"Scathach. Scatty," Machiavelli called. He stood over the Shadow. He pushed on her shoulder experimentally. Scatty snorted. "Come on, wake up. You said you hardly ever sleep, why'd it have to be today?"
The Shadow mumbled and turned over.
"Scatty," Machiavelli hissed. He climbed onto her bed and leaned close to her face.
It was at this moment that Scathach began to wake up. Her bright green eyes opened suddenly and there was a moment where they stared at each other, green eyes and gray eyes locked in to each other. It was over almost before it started. Scathach suddenly propelled into action, flipping the Italian over.
"Don't kill me, it's me, Niccolò," Machiavelli gasped. He pulled her hands away from his neck. Scatty relaxed and sat back, stretched her arms out. "Uh, Scatty, you're still sitting on my knees and it's starting to get just faintly uncomfortable-"
"I know," Scatty said grumpily. She pushed her hair back before leaning over the Italian so that their noses were nearly touching. Her hair fell forward again, a few strands landing on the boy's face. "Do you know how often I sleep?" Machiavelli shook his head numbly. "Once every couple hundred years," she snarled and rolled off of the boy's knees at last.
Machiavelli made a strange squeaky noise and took a deep breath in to compose himself. He was surprised when Scatty lied back down next to him. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said and was glad his voice had gone back to normal. He turned his head so that he could look at her while he talked. "Truly I am. I just didn't expect you to be asleep. I thought you didn't have to..." he trailed off.
"I require a lot less sleep than humani or even immortals," Scathach admitted, somewhat icily. She yawned and seemed to decompress a little. "It's alright. But you should probably know that I am cranky when woken up. So what do you need?"
The Italian flexed his leg, feeling the cotton of the sheets run across his skin. "I want to see what's under the workbench. I was hoping you'd lift the bench for me while I get it out."
"You woke me up because you want to know what's under a work bench?" Scatty climbed out of bed and tied her hair back. "We haven't been in there in days."
"I'm a curious boy," he said in his most winning voice. He had woken up early in the morning and the thought had occurred to him, suddenly, that they had never found out what was under the bench. So around six in the morning, he finally couldn't take it anymore and had slipped into the guest house with the intention of finding the Shaodow. Except that now that he was lying down again, he was really quite comfortable, and had no inclination to leave.
Scatty glanced at him. She sighed. "Fine, I'll help you. But first I'd like to get dressed." Machiavelli hummed happily and closed his eyes. "Uh, kid," Scatty put her hands on her hips which only served to refocus the Italian's attention on her bikini. He was entranced looking at the seam where the blue of the underwear met her pale skin. Scatty tapped him on the forehead. "I'm not the most private of people, but..."
"Oh, scusi," the Italian said. He crawled out of her bed. "For a moment, I felt like I was married again. A fight, a roll in the bed, forgiveness, now you're kicking me out..." He shuffled by. "I miss being married."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't want to be naked in front of you." Scathach held the door open for him.
"Just like being married..."
~MB~
"This better be something good," Scatty called as she ducked into the small shed. "I hope it's something interesting," she mumbled under her breath.
"I hope so too," Machiavelli told her. "Things are going to be more boring with half of our group missing." He followed her over to the work bench and bent low. With a flash light, he located the object he had been reaching for earlier that week. "There it is."
"Okay," Scatty said cheerfully. She wrenched the workbench up and held it with one hand. The Italian glanced at her cautiously before slipping under the table.
"Got it!" Machiavelli cried. He pulled the leather bundle out from underneath the bench. He backed up a little and Scatty dropped the workbench. "Let's see what it is," he mumbled in Italian. He unwrapped the bundle. The leather flaked where he unfolded it.
"Looks like a very old pair of leg irons," Scatty commented. She touched the heavy links, taking one of the cuffs from the Italian. She grinned cheekily. "Maybe Billy likes to be cuffed." Machiavelli blushed bright red.
"No, I don't like being restrained." A ghost of a smile fleeted across the American's face. "Not for what you're thinking of," he repeated shyly.
