"Billy?" Machiavelli's head poked through the trapdoor. He climbed up a rung higher on the ladder, feeling a bit shaky not being on solid ground. He scrambled all the way up, feeling a little better in the attic, where at least the floor was nailed down. Small puffs of dust rose up with each step. "What are you doing up here?"
Billy poked his head around an old clothing rack. Seeing the Italian, he smiled and climbed over a box, coming over to where Machiavelli was waiting. He helped the Italian over to a cleared portion of the floor, where he could stand up straight so that the boy was all the way into the attic. "What are you doing?" Machiavelli asked again.
"Well, things are getting awfully crowded in our little cabin," Billy said, explaining but not really answering his question.
Machiavelli turned in a tight circle. Billy sure had accumulated a lot of stuff for a single man, though so too had the Italian over his time, so he supposed he wasn't being very fair. "So you decided to come up here?" he asked mildly.
Billy laughed. "I was thinking we could make this into a bedroom for Scatty. But now that I'm up here, I think it's too small." He led the Italian over to the back corner.
"It is a bit small up here," Machiavelli admitted. "But not as hot as I thought it would be up here."
Billy's voice was muffled. "I insulated it when I built this place. And I put in windows on both sides." He looked up for a moment before bending back over the chest he was combing through.
Machiavelli turned around looking at the beams of the ceiling. "You built this place, Billy?" he asked, amazed.
"Mmm," Billy acknowledged. He pulled something out of the chest. "Hey, Mac, here's the saddle I had before I was made immortal." He ran his fingers over the faded leather. Machiavelli settled down beside him. Billy ran his fingers through the boy's hair. "Did you like riding horses yesterday?" he asked softly.
"I did. We should go again sometime." He looked into the box that Billy was going through. "What else is in here?"
Billy flashed a smile. "Lots of stuff. For instance, here's my old gun. Don't worry it's not loaded."
The Italian took the gun carefully, though Billy's hands remained on top of his. The American showed him how to pop open the chamber of the gun. Machiavelli experimentally pushed the chamber closed again with his thumb. It made a loud click as it snapped back in place.
Billy had gone back to rifling through the box by that point, so Machiavelli put aside the gun and leaned into the box, watching the American shift objects over. He grabbed a small cigar box at the bottom of the chest and painstakingly extracted it. "What's this?"
Billy flipped the box around and smiled, rubbing the worn corners of the box. He stood up, helping the Italian to his feet. "It's pictures, all the pictures I have really. Let's go downstairs and I'll show them to you."
Machiavelli dusted his pants off carefully and stepped through a coat rack, forging his own shortcut. He tilted his head. "You know Billy, we could build an extension on this cabin. For Scathach and maybe an extra room for Black Hawk too. That way you won't have to share with him anymore."
Billy followed him down the ladder and pushed him towards the living room. They settled on the couch, the husky slumping on the floor next to them. "That's an idea," Billy agreed. "I'd love to have my own bedroom again. Anyways," he opened up the cigar box, "I'm sure you already know this, but photographs were fairly expensive when I was growing up. Now, I lost that tintype, but I've still got these." He held up the first picture and gazed at it for a moment before handing it to Machiavelli.
The Italian immortal took the picture from Billy's hand, careful not to touch anything but the edges. The picture showed the profile of a woman with fair hair and a thin nose; Machiavelli noticed something familiar in her clear colored eyes. He looked up at the American immortal. "Billy is this-?"
"My mother," Billy supplied. He looked over the Italian's shoulder. With the tip of his finger, he traced her jawline.
"She's really pretty," Machiavelli said warmly. He looked at the picture again, noting the similarities and differences between the woman in the picture and the man beside him. He noticed the similar features and twinkle in their eyes. Machivaelli, who had always been told he looked like his father, imagined that this must be a source of comfort to the American.
Billy gave him a different picture. Machiavelli looked into the stern, worn out face of an older man. There was similarities here too, buried but present, but there was none of the warmth that had radiated from the other picture. This man's muddy brown eyes stared directly at the camera. "My brother," Billy said. "Shortly before he died."
