"If you'd wanted to go out to dinner with the others, we could have done that," Machiavelli said thoughtfully. He felt a little bad, keeping their group separated for his own interests. Especially now, when their days together were literally numbered.

"I wanted to have dinner with you," Billy said. He grinned. "I like you best of all." There was a warm surge of feeling in Machiavelli's chest. Sometimes he wished Billy knew what he was doing to the poor Italian immortal. Pure thoughts, chaste thoughts, he chanted in his head as he helped the American immortal set the table. Billy chattered away, his voice washing over the Italian immortal.

"What are we having for dinner?" Machiavelli broke in finally, subconsciously reaching out to straighten Billy's tie.

"Mmm? Um, lamb. I made a rack of lamb and rice," Billy sounded almost embarrassed. "Want something to drink?"

Machiavelli raised his eyebrows. "You mean like an actual drink?"

Billy nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I picked up a bottle of Chianti at the liquor store." He finally interpreted the expression on the Italian's face correctly. "Oh, come on, I trust you. It's not like you're normally an alcoholic, it was just one night."

"I guess I'll have a glass then," Machiavelli allowed.

"I promise I'll cut you off when I need to," Billy said. There was a few moments where neither of them talked and Machiavelli began to wonder if he had made a mistake. Billy was the first to break the quiet. "Hey, Mac, did I ever tell you about the time I went to the 1893 Chicago World Fair?"

Machiavelli shook his head, smiling in the soft light. He could tell Billy was excited to tell this story and the excitement spilled over into him. So he kept quiet, letting Billy progress with his story and occasionally taking sips from his wine glass.

The outlaw was so excited that when he rubbed his hands together, wisps of reddish purple aura spilled off of his hands, touching the air with the scent of cayenne pepper. "I was there," Billy said baldly, unnecessarily. "I was supposed to perform in it, actually. See, I was running low on funds at the time, so I agreed to work with Buffalo Bill Cody in one of his Wild West exhibits."

"So you pretended to be a cowboy, a horse stealer?" Machiavelli asked shrewdly. "And they paid you to do this?"

Billy grinned and nodded. He seemed especially pleased that Italian had caught on so early into the story. "Like taking candy, right? But anyways, as it works out, this was all a minor point anyways. The fair owners wouldn't let us in."

"Why not?" Machiavelli broke in. He frowned. From what he remembered of the time, those western shows had been incredibly popular. He couldn't imagine the crowds would say no.

Billy waved a hand impatiently. "Some disagreement in pay. I don't really remember. Bill was pissed though. He brought the whole crew up anyways and we set up right in front of the fair's entrance." He laughed, amusement evident on his face. "To get to the fair, people had to cross through some warring Indians and cowboys and sharpshooters."

Machiavelli pictured Victorian ladies done up in their poofy skirts, running through a battlefield. The idea was so ludicrous that the European immortal couldn't help laughing too. Billy was now laughing so hard, that he started to cry a little. "Black Hawk was there," he chuckled. "Got on his horse, he did, and chased this really fat woman-" He couldn't say anymore, caught in silent laughter.

Niccolò tried to take a sip of water, thought about the story again, and ended up spitting the water out again. He was glad it hadn't been the wine. "Sorry," he gasped, dabbing at his suit jacket with a napkin. Attempting to regain control of the conversation had never worked in the past, but he still felt compelled to try. "So that was your story?"

Billy had been leaning back in his chair. He let the front legs fall forward again with a small bang and shook his head frantically. "Wait, there's more."

"Billy, have you been watching a lot of TV at night again?" The American shook him off. He made an impatient, tutting noise and Machiavelli apologized to keep the conversation flowing. "Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting. Go ahead."

The Kid unclasped his hands for a moment to open them in brief, comic gratitude. "Thank you sir. So anyways, I decided to go into the fair and – I don't know if you remember this – this was the year that they premiered the first Ferris wheel." He gestured to himself. "I went on it."

"And how was that?" Machiavelli smiled. He had a pretty good idea how it went.

Sure enough, Billy didn't fail to meet his expectations. "Oh, it was pretty terrifying. I've told you before that I never say nothing scares me. Cause that ride scared me. Worse than that mangy sphinx, actually." Billy said this all in a quick rush of air. Sometimes Machiavelli wondered if he stopped for breath. "So anyways, it cost 50 cents to get in, which is also ridiculous, but still, I paid it and…

Billy continued to tell him about the ride, leaving out no details. He described the harrowing journey to the top of 264 foot tall Ferris wheel. It did actually sound a little frightening to the Italian, especially when his companion began to describe how the wind was blowing and the creaking noise that the steel girders made as the wind blew through them. Occasionally, Machiavelli had to remind Billy to eat his meal.

"…the only reason why I didn't completely freak out was because I knew that I was immortal, so it couldn't kill me," Billy finished off. He grinned happily.

