"You weren't gone long," Scatty said, coming out to see Billy on the porch again.

Billy stopped beside her. He nodded to Nicholas behind him. "Ah, I couldn't stay away for long. I was too worried about him." He sighed.

"Are you going to be able to remain calm?" Scatty asked, getting right to the point. Billy nodded. "Good. Cause I want to tell you some more information that might make you a little less mad."

"I'm going to head in and see him," Nicholas said, pushing past them. He clasped Billy's shoulder gently as he went around the American immortal.

"What's up?" Billy said, leaning against the porch railing.

Scatty pushed up on her short haircut. She sat down on the porch swing. After a moment, Billy joined her. "He's having nightmares, you know."

"Yeah, I wondered about that." Billy pushed back on the swing and let it rock back and forth. "Did he tell you what they were about?"

"Well, he says that some of them are about that night that you were on the island." At this Scatty fixed him with a piercing stare. "I wasn't on the island that night. You were stabbed by a giant crab?"

"You knew that already," Billy shot back.

The Shadow shuddered a little. "Yeah, but I didn't really think about it until now. What it must have looked like… no wonder he's having nightmares. He likes you much more than I do."

"Well, thanks!" The American immortal sounded slightly scandalized.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Scatty punched him, not so lightly, on the shoulder. "Anyways, I don't think that's the only thing troubling him, that's just what he told us."

"I don't know how to get him to talk to me though," Billy groaned. He leaned forward and dropped his face in his hands, rubbing tiredly at his temples. "He's not exactly chatty these days, is he?" He sat in silence for a full minute. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Just promise you'll try," Scatty said, getting up. She pulled him off the swing. "I can't deal with emotional problems. When you storm off, and leave him upset, I have to try to fix things. You know I'm not good at that."

"Well, I'm sorry about leaving before," Billy said, "but I wish you'd give yourself some credit. You're a great friend." He followed her into the cabin.

"Hello, Niccolò," Billy said shyly, hanging back in the doorway. He ruffled a hand through his hair. "Have you been drinking your liquids?" he asked softly.

Machiavelli looked up, made brief eye contact, and looked down again. "Uh huh."

Billy lingered in the door. "Good," he said at last. "Well, have some more for me now, okay." The Italian nodded noncommittally, but sipped more of his Pedialyte.

The rest of the afternoon stretched on, Machiavelli trying to bury his anxious mind in puzzles and books to no avail. His concentration was shot. He longed to put his arms around Billy's neck and beg him forgiveness, but the more adult regions of his mind told him that Billy, despite his early reentrance, still needed time and space to sort things out.

Dinner was therefore a quiet affair. The Flamels and Scathach did most of the talking, leaving the other two immortals to eat in silence. Machiavelli pushed his food around his plate, careful not to look up. When he had eaten half of what was on his plate, he stopped. "Can I go now?" he asked Billy timidly. Billy sighed a little, but allowed it.

The rest of the night was spent in a similar fashion. The two female immortals continued to pump him full of liquids as the night went on. He made marked progress, much to the relief of the others who watched him carefully throughout the night. He could feel their gazes on him as he busied himself.

As the night went on, his sense of anxiety began to notch up again. It felt similar to the night before, the night he had gotten piss drunk, was that really only last night?, but different somehow. He almost threw himself at the American immortal at one point, but caught himself before he did it. Instead, when he was done his puzzle, Machiavelli climbed upstairs and settled into his bed. Billy looked up as he left, but neither of them said anything.

An hour later, Machiavelli heard Billy coming up the stairs. He turned over on his side and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

Billy came into his room and watched him for a moment. The American pulled his blanket closer around him. Machiavelli expected him to leave after that, but instead he felt the springs dip down as the American sat down on the edge of the mattress. "Oh, Mac," the outlaw sighed. He kissed the Italian softly on his head. "You asleep?"

The Italian immortal momentarily thought about lying, but pushed it away. "No, I'm awake," he said softly. There was a long pause. "Are you still really mad at me?"

"Oh, about that," Billy said miserably. "I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. I was just frightened, do you understand that?" There was a pleading note in the American's voice that clearly made Machiavelli uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Billy," Machiavelli said. He sounded truly pitiful. "I really don't know what's gotten into me these days. I'm not doing this to be mean."

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know that, Niccolò. That's why I'm not going to punish you when you get better. But this time, we're going to seriously talk."

The Italian immortal nodded glumly. "Can I have some water?" he asked weakly. Billy nodded and pulled him into a semi-upright position. He held the glass of water to the Italian's lips. Machiavelli raised a hand after a moment and Billy pulled the glass away, but settled the Italian against his headboard so that he was still sitting up. Machiavelli couldn't relax, unsure if Billy was going to yell at him now for all that he had done or wait until later.

