"It's not such a bad life we're living, is it?" Billy asked the next morning. He swung up behind the Italian. "I mean, we essentially have no obligations and we get to ride horses every day. And swimming, we go swimming a lot too," he added as an afterthought.

"We live a good life," Machiavelli agreed distractedly. He pressed his body heavily into the American's, wondering how it was possible to balance on a horse. "Billy, do you think I'll ever be comfortable riding horses?"

"I think so," Billy said. "I mean you were before, weren't you? Before the accident, I mean."

"It was fun before that," Machiavelli acknowledged, looking down on the ground and sharply looking up again. "I'm just still a bit nervous, I guess. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about," he paused, "that book you starting reading me last night. What's it called?"

"The Bridge to Terabithia," Billy supplied. "I read it all the way through last night after you went to sleep."

"How does it end?" Machiavelli asked, swiveling slightly.

The outlaw punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not going to tell you. That would ruin the book!"

"Oh, but Billy, it would make me feel better," Machiavelli wheedled.

Billy shook his head. "Nothing doing."

"Well then what are we going to talk about?" the Italian asked, pouting slightly. A thought struck him. "Could you teach me how to lasso?"

Billy shifted. "I suppose so. Why do you want to know how to lasso?"

~MB~

"So, you're feeling better about being back on the horse?" Perenelle asked the Italian over dinner. She doled out some mashed potatoes onto his plate and handed the bowl to Scatty. She looked down at the boy.

Machiavelli shrugged slightly, aware that Billy probably could pick up on whatever his body language was saying. "I guess so." He pushed the potatoes around on his plate and began to mix them with his carrots. He perked up. "He taught me how to lasso."

"Was he any good at it?" Scatty called across to Billy.

"Unfortunately," Billy said, rubbing his shoulder. "I was his target for a while. He nearly choked me at one point," he said, pointing to the Italian. Machiavelli smiled innocently at the American.

"Why didn't you use a fence post?" Nicholas said, taking the plate of biscuits.

Billy stole the biscuit the Frenchman had just buttered. "This one," he nodded at the boy, "convinced me that I'd be a better target."

"And weren't you?" Machiavelli said happily. "I learned, didn't I?"

"I suppose so," Billy sighed. "But we're putting this on the list of things that I don't like. I'm going to get a pen and paper, right now." He got up and rooted around in the junk drawer. "So what did you guys do today?" he called over his shoulder.

"We made a pie today," Scatty called back, indicating herself and Perenelle. "Bring it over, we're going to be done soon."

"Am I getting facial hair?" Machiavelli asked suddenly. He examined his reflection in his spoon.

Billy squinted across at him in disbelief. He set the pie down at the end of the table. "Mac, you didn't even have facial hair when you were an adult." He paused. "And, what?"

"What's the matter?" Machiavelli asked, surprised.

Scatty tapped him on the shoulder. "It was a very sudden shift in the conversation. You see, we were talking about pie. You're talking about bodily functions."

"Is that so wrong?" the Italian said mildly. "I get very sudden mood shifts. Is that wrong? What kind of pie are we having?" He looked around the table. The other immortals stared back at him. Machiavelli held out a carrot to the Pup. The dog crunched on it and licked his hand.

"Apple," Perenelle answered finally.

Nicholas leaned forward a little. He accepted a piece of pie from Billy. "Did you smoke a lot of pot back in the day?" he asked the Italian. Machiavelli just laughed. He fed the dog a bit of crust from the pie.

"You didn't answer the man," Billy said suspiciously. "And stop feeding the animals!" They hang around you like you're their mother."

"Have some pie, honey," Machiavelli said. "You know, what I want? I want you to play the piano for me? You do it so well."

"I don't know," Scatty broke in. "I think he's putting you on."

Billy nodded and grinned. "But he did call me honey and he never does that. So I think I will play for him." Machiavelli opened his mouth and Billy cut him off. "But not right now. I want pie right now." And he cut himself a third of the pie. The rest of the dinner went on smoothly, though it seemed like Machiavelli was beginning to harp on puberty a bit more than he had been in the past week. The others attributed his focus to the rapidly increasing changes that the Italian seemed to be going through.

"Are you going to play the piano now?" Machiavelli asked immediately after they were done. He clattered around the kitchen, clearing the plates off of the table in record time. "Where are you guys going?" he asked as the other immortals prepared to leave.

"We're tired, kid," Scatty said, bending over to kiss the Italian's cheek. "We cleaned the cabin top to bottom today. I mean we really scrubbed this place." She patted his cheek.

"Sleep tight, sweetie," Perenelle said, squeezing him in a hug. Billy waved to them from his place at the piano.

Machiavelli heard the door click behind them. He turned to face the American who was playing some scales. "You like playing the piano?" Machiavelli asked. He lay on his stomach on the couch, watching Billy's fingers move across the ivories. The way his fingers moved and bended, the Italian thought that even if he went deaf he would want to watch Billy play; it was like watching a precious form of art come out. Singular and rare, each movement lasted only a moment before it died.

Billy glanced back at him. A smile tugged at his lips, but it was his eyes which shone. "I do." He began to pick out the rhythm to a song that was familiar to the Italian, though he couldn't place it.

"I never thought you'd be a piano player," Machiavelli confessed. He rested his chin on the back of his hands. "You don't think of outlaws as having much time for a formal musical education."

Billy dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Well I don't know much about a formal musical education, but I do play the piano nonetheless. I picked it up from a saloon player back when I lived in Silver City as a kid. My mother and I used to go to dances that would be put on." He gazed into his reflection in the top of the piano. "I was her escort," he continued. "Or at least that's what she told me. She said a proper lady wouldn't go to such things without a strong man to keep her safe. That was me," he said unnecessarily. "I was the man supposed to keep her safe."

The Italian turned on his side. "But you weren't a man yet, you were just a boy."

"Oh, well, we both knew that. But my mother would say I was the man of the house and I thought that was nice, like I was special. After she died, that all kind of went away. I've never been special to anybody like that ever again." Billy's voice saddened slightly at the end of his little speech. He began to play a faster piece. "You shouldn't have bought me this piano, Mac."

"Why?" The Italian asked in surprise. He swung off the couch and came to stand beside Billy, watching the American's fingers fly across the keys. Billy stopped playing altogether, just as quickly.

"It cost too much," Billy complained. "I'll never be able to pay you back."

"I don't want you to pay me back," Machiavelli protested. He sat on the bench beside Billy and the American moved over slightly to give him room. "I bought it to make you happy. That's what I want." He lightly pressed down on middle C. "Play something for me, Billy."

Billy squinted at him before glancing down at the piano. He tapped out 'Mary had a little Lamb' and grinned at the Italian. Machiavelli shook his head and began to slide off of the piano bench. "Oh, don't go, I was just kidding." The American slung an arm around Machiavelli shoulders and pulled him in close. He pressed his lips to the boy's temple and then began to sing. "Remember when the days were long and rolled beneath a deep blue sky..."