. Actually, he was gone when my mother died. Out prospecting, and he didn't come back until after we had already buried her. I was the one who made the arrangements." He held the spoon in front of Machiavelli's mouth.

Grudgingly, the Italian accepted the cough syrup. He opened his mouth and Billy slipped the spoon in. He spluttered. "It tastes bad."

"I know." Billy squeezed his knee. "Anyway, Mac, you don't have to worry about me taking your father's place. I don't know how to be a father." He stood up, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm going to make lunch now. Forget what I said, Mac, I didn't mean it."

Machiavelli straightened, looking up at the American. Rare surprise colored his face. "How did you know about that?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Ah well," Billy ruffled his hair and looked to the side. "I might have eavesdropped on part of your conversation the other day," he mumbled. He had the decency to look ashamed.

"You what?!"

"Well... I didn't know it was going to be so serious. I just wondered what you would talk about with a kid, I didn't think it was going to be so serious." The outlaw scuffed at his cowboy boots. "I thought for sure you'd be talking about Pokémon or Yu-Gi-Oh, or something along the lines of that. Little boys shouldn't have these kinds of worries..." He looked into the Italian's face. "I'm sorry, Mac."

Machiavelli's face was tinged slightly with pink. He wasn't angry with Billy, knowing his own propensity to investigate others fully, but he was embarrassed and a bit ashamed by what Billy had overheard. "How much did you hear?" he finally asked.

Billy looked up and slightly to the right, trying to recall exactly what he had heard. He said slowly, "Just that you feel guilty about your father, what he might think about what we're doing. But," he emphasized. "I'm not trying to replace your father, it's just that..." he trailed off.

Machiavelli coughed and rubbed at his ribs. "Just what?" he tried to draw out the American.

The outlaw looked sheepish. "Before I was immortal, I never got to spend any time with the kids I had. And after I became immortal I realized that I was never going to have any kids. It wouldn't be fair to them. So, you're my one shot, Mac. I get you for as long as you're like this and that's it. No more kids for me." Billy had turned slightly pink while saying all this.

Machiavelli opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, his mind reeling. He hadn't thought about how Billy must feel about all of this, nor had he known that Billy had once had any children. Suddenly, he realized that the outlaw and he shared another level of understanding, one that he had never intended on talking about. Feeling slightly dizzy, he asked "Can I watch TV?"

Billy nodded, looking relieved.

~MB~

For lunch, Billy made them tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Machiavelli didn't have much of an appetite, but Billy broke off pieces of his sandwich, dipped them in the soup, and poked the pieces into his mouth. The Italian didn't resist Billy's ministrations, but he didn't help much either, numbly chewing.

"I'm really worried about you, Mac," Billy said finally. "Do you want to lie down, maybe get some more sleep?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Here, well let's watch some TV or something. Geez, but you're sweating."

Machiavelli looked up at him. "Am I sweating? I feel so cold."

Billy settled the Italian onto the couch. "I don't know what to do, Mac. Let's hope one of the others knows how to take care of sick kids." He wrapped a blanket around Machiavelli and put on an old Scooby Doo episode. The outlaw thought for certain that Machiavelli would protest, but the boy quickly became entranced with the show. Once, when Billy passed the living room, the Italian informed him that he was a dead ringer for Shaggy. Watching the cartoon for moment, Billy made the mental note to switch which medicine he was giving the Italian.

The American opened up the other rooms, getting the cabin ready for the others to arrive. Ruffling Machiavelli's hair fondly, he stepped out on the front porch to make a call. He dialed the number for Black Hawk and listened to it connect. "Hello, Black Hawk- Oh, hello Mrs. Flamel. Is he driving?" He listened to the Frenchwoman's response. "Listen, I was wondering if you could stop and pick up some supplies for me? Oh, good. Here's what I need..."