"He doesn't look like you very much," Machiavelli muttered. The man in the picture was frowning slightly. He couldn't imagine Billy ever looking this serious, at least not for as long as it took to take a picture. Even in the famous tin type, there was a hint of a smile in his face.
"Josie was always serious," Billy reminded him, somehow catching his thought. He took the picture back, examining it critically. "When I found out he was sick, his last couple of years, I went to visit him. He didn't have any family left and I didn't think it was right for him to die alone. I think it was kind of a nasty shock to him, me showing up, but we talked through it."
Machiavelli nodded. He pulled a picture out of the stack and smiled. This photo was in color, capturing the image of Billy and Black Hawk outside of what was clearly a Springsteen concert. Billy was leaning against the Native American in a similar pose to the Born to Run cover.
"Perenelle brought up some pictures for me to add to my collection," Billy told him. He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to the Italian.
Machiavelli opened the envelope curiously. "When did you guys take all of these?" He looked at the first picture and recognized the motel room they had stayed in. His three year old self was looking at the camera, leaning heavily on Billy. "I remember you taking pictures, but not all of these."
"Remember us taking this one?" Billy directed him toward the second picture.
The Italian grinned, looking at himself holding a Nerf gun over Nicholas's still body. He had put a foot on the Frenchman's chest. "Oh, that's when I shot him." Billy set aside the picture. "Why are you doing that?"
"Nick wants to send it to some French friends of his. They've been asking what you're like."
"Germain?" Machiavelli asked absently, shuffling through the pictures. There was a couple from the amusement park and the museum and one from right after they went rafting. He was absolutely drenched, but smiling.
"That's the one," Billy agreed. He held up the last picture in the bunch. "You were so sleepy in this one. You probably don't remember us taking it."
The Italian examined it. "That was the night before we took our trip, isn't it?" he asked slowly. Billy nodded.
They heard the car door slam. "Sounds like they're back from their trip to town," Billy said mildly, collecting up his photographs. Machiavelli leaned in close, taking Billy's hand. He squealed when the American pulled him to his feet.
~MB~
"Billy!" Machiavelli called through the door. He struggled with the squirming bundle in his arms.
"Oh, no," Billy groaned. He looked at the cat that the European immortal was clutching to his chest. Anticipating the Italian's motives, he tried to cut him off early. "What's that?"
"Our newest addition to the family?" Machiavelli asked hopefully.
Billy looked over at Nicholas Flamel for help. The Frenchman gave him no help what-so-ever, shrugging his shoulders. Billy tried to broach the subject carefully. "I don't know if we have room for another animal, Mac. Besides what about The Pup? He's not going to like a feline addition to the family."
Machiavelli set the cat down on the ground and began to open a can of dog food for the stray. The cat, a silver tabby, slunk under one of the kitchen chairs and sat there, watching the people in the room carefully. "But Billy," Machiavelli stressed patiently, "I've already introduced George and Billy."
"George?" Black Hawk asked.
Billy put his head in his hands. "Oh god, he's named it. Now we're going to have a cat."
Scathach nodded sagely as she settled on the floor beside the tabby. "Can't get rid of it once it has a name," she told the room. "Why George though?" she asked the Italian, watching him coax the cat out.
"He looks like a George," Machiavelli explained.
"George has no balls," Billy pointed out.
Black Hawk whistled. "Awkward," he mumbled under his breath.
Billy looked at Machiavelli. Machiavelli looked at Billy. The American gave in. "I guess we'll have to call her Georgette then," he conceded.
"Yes!" The Italian immortal threw his arms around Billy. "I love you!" he hollered.
Billy sat there with a stunned smile on his face. "But no more pets," he told the Italian sternly. We don't have room for anybody else in this cabin."
Machiavelli agreed easily. He gave Billy a wet kiss on his cheek and scampered off with the cat in his arms. The puppy followed behind him, trotting up the stairs behind the Italian.
Billy turned to Black Hawk. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "I'm thinking," he said. "That we should build an addition onto this cabin if we're all going to stay here. Do you want to help?"
"I think I'd better. This cabin is getting more crowded by the day," Black Hawk huffed from his place.