Billy seemed to sense his trepidation. The two of them remained intertwined in the silence, frozen, but unable to let go either. The teenager was horrified when Billy began to sniffle. His own father had cried in front of him before, sure, but there was something entirely different about Billy. He wasn't at all prepared to hear his young American friend cry.

It was like the neurons in his brain started firing again. All pretenses lost, he threw his arms around Billy's shoulders. The young man started in surprise. "No, don't cry, Billy," he begged, beginning to tear up again himself. He gripped the worn cotton of Billy's t-shirt in his hand, then laced his fingers through the outlaw's sandy hair.

He was surprised when Billy gave a shaky laugh. He pulled away slightly, tilted his head and looked quizzically at the other immortal. A single tear drop slid down his cheek. Billy guided him back onto the bed. "I came up here to try and comfort you. Not the other way around."

"Oh," Machiavelli said thickly. He took in several quick breaths, trying to calm down, but not succeeding.

"Scatty says you've been having some nightmares," Billy said quietly, not looking at him directly. Machiavelli nodded, but said nothing.

Billy waited a minute, but the Italian immortal didn't contribute anything more than that. Though he already knew, he asked the question anyways. "What are they about?" he prodded.

Machiavelli sucked in air like it was a lifeline. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest. "Just about that night." He didn't really have to say more, so Billy was surprised when he did. "I keep seeing you die," he whimpered, really beginning to tear up now. "It feels so real every time."

"But it's not real," Billy broke in. "I'm right here. I'm always here." The American managed to pull himself together, but Machiavelli, already high strung from all the emotions of the day, wailed on. The two touched foreheads and Billy rocked him gently. "Hush," he whispered softly. He shushed the boy gently, kissing away the stray tears that fell from the Italian's gray eyes.

Machiavelli slowly calmed down. He hiccupped. "You called me Niccolò again," he said to break the ice.

"I've been calling you Niccolò."

"But you called me Mac just now," Machiavelli persisted.

"Oh, that. I thought you were asleep," Billy said softly. He guided the bottle of water to the boy's lips, forcing him to drink some more. "Anyways, I thought you wanted me to call you Niccolò."

"I thought I wanted that too. Now I think I like Mac more." Machiavelli wiped his face. He took a big risk. "Billy," he said, waiting until he was sure the American was listening. "I love you."

There was a pause and Machiavelli was sure that Billy wasn't going to say anything back. His spine itched. Then Billy breathed in his ear, "I love you too, Mac. I always will."

~MB~

Billy didn't sleep in his room that night, preferring instead to sleep on the floor next to Machiavelli's bed. He was planning on just using the sleeping bag, but had to go downstairs to get it out of the front closet. When the Shadow discovered Billy's intentions, she dragged the immortal's mattress into the room and set it on the floor for the American.

"Thank you, Scatty," the American immortal said softly. He caught her before she could slip away and embraced her. Scatty sighed like she was really being put out, but he could see hints of a smile on the corners of her face. He let her go. She paused in the doorway and fanned her fingers out at them both.

"Hey, kid," Billy said, his voice full of tenderness. "Finish the rest of the bottle for me. Okay?"

"Billy, I feel alright now," Machiavelli said hopefully. He really disliked the taste of the Pedialyte. Billy just shook his head at him, so he very reluctantly drank the rest of the purple liquid, making faces at the American immortal. Satisfied, Billy took the bottle away. He pulled the Italian down on the bed, arranging him carefully. He drifted off, feeling like he had rode the waves on the white water rapids again.

The next morning Machiavelli woke up with a pounding headache but no recollections of any nightmares. He found Billy perched on the side of his bed reading one of the books he had gotten for the teenager. Whatever it was, it had apparently caught the outlaw's attention.

"Hey," he said, catching the American's attention.

"Hey," Billy replied. He tossed the book on the foot of the bed and stretched out slightly, his back cracking into place. Machiavelli noticed that the American immortal had dark bags under his eyes, like he hadn't slept. "Happy birthday, kid."

"Thank you," Machiavelli whispered. He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles and blinked blearily. "I hope this week is better than the last one. I'm not enjoying being a teenager very much."

"I hate to admit it, but I'm not enjoying you being a teenager very much either," Billy said, but there was no malice in his voice. He held out a glass of water which the Italian accepted gratefully. Machiavelli took a couple of experimental sips and ended up sloshing water down his front. Billy took the glass away again and helped guide the glass to his mouth. "How were you at this age?" Billy asked cautiously.

Machiavelli shrugged. "I don't remember ever being this bad," he told the American miserably, "so I don't think it matters what I was like the first time around."

"Well, let's hope for the best."