Machiavelli dropped the leg irons with a loud clunk. The heavy metal braces actually took a chunk of wood off the edge of the workbench. Somehow, impossibly, the Italian blushed a deeper shade of red and he looked down. "How long have you been there?"
Billy sipped from his coffee cup. "Long enough. You found my old leg irons." There was something in the American's voice that made Machiavelli look up. Billy's face was impassive though. The American didn't look at all happy to see the leg irons again and Machiavelli instantly regretted that he had looked for them in the first place.
"So where'd you pick up these, anyways?"Scathach asked, waving the leg irons she'd recovered from the ground.
Billy walked into the shed. He set his coffee cup on the workbench and addressed the Shadow. Behind him, Machiavelli sipped from his mug and grimaced at the weak taste. The American immortal didn't seem to notice. "Ah," Billy breathed. He picked up the leg irons from the ground. "These were the irons I had on when I escaped from prison for the last time. They go along with these." He opened a drawer on the bench and pulled out a pair of old handcuffs. The chains were so big on the handcuff that the whole contraption was actually stiff. Billy fit the handcuffs around the Italian's wrist. "Don't worry, I won't actually lock them."
Machiavelli hefted his arm. "These are really heavy, Billy."
"I know," the American said. He undid the cuffs and fit them on his own wrist. This time, the American did close the contraption entirely. The handcuffs fit together with a grating squeal. He held up a hand. "Try to fit a finger in between them and my wrist. Any room?" Machiavelli shook his head, then watched astounded as the American slipped his hand out again.
"How'd you do that?"
Billy held up his arm. "My hand's as wide as my wrist is, so whenever they put them on me, I could just slip out again."
"So this is how you escaped," the Italian said, taking the handcuffs from Billy. He put his hand in the cuffs again and slipped it out back out again. "I wondered about you."
"Mmm," Billy murmured, picking up his coffee cup again. He cocked his eyebrows, clearly unsure as to why there was less coffee than there had been before, but then shrugged and took another sip. "I actually just took one side off and swung the other side to knock out my guard." He shuffled his feet. "I ended up knocking him down the stairs which I've always felt really bad about.
"Well that explains how you got out of the handcuffs," Scathach surmised. "But how'd you managed to break these?" she asked curiously, turning over the heavy iron contraption in her hand.
"With a pick ax," Billy said, pointing to said ax which was leaning up in the back corner of the shed. Machiavelli stared a little. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it the other day when you were poking around."
"I didn't see it," Machiavelli said, edging off of the bench where he had been sitting. "How much stuff is in this place?"
Billy waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, there's all kinds of shit stocked up in here. Search to your heart's content." He downed the rest of his coffee and shuddered. "I'm going to go into town and pick up some stuff. Why don't you look around?"
"Okay," Machiavelli said cautiously. "What are you going into town for? Do you not want me to come with you?"
"Oh, babycakes-" Machiavelli scowled, especially when Scatty laughed, "I always love you being with me. But I'm going to be doing some boring errands. I thought you might rather stay here and have some fun instead."
~MB~
Machiavelli crept out into the hallway, late that night, praying that Billy was asleep. He pushed against his door slowly, thankful when the hinges didn't squeak. He padded down the hallway, sidestepping the loose floorboard. He sighed, thinking he had made it all the way to the bathroom. Sighed, and walked right into the grandfather clock. He fell with a loud crash.
"Mac?" Billy asked, his voice thick with sleep. The American came out into the hallway and leaned on his door frame. He scratched at his stomach. "What are you doing up?"
"Nothing," Machiavelli lied, hiding his underwear behind his back. Under no circumstance was he going to tell Billy why he was standing in the hall at this late hour. Nor would he think of the handcuffs again, if he could help it... "I just need to use the bathroom is all." He edged towards the room and away from Billy.
The American gave him a strange look, but went back into his bedroom.
Machiavelli heaved a sigh of relief. He shut the bathroom door behind him and tossed his shorts into the bathroom hamper. He stood in front of the toilet. "Over five hundred years old and having wet dreams, what a life," he mumbled furiously. As he washed his hands, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. "At least I don't have acne. I think I'd kill myself if I got acne," he moaned.