"Billy? Do we really have to leave?"

The Kid settled next to Machiavelli and the Pup on the end of the dock. He patted the dog on the back, rubbing rough circles in his fur. "You know we have to, Mac. Except for your hair and some wrinkles, you look like practically like you used to. We've got to move around."

Machiavelli sighed. "I suppose." He looked around the lake. Behind them, they could hear the whooping of a crane nearby.

"While we're on the road, I'm going to teach you how to drive," Billy said casually. Machiavelli looked over at him in horror, but Billy just took off his shoes and set them beside him. He dipped his feet in the lake, shivering at the cold water. "We're getting a pizza for lunch. What do you want on it?"

"Italian sausage, pepperoni, salami, green peppers, onions, feta cheese… oh, can you put red peppers on it too?"

Billy stopped dialing to look at him. "Fine, you can have your own pizza. But that's like a dozen toppings, we could get six pizzas for what that's going to cost…" Next to him, Machiavelli smiled and kissed the Pup's muzzle. Billy punched in the last digits and hit send. "Hello, I'd like to order a pizza. I hope you have a pen and paper next to you…"

~MB~

Lunch was over far too quickly. The others let Machiavelli wander around for a bit. He looked through his and Billy's bedrooms, making sure there was nothing left behind and glanced out the windows at the lake. It was only after he had found the tabby cat that he reluctantly came down the stairs.

Billy looked back at him from where he sat at the piano. "Ready to go