"Sorry, Mac," Billy whispered miserably. With the Italian's growing stature, Billy was finding it hard to maneuver the teenager's body, which meant that just now when they were coming into the cabin, Billy had accidentally smacked Machiavelli's leg against the door frame. It made a dull cracking noise that caused Billy to wince. The fact that Machiavelli was still unconscious was not only troubling, but made his body so much more dead weight for the outlaw to carry.

Once they were within the cool interior of the cabin, Billy lay him down on the couch. "Should we bring him to the hospital?" he called to the others, concern evident in his voice. Touching the cold skin of the Italian's arm, he quickly pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and ensconced him in it. He rubbed his arms and legs, trying to get some warmth back into them.

The immortals held a quick conference over the Italian's still form. Finally, it was decided that Machiavelli was probably suffering from some form of dehydration and that they would try to treat it before they brought him to a hospital. Billy's first instinct was to get Machiavelli to a doctor, but the others were quick to point out the flaws in that plan and the potential for them being outed.

Billy reluctantly agreed to their plan, but refused to be severed from the teenager. Thus it fell on Perenelle as the only other immortal with driving skills to get some medicine for him. Nicholas went with her, presumably to help, though Billy didn't seem to notice their presence or lack thereof either way.

An awful silence filled the cabin once the Flamels were gone. Billy clearly didn't know what to do with himself and Scatty wanted to stay out of his way. Getting out Billy's laptop, she settled in the armchair besides the couch, close but not hovering. "I'm going to look up his symptoms," she said, just to break the silence.

"Okay," Billy said distractedly. He pulled a pair of sweatpants out of the laundry and changed Machiavelli into them. The long sleeve shirt he left on him. "Why won't he wake up?" he asked.

"I'm sure he'll be okay, Billy," Scatty said quietly. "The website says that dehydrated people need to rest to recover. Try giving him some water." She scrolled down a minute before continuing. "It says a person needs to drink at least 2 quarts of some sort of liquid within 2 to 4 hours. We might as well start."

"Start? He's unconscious," Billy said incredulously.

"Pull him up into a sitting position. He'll swallow small amounts even if he is asleep," Scatty suggested. "Just don't give him a lot, otherwise he'll probably start throwing up."

Billy pulled him up so that he was essentially sitting up. Again, Machiavelli's size in comparison to his own caused him some grief. He finally managed a comfortable position by resting the Italian against him and wrapping his arms around him to keep him from tilting. He lightly tapped the boy's face with his thumb, but couldn't completely wake him up. Still, Scatty was right, Machiavelli did swallow some water, though he also managed to spill quite a bit onto the boy in the process.

"I hope he's alright."

~MB~

Machiavelli slowly came awake. He could tell he wasn't in his bed but wasn't quite sure where he was until he cracked his eyes open slightly and saw the beams of the living room ceiling. Something had woken him up, but what was it?

Billy's voice was nearby, in the kitchen perhaps. That had to have been it. The Italian unconsciously turned his head towards the American's voice, but squeezed his eyes shut again. Billy's voice sounds angry, he thought to himself. The Italian struggled to hear what the American was saying. "...why would he..." Another voice intruded, softer, feminine. Machiavelli couldn't make out the words and his mind felt too sluggish to make sense of it.

A sudden coolness startled the Italian and he opened his eyes. A myriad of colors came rushing across his vision, disorienting him. He blinked rapidly and feeling sick, closed his eyes again. He tried again to open his eyes, slower this time.

Perenelle Flamel was sitting on the coffee table. She held up a damp washcloth apologetically. "You have a fever. We were reducing it." He nodded dumbly.

Perenelle's voice had called attention to the fact that Machiavelli was awake now. Heavy footfalls on the floor alerted them to Billy's presence. He came in from the kitchen, Nicholas trailing behind him. "You're awake then," Billy said, his voice brittle and sharp.

Machiavelli flinched and made a small squeak of acknowledgement. He pulled the blankets closer to him as a makeshift defense.

"Hello, Niccolò," Nicholas said, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the room. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

Machiavelli started to nod, but the movement made him feel sick and he shifted to shaking his head, just slightly. He looked over at the American immortal, trying to apply his jumbled mind to decoding the man's face. "What's wrong with me?" he asked, speaking directly to Billy, willing him to not be mad, to be the same Billy that he had always known.

The outlaw reluctantly stepped closer to him. He held out a bottle of some unknown purple liquid. "We think you're dehydrated. Have some of this."

"What is it?" Machiavelli rasped. He took the bottle shakily, but didn't drink from it.

"It's called Pedialyte," Nicholas answered. "You give it to children when they've become dehydrated, usually from diarrhea or excessive vomiting, but this situation applies as well. I went to the store early afternoon today and got some. You've been sleeping quite a while."

"Have I?" Machiavelli asked, bewildered. His mind wasn't taking in all this information as it usually did, but instead leaked out like water from an oversaturated sponge. His eyes searched the outlaw's face, but Billy's face was carefully blank. The only indication of Billy's growing temper was a nerve jumping at his temple. "Billy? Are you very mad?"

