"Okay, Mac, before we leave the cabin we really ought to pack up at least your old clothes and stuff. Is there anything you want to bring with you?" Billy asked, coming into the teenager's room. He came to stand beside the Italian where he was sitting at his desk.

"I was thinking about that. I've been making a list," Machiavelli considered carefully. He sighed. This whole process was making him sadder than he thought it would have. "I don't know. Are we going to get rid of the stuff we pack off?" Billy shook his head, absently and his heart lifted a little. "What are we doing with it then?"

"Mm, probably just put what we can in the closet, some stuff up in the attic. You know, just have it cleared up so we're not leaving a mess behind. It doesn't need to look like you were never here, we just need to put some of the big stuff away." Billy picked up a rubix cube and began to twist the sides around. "I usually box up my things in between houses. That way they don't get all dusty while I'm in different places."

That made sense to Machiavelli, but it still meant that he was going to have to choose between what to keep with him and what to leave behind. "Can we bring the chess set you got me?"

"Sure."

"And my model car," Niccolò decided, blushing a little, but determined to keep the red convertible with him. "Maybe a couple of my books… my suit…the toy knights and horses?" He looked up carefully at Billy. The Kid nodded. "And then I don't know what to keep. What are you going to bring with you? Besides clothes."

"Huh. I think I'm going to bring the pictures of my mother and you, I always bring my laptop with me, and then there's the seashell you gave me. Besides that, I don't know, a couple of other things."

"What seashell?"

"Don't you remember?" Billy frowned at him thoughtfully. "The day we spent on the beach? You gave me a shell. I kept it." He pulled it out of his front pocket and handed it to Machiavelli

"Oh. I don't remember that," Machiavelli admitted. The Italian took the shell from him and rubbed the side of it absently. He handed it back to the American immortal who carefully stowed it in his pocket again. He looked around the room. "Billy? Are we going to bring the Pup and Georgette with us when we go?"

Billy scratched the back of his head. He shook his head, his lips forming a silent no. "They wouldn't be very happy being on the road so much," he said gently. "The Flamels are going to watch over them until we have a more permanent home for you. Then we'll fly them over. Same with the piano, for right now."

Niccolò swallowed but nodded. "That makes sense," he said softly. "What do you have at your place in Philadelphia?"

"Mmm, the normal stuff. TV, some dvds, clothes, books. Food, we'll have to buy when we get there. Um, extra bedding too." Billy opened some boxes and sat down beside the Italian's bureau. He began to dump some of his older clothes, the ones that wouldn't fit anymore, into the box. "Oh, Mac, remember this?" He pulled out a small t-shirt that had a tie and suspenders printed on it. Billy grinned at him and put his face in it, feeling it for a minute, before he seemed to get embarrassed. He folded it messily and tossed it in the box. "You were so cute."

"Seems like a while ago now," Machiavelli commented. The grey eyed teenager looked at all the stuff around them. He sighed. "You're better at this than I am."

"What? Packing up? I guess I have more experience with it. I've been moving around my entire life." Billy seemed cheerful enough, but Machiavelli had to wonder if all that moving had taken a toll on him over time.

"That must have been difficult," he said gently. He pulled open his closet and began to put some of the old clothing into one of the other boxes.

"Well, we had to do it for my mother. I didn't mind as long as I had her, but after she died, it did wear me down a little." Billy pushed the full box against the wall. "I kept going back to my stepfather for help, but he didn't want me in his life. Eventually, after I became immortal, I realized I was going to have to take care of myself."

Machiavelli nodded. "I got used to living alone, but I've never really liked it. I liked having Dagon in my life. He was my friend and my only companion." He looked out the window. "It's going to be strange to live along again."

"Well, you don't have to do that until you want to," Billy said soothingly. "And hey, we're kind of family now, aren't we? At the very least, we're friends."

"I just miss my family," Niccolò said very softly. He didn't want to sound like he was whining, but leaving the cabin was reminding him of how he had been forced to leave his wife and children behind when he had 'died' all those years ago. Suddenly, his life seemed very uncertain.

