"Billy? Can I have another piece of cake?" Machiavelli begged. He wrapped his arms around Billy's thin waist and gave him his best puppy eyes. "Please?"
"Mac, you just had lunch. A pretty big lunch," Billy reminded him.
Machiavelli hung on to him, undeterred. "But I'm still hungry. And I'm sick." To prove his point, he sneezed into the patterned handkerchief Billy had been keeping in his back pocket. "Can I keep this?" Billy nodded, filling the sink with hot water.
"Oh, just give it to him," Black Hawk called.
"You think giving him another piece of cake will help him?" Billy chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, his forehead crinkled.
Black Hawk shrugged. "He hasn't had a piece since yesterday, what can it hurt?"
"I don't know," Billy hedged. "You want another piece, partner?" Machiavelli nodded hopefully, his eyes imploring. "All right, cut him a little piece," he told the Native American. He went back to working on the lunch dishes.
Black Hawk gave him a good sized chunk anyways. Machiavelli squeezed his hand with thanks and took his piece out onto the porch where he sat in between Scathach and Perenelle.
"He's a ladies man," Nicholas observed from the kitchen table.
Billy smiled from his place at the sink. "He's a good kid. I wished he'd get better though. It seems like he should be better by now though, shouldn't he?"
"Well I don't know Billy," Black Hawk said sarcastically. "You said he got sick the day before we got here. That was five days ago. What do you think?"
"Okay, okay, so I'm a worrier," Billy admitted and pulled the plug out of the sink, letting the dirty water swirl out of sight. Black Hawk clapped him on the shoulder and grabbed his fishing rod, heading for the lake. Billy and Nicholas watched him salute the ladies and Machiavelli as he headed out.
"I was thinking of doing some laundry soon, you want anything put in?" Billy asked Nicholas. The older man shook his head and motioned the American over. Billy came over and settled next to him, grabbing his book.
"What are you reading now?" Nicholas said with some interest. "You finished that Machiavelli biography."
"Days ago," Billy grinned. "But sometimes I open it up anyways cause it bothers Mac. Anyway, right now I'm reading Die Weiße Rose."
"Ah, verstehen sie Deutsch?
"Nur ein bischen," Billy replied. He looked over at the Frenchman. "Do you think I'm being foolish, worrying about Machiavelli so much?"
Nicholas shook his head, patting the American on the shoulder. "Knowing how you lost your children, it makes sense that you would worry with Machiavelli sick. Diphtheria is a terrible illness. But Niccolò only has a common cold. It's nothing to worry about."
Billy looked up. "Oh, I know he's not seriously ill, but I just want him to feel better. Kids seem to stay sick forever." The two men settled back into their respective books.
~MB~
"Billy!" Scathach called from the door. She came in, pushing the Italian in front of her. "Your kid's looking sick."
"Sick, he just had a piece of cake," Billy questioned, pulling Machiavelli towards him. He felt the boy's face. "Are you going to puke? You only had one piece," he told the Italian as if by sheer force of will he could keep Machiavelli from being sick.
Scathach leaned against the counter. "When he started looking ill, Perenelle and I began to question him. Turns out he had the piece you gave him, the two he ate yesterday, and another one this morning before any of us got up."
"Oh, no," Billy groaned. "Are you going to puke?" Billy asked the Italian. Machiavelli was now looking distinctly green.
"Why would I puke?" Machiavelli replied weakly.
"Cause you've had at least half a cake in the past 24 hours?" Scathach supplied helpfully.
Machiavelli gave her a dirty look. "My stomach's just fine. I got through that whole experience on Alkatraz without puking, didn't I?
Billy nodded. He pointed at the Italian. "The kid's got a point, I mean, that was disgusting. Why when we had to listen to Hel eating that raw, bloody pig and things were snapping and squishing and that wet thing dropped on the ground, I thought for sure I was going to puke." He patted Machiavelli on the back. "But Mac here stood tall, even when we were sloshing through- hey, Mac, are you okay-?"
Scathach backed away from the boy. Machiavelli was looking sicker than ever. The Warrior gestured towards him, asking, "Is he going to...?"
Billy nodded, diving to grab the trash bin in time. He pulled it back to the Italian just as the boy lost the majority of his lunch and the four pieces of cake. Unfortunately, the bin wasn't much help, as most of the sick got on Billy and not into the bin.
Machiavelli's eyes were large. He stammered, "I'm sorry, Billy."
Billy looked down at the pool of sick on his shirt. He carefully sponged what he could off before he began to dab at the Machiavelli's face. "S'okay, Mac," he told the boy, wringing the sponge out so that he could clean up the Italian.
Scathach tried to placate the boy before he got too upset. "It's okay buddy, I think at least half of it got in the bin.
"Or at least a quarter," Billy said, looking into the bin.
Machiavelli felt terribly upset by that point. "None of it got in the bin, it all got on Billy," he wailed.
Billy peeled off his shirt and flung it into the sink. "Look," he said, "now none of it's on Billy. It's okay honey! It's okay," he repeated. "Don't cry, Mac, I've been puked on by worse people than you," he soothed.
"That's true," Scathach agreed. "None of the people who puked on him in the past were as cute as you."
Billy looked at her with his eyebrows raised. Scathach shrugged back at him. Billy grabbed his shirt out of the sink and put it in the washer. "Go take a shower, Mac. You'll feel better when you're clean again." Machiavelli nodded weakly and trudged towards the stairs. They soon heard the water running above them.
~MB~
Billy helped the Italian into bed that night. "You know Mac, I read a portion of that book the other day that said you once threw up over an ugly prostitute. You're not trying to tell me something are you?" Billy asked cheerfully.
Machiavelli pouted. "No," he said defensively, "and I don't want to talk about that right now. Just thinking about that woman makes me...ah-"
"Okay," Billy said quickly. "Let's not do anything to make you spew more." He pulled a book off of the nightstand. "Want me to read a new book to you?"
Machiavelli scooched backwards on the bed. "What are you going to read?" he asked curiously.
Billy pushed him over slightly. "It's called Snicker of Magic. You'll like it," he said happily. "Of course, it's a different kind of magic from what we've got, but I like it just the same."
Machiavelli leaned in, letting Billy's voice wash over him. He wanted to concentrate on the main character Felicity but found his mind wandering, noticing how Billy smelled like spices and aftershave, how his hands were smaller than his wrists, almost delicate...