"Yeah, a little bit. I've been looking for you all morning," Billy all but snarled. "How could you run away?"

Machiavelli blinked back tears. He felt heavy and sick. "I don't know. I'm sorry," he rasped quietly. He groped for Perenelle's hand and clasped it tightly.

"How could you not know? What's wrong with you?"

Machiavelli's voice quavered. "Billy I don't know what gets into me sometimes. Please look at me." But it seemed like the wrong to say, because it was the one thing that Billy couldn't do at that moment. He glanced over at the girls instead.

Facing Billy, Scatty stepped forward. "Billy, he's sweating a lot. Scold him later, but right now, he's really sick."

Billy gripped his hair, looking quite deranged. He swung in a wide circle, took a deep breath, and sat back down on the Italian's makeshift bed on the couch. Machiavelli actually edged away slightly, at which Billy actually winced. The two immortals seemed to have reached an impasse.

Machiavelli kept quiet, realizing that he was experiencing, for the first time, the American's legendary temper. At another place and time, he might have enjoyed exploring the American's temper- men often gave a way the most information about themselves when they were angry- but not now. Billy was different. He did not want to know the American's harder side.

The American was clearly struggling to tame his own temper. He kicked the coffee table. One of the legs broke off and it over balanced. "Niccolò, I was so worried about you. You can't ever do anything like this again. How could you do this?"

Machiavelli opened his mouth, but couldn't formulate words. "I... I don't know," he said very quietly. He felt like he was crying, but when he touched his face, it was surprisingly dry. The back of his throat burned.

There was an eerie silence in the cabin. Billy didn't seem to know what to do either. "Have something to drink, Niccolò," he said finally. "I think I need to go outside." Billy stood up. He reached down and briefly touched the boy's cheek, but pulled away at the last moment, as suddenly as if he'd been burned. The outlaw stepped backwards and away from him.

Nervously, he ran a hair through his hair. Machiavelli heard him sigh. "Listen, Niccolò. I need to clear my head. The girls- women- will take care of you." He turned away from Machiavelli and headed for the door. Scatty followed him out. "Are you going somewhere?" Scatty asked in disbelief.

"I just want to be by myself for a little bit," Billy muttered. He touched her shoulder lightly. "I don't want to say anything that will really hurt him and right now, I'm really afraid of what might come out."

"Billy, I think he needs you," the Shadow said quietly.

Billy just shook his head.

Back in the cabin, Machiavelli watched the two American immortals talking. "He hates me," the Italian said sadly.

"No," Perenelle disagreed. She tucked a pillow behind him. "He's just very upset right now. He'll come back when he's calmed down."

Scatty came in half way through the Frenchwoman's sentence. She nodded. "He only left so that he wouldn't say something to hurt your feelings, kid. Thing's will be fine."

Perenelle glanced at her watch. "Alright, mon grand, it's four o'clock now. Have some water. Nicholas has gone off with Billy. I'm sure my husband has the sense to be back by dinner. Until then, I want you to relax. Drink some water."

Machiavelli accepted the bottle she proffered, but didn't drink from it." The two women glanced at each other.

"Really, kid, things will turn out okay," Scatty assured him. She paused for a minute. "Why'd you go away anyways?"

The Italian felt light headed. "I couldn't sleep," he mumbled, pulling at the cap of his bottle. His fingers slipped uselessly over the ridges and he gave up, dropping the bottle on the couch beside him.

The two women watched him intently. As he spoke, Scathach opened the bottle for him. He blushed red when she held it for him to drink, but felt some of his confusion clear up along with his lightheadedness.

"I keep having these dreams," he admitted. He paused. I don't want to talk about this. "I keep seeing Billy get stabbed. And I thought about how awful I've been acting lately. I just didn't want him to be disappointed in me anymore." The two women stared at him. "That's all," he finished lamely.

Perenelle kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Drink some water, mon cher. Then get some rest." She stood up. "I'm going to put the turkey in the oven."

Scatty switched over to the couch so that she was sitting beside him. "Did you know, I was a nurse with Joan in World War II?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Well, I was," she said stubbornly. "Now, we don't want to bring you to the hospital cause they would ask a lot of questions that we can't reasonably answer, but… We're going to take care of you the best we can. Why don't you tell me how you're feeling?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," he said honestly. He went on quickly, "But I always get stomach pains when I'm upset, so it's probably nothing."

"What about thirst? Are you thirsty?" Scathach persisted. Machiavelli was, but shook his head. The thought of drinking anything else made his stomach roil. Scathach looked unconvinced. She placed another bottle on the table beside him. "Here, in case you do get thirsty."

She got up and looked out the front window. "Scatty?" Machiavelli asked.

"Mmm?"

"Do you think Billy will come back soon?"

Scatty turned around to look at him. She gave him a wan smile. "I do, kid. He's coming up the front path now."