He got up to tidy his desk, but Billy snagged him by the arm. Machiavelli had just gone through another one of his growth spurts, making him tower over all four of the other immortals in the cabin. He was now not quite his old height, but far closer to it. Giving a surprisingly strong tug, he pulled the Italian down beside him, where he slung an arm around the boy's shoulders. "I know I can't take their place, Mac, but I love you too, now. You're going to be just fine."

Machiavelli smiled. "Thank you," he said, leaning his forehead against Billy's. Billy patted him on the back and pushed him up.

"I think you're going to like it in Philadelphia," the outlaw said, shoving the full boxes into the closet. He threw himself on the boy's bed, stretching out as he spoke. Machiavelli wrinkled his nose and pulled off Billy's boots, worrying after a bit of dirt that had rubbed off onto the spread. Billy seemed unaware of anything being wrong. "I got a brownstone back before that neighborhood was actually a nice one," he laughed, "and it's not a bad place. Plus there's a lot of attractions I want to bring you to see. There's the Philadelphia Zoo and the Mutter Museum, that place is weird and kind of creepy, but cool."

"And you were going to teach me how to drive," Machiavelli reminded him gently.

"I was and I will. Just like with the horses. We'll take it slow. Speaking of horse riding, did you sleep through the night last night?" Billy asked laughingly. He grinned at the Italian and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. The Italian was temporarily confused and then he understood.

"What? Oh yeah, I was very sore from the horse rides all day," Niccolò said, sounding almost a little bitter. He frowned into the closet. "And I thought we agreed to never speak of this again? I'm working hard to tamp down my nightly… activities. You could support me."

"Tamp down your nightly activities?" The Kid chuckled from where he was lying on the Italian's bed. "We just talked about this yesterday."

"And every day is progress," he said tartly.

Billy continued to laugh and Machiavelli had to smile too, although he still felt some coils of embarrassment at the choice in conversation. "It's okay, Mac," Billy said, sounding consoling. "I'm working on my own progress," he admitted breezily.

"Yeah, I bet you are." The Italian's quick retort got Billy laughing again.

Billy glanced over at him. "Hey, Macaroni, you want me to make lunch now?"

Machiavelli looked at him disapprovingly, shaking his head ever so slightly. "No," he proclaimed firmly. "No to the name? Or lunch?" Billy interrupted. "To the name," the Italian said firmly. "That's the worst name you've come up with yet. And you called me Mac-A-Whack one time." He paused. His stomach grumbled. "But I am kind of hungry, yes."

Billy rolled off the bed and stretched to his full height, which was admittedly a couple of inches less than the Italian at this point. He cracked his neck, and proceeded out onto the landing and down the stairs. Machiavelli trailed after him, lightly stepping behind Billy's footfalls.

Billy ducked through the pantry, glancing around at their stock of food. "How hungry are you, Mac?" The Italian shrugged, rocking his hand slightly. "Well, let's see," Billy said, ruffling the back of his hair. "We're going to have Monterey chicken tonight, so for lunch I guess we'll just have something light. I can make you taquitos and Spanish rice?"

Machiavelli considered, then agreed. He pulled himself up onto the counter so that he was out of the way while Billy prepared the meal. He watched the American immortal with some interest as the man began to throw together different ingredients into the skillet without consulting seemingly any recipe. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"Living in New Mexico, I guess. I was very big there, kind of a folk hero," Billy said, a touch of pride in his voice. He looked over at the dark haired man and flashed a grin. "They called me El Chivato."

"That museum tour said that you were very popular among the Hispanic population," Machiavelli commented, handing him the spoon that Billy indicated.

"Well, growing up in New Mexico, I learned the language like a native. And languages have always been my strong suit." Billy stirred the rice. "I liked going to the bailes- that's dances- and mixing with the locals. Most other white people didn't do that, so I guess they thought I was special."

"You are special," Machiavelli commented quietly.

Billy grinned. "I was also very popular with the ladies. I was a bit of a dog. I had a querida at every town I visited." He went to ruffle his hair, but thought better of it. "I promise you, I've matured a little since then," he called, getting something from the pantry.

"I would hope so."

Billy poked his head in. "Can you give the stuff on the stove a stir?"