Niccolò shook his head. The outlaw always lived his life so fully, at times Machiavelli was a bit jealous of the man. He knew that he would have never willingly gone on that Ferris wheel himself. Watching Billy clear their dinner plates, he realized too late that he should have helped. He got out of his chair and carefully maneuvered his way around to the kitchen.

Billy was getting dessert ready. He went to grab the plates, intent on helping the American immortal in some way. "Stop that," Billy commanded quietly.

Machiavelli turned around halfway to the table. "Stop bringing the plates over?" he queried smoothly.

Billy shook his head. "No, the dark thoughts. Stop thinking about them." So Billy had once again read his face. He shrugged and offered a charming smile up. Billy took one of the plates from him. Using his spoon as a sort of baton, Billy gestured at him. "I told you I'd teach you to have fun this summer and I did, didn't I?"

Machiavelli nodded. "You did good."

"Ah, but I can do better." Billy held out his spoon and Machiavelli took a bite from it. "Why stop now? We're going to continue to have fun."

"In Philadelphia? So, tell me about this next place we're living."

"Oh, I always liked Philly. Better than New York in my opinion. More wide open spaces," Billy began. "If I have to live in a city, Philly's one of my top choices."

"You don't like living in the city?"

Billy shrugged. "I like fresh air and lots of it. Besides I always grew up kind of outside of towns, except for when we lived in Kansas, but that place was a mess."

Machiavelli quirked his eyebrows. "What was wrong with it?"

"Sewage in the streets, gunfighters blowing in at all times of the year, and my mother, she had to work in the town's laundromat. Course it wasn't good for her health. I used to go in there to bring her lunch, there was fumes everywhere and it was very hot. The air was bad. I think it made her sicker," Billy explained very quickly. It was obvious he found this line of the conversation very unpleasant and Machiavelli felt bad. He seemed to have a knack for bringing the conversation around to things that Billy didn't want to talk about.

"Anyways, Philly's not like that, at least not the part that we're staying in," Billy ended on a high note, shifting the conversation yet again. "See, Mac, the good thing about being immortal is that you buy a place, not knowing that 50 years later, it's going to be in the middle of the good part of town. Same thing happened in Boston. I sold an apartment up there that used to be in the middle of the red light district. Now it's worth a fortune apparently."

"Is that why you don't seem to worry about money?" Machiavelli asked curiously. This was a new piece of information that he hadn't thought of before.

Billy shrugged, held up a hand. "I've been poor, been relatively well off. Doesn't matter, does it? I always survive." He laughed and Machiavelli had to smile. Billy really lived life, he reflected.

As it turned out, Billy knew quite a bit of history about the Pennsylvania city. He filled Machiavelli in on some of the more intimate details, opting for the more personal stories rather than the historically significant or interesting at times. Machiavelli, though sad to be parting from the cabin, began to feel the first tendrils of excitement as Billy described where they'd be living.

"And are we going to stay there for a while too?" Machiavelli had to know.

"We might," Billy wagered cheerfully. "Maybe not. Depends on what comes up. I've got a few more places we can stay at too, should our position get compromised."

"Now you're the one sounding paranoid," the Italian commented. He scraped the rest of his bowl. "Billy, could I have more?"

"Mac, you're not a little kid anymore. You want more, go get it."

Machiavelli flushed a little. He had forgotten that he was now the same height as Billy, almost legally an adult again, and thus had both his faculties and abilities again. "Oh yeah," he said sheepishly. "Do you want more?"

"No, I'm watching my figure." Machiavelli chuffed at him and Billy looked a little affronted. "What? I am. I don't know how you get away with eating everything under the sun and still being so goddamn skinny, but I look stocky after a while."

"You've always been stocky," Machiavelli reminded him. He looked around for the ice cream scoop, couldn't find it, and decided to eat out of the carton instead. "I still love you," he said through a mouthful of cream.

Billy watched him carefully eating his ice cream and shook his head when Machiavelli spread out a napkin over his suit. "Thanks, fatso."

"What'd you call me?" The gray eyed immortal looked like he had been terribly insulted.

"I said I love you too." Billy slid next to him where he had sat on the couch. "Okay, give me some of that."

"You said you didn't want any," Machiavelli protested. He clutched the carton to his chest.

Billy smacked him not so lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, come on. Don't be selfish." The two scuffled for the carton. ("You're going to wrinkle my suit!") The American immortal managed to pin him at one point, but Machiavelli smacked him in the nose with his spoon. The two were squabbling so loudly that they didn't hear the others drive up at all, until Scatty was standing over them. To this, Billy gave a very unmanly squawk, followed by a sigh of relief when he recognized her. "This isn't what it looks like," he said through gritted teeth, refusing to let go of the carton.

"It looks like two men in suits fighting over a carton of ice cream."

"Oh, well, then it's exactly what it looks like," Billy grunted, catching Machiavelli in a choke hold. "And the night was going so well, up till now."