Machiavelli woke up feeling an unpleasant tight sensation around his stomach the next morning. He took a couple of deep breaths, willing the feeling to go away, but it didn't. He rolled out of bed, moving painstakingly slow, and walked across the hall. "Oh, Billy, you let me eat too much," he groaned, as he crawled into bed beside the American.

Billy snuffled and threw an arm over the Italian. "Not my fault," the American slurred sleepily. "Told you to stop." Machiavelli just grunted and held his stomach. There had been a certain point of time last night when he had known that he should stop eating, but he hadn't. In my defense, food hasn't tasted good in nearly five centuries, he thought to himself. He coughed lightly, still trying to keep down his food. "Mac, sometimes the best thing to do is to throw up," Billy continued. "Preferably, not in my bed."

"I'm not going to throw up," Machiavelli said weakly. "At least, I hope I don't."

"I'd settle for a good crap," Billy whispered cheerfully. "Either way, you need to get some of that food out of you."

"Billy! That's disgusting," the Italian moaned. His stomach churned at the thought and he threw the blankets off of him. "I'll be back." He ran towards the bathroom and just barely managed to lift the toilet seat up before he expelled the contents of his stomach.

"You throw up a lot," Billy said critically from the doorway, having apparently followed the tiny tactician. He leaned on the frame, crossing his arms across his thin torso. "I hope it's not what we're feeding you."

"I've always had a very weak stomach," Machiavelli heaved from his kneeling position. He retched again and jumped slightly when he felt a cool cloth press against his neck. He looked up. Billy frowned at him sympathetically and wiped off the Italian's face. Machiavelli stood up gingerly. "I think I feel a little better though. I guess you were right."

"Of course I'm right," Billy said bluntly. "I had an enormous sweet tooth as a kid. I loved candy in particular, that's why my teeth stick out like they do. So consequently, I became very familiar with upset stomachs." The American led him back into his bedroom and climbed under the covers. "I also used to take care of my mother when she was ill," Billy said thoughtfully, holding the blanket up so that the Italian could climb in after him. Billy dropped the blanket around Machiavelli after the boy climbed in after him and leaned against Billy's arm. He could hear the thin immortal sigh happily as he settled back into the bed.

"Billy?"

"Mmm," Billy answered. He looked over at Machiavelli, drowsiness apparent in his features. "What's up baby boy?" Machiavelli punched him sharply. "Sugarplum?" Billy smiled wide, his big teeth flashing in the low light. The American closed his eyes again, but squeezed the Italian's hand to show he was still awake.

Billy's levity didn't make Machiavelli's question an easy one to ask, but he was genuinely curious about the answer. "Do you miss your mother?"

Billy's eyes slotted open. He was quiet for a while and Machiavelli was afraid he'd asked something he shouldn't have. "Yes, I miss my momma," Billy said eventually. His fingers traced around the Italian's hand. "When she died, I wanted to cry everyday but I had to be strong for Josie. My stepfather had gone away, if you remember."

"I remember," Machiavelli said softly. "Have you ever cried for her?"

Billy shifted uncomfortably. "Boys and men don't cry," he said firmly.

"Oh, that's stupid," the Italian said just as firmly. "We cry because we're human. I still cry when I think about one of the last conversations I had with Marietta. She said that I was an inhuman monster; that I was going to die alone." He paused. They both watched the sunlight creep across the ceiling. "I wish I could talk to my wife, Billy."

Billy looked up in surprise. "Why? What would you say?"

"If I could talk to her, I could show her I didn't turn out to be an inhuman monster." Machiavelli held out his arms out before him and let them fall down again; he turned back to look at the American. "I didn't, did I?"

Billy pulled him in close. "No, you didn't." He kissed Machiavelli on the side of his face, leaving a wet mark on the Italian's cheek. Machiavelli didn't try to wipe it away, instead concentrating on the deep breaths coming out of Billy. He forced himself to listen as Billy continued. "But you know, Mac, I think Marietta loved you as much as I do. She was just trying to save you."

The Italian leaned into him. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I'd like to know for sure. And I'd like to apologize for being such a horrible husband."

"Maybe Perenelle could help you," the American posited thoughtfully. "Supposedly, she can communicate with ghosts. Maybe she could find your wife."

Machiavelli looked at him quickly. "You think she could?"

"Well, we won't know until we ask," Billy said drowsily. "Who knows? Maybe she could find my momma. I'd love to see her again." He squeezed Machiavelli again. "I'd like her to meet you. Kind of a meet the family thing..."

~MB~

Georgette actually seemed to form a partiality to Billy over the next few days. Often, at the end of the day, Billy would sit by the fireplace and read from his book. The tabby would scamper in from wherever she'd been hiding and settle in behind the American.

Billy, for his part, seemed to enjoy the affection of the feline. From time to time, Machiavelli would catch the American, leaning back in the armchair with his hat over his eyes and the cat in a tight ball on his chest.

Machiavelli was surprised that Billy would be so content to lead a quiet life. He had thought that the American would require more adventure or danger. Once, he voiced that opinion to the outlaw. Billy just laughed.

"I do enjoy a good adventure," he admitted. "But I think our time on Alkatraz has cooled my desire for any real danger, at least for a little while." He thought for a moment. "Now that you mention it though, the cabin's all finished and together again. We should get you back on that horse."

The Italian was suddenly nervous. "I don't know Billy," he stammered. "Everybody's got something they're bad at. Maybe this is mine."

Billy tugged Machiavelli into his arms. He squeezed him tight. "Ah, Mac, when you fall of a horse, you have to get right back on. It's even an expression." He twirled the Italian around so that they were facing the same way and pulled him up into his lap. "This time, you'll ride with me, on the same horse, and I'll make sure nothing bad happens to you."

Machiavelli closed his eyes, Billy's voice calming him. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly. "But don't let go."

"I won't," Billy promised. "Don't worry, Mac. Riding horses is something I'm good at. Everything will be fine."