"Sure." Machiavelli got up and worked over the stove. He scraped the bottom of the pan carefully. The spices in the food reminded him of his American friend, hot and spicy, and he had to turn his face away so that Billy wouldn't see the expression on his face. "Hey, Billy? When's the first time you had sex?" Machiavelli asked curiously.

Billy looked up quickly. "What?" he asked, laughing nervously. He rolled the taquitos and threw them on a pizza pan, but didn't answer the question, something Niccolò picked up on right away.

This has all the makings for a funny story, he mused, sensing Billy's discomfort. The Italian immortal squirmed his way to the edge of the counter. "I asked," he repeated with a sly grin, "when you first had sex."

Billy actually blushed. The teenager could see a darker flush creep up his neck, easily because the outlaw bent down to put the pan into the oven, making a big fuss of putting the pan all the way in. "Uhm, when I was 15," he hedged finally.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Billy moved his shoulder blades around like he was uncomfortable. It only served to further spike Machiavelli's interest. He had thought this would be something Billy would want to brag about, but the cowboy clearly wanted to separate himself from the conversation at hand. Alarm bells were beginning to sound in his head, but he couldn't stop himself. The American immortal leaned back and gave him a very small smile. "I suppose so. It felt good…"

The Italian immortal put a hand on the outlaw's forehead so that Billy couldn't look away. They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. Billy was the first to blink. "It was the younger sister of one of the matron's I lived with after my mother died," he hastened to explain. "And she told me that she would teach me how to be a man."

"How old was she?" Machiavelli asked, growing serious. He stroked the outlaw's forehead once and then removed his hand, conscious that with the topic at hand, Billy might not welcome the physical touch.

Billy sat back up again. He shrugged and opened another box and began to load it up. "I think she was 25. Anyways, I lived at a lot of different houses after my mother died. I wasn't there very long. And it's been a while since I've thought about her, Mac."

Machiavelli pushed up immediately. Scrambling over the edge, he sat beside Billy. "She raped you."

Billy looked up sharply. "Oh, I don't think that Mac. I never said no."

"You didn't have to," Machiavelli retorted. "You were just a little boy," he said, thinking of his sons, of Ludovico, Pierro, and Bernardo, who he had seen reach that age, and Guido who had not reached that age before he died. There was a strong feeling in the pit of his stomach and he felt, for the first time in months, like a full adult, propelled by his sense of indignation.

"Mac, you're not that much older," Billy laughed. "And I've been strongly told not to call you a little boy anymore." He kissed the side of Machiavelli's face.

"Yeah, but Billy-"

"I'm going to set the table."

Machiavelli watched him move around the kitchen and decided to let the conversation go at this point. "Mr. Bonney, I want to pursue this conversation further at some point."

"Sure," Billy agreed reluctantly. He brightened. "But not now. Otherwise, you'll have to tell me about the time you were tortured. It's only fair."

"Okay."

Billy drummed his fingers on the countertop. There was a moment of silence, then he tugged Machiavelli off the counter. He pushed the Italian into one of the seats at the table. "I miss my mother," he said suddenly. "Just like you miss your family. I've always wished she had lived longer. I don't think I would have turned out the way I did."

"You needed someone to look out for you," Machiavelli agreed. "As for me, I was foolish. I threw away a wonderful family."

"You said that Atem didn't tell you until after you were immortal that you'd have to leave them. That wasn't your fault," Billy said defensively. He plated their food and carried it over to the table. There was a pained expression on his face. "Sometimes I think it was good my mom didn't live long. She never had to see me go downhill."

"You're a good man now."

"So are you."

The wind outside rustled the leaves. Machiavelli could feel the cool autumnal air coming off of the lake and he took a bite of food. Warmth rushed in. "Do you remember," he asked suddenly, "what we said before about seeing my wife again? How we thought Perenelle might be able to conjure her up? Maybe we could do that with your mother too. Show her how good you turned out in the end."

Billy rubbed at his face. A slow smile spread over his features. "I'd like that," he admitted shyly. "Maybe we can ask her tonight at dinner."

Machiavelli nodded. He felt more at peace now. "Hey, Billy. If the water's not too cold, do you want to go swimming this afternoon? One last time? We're almost done the packing."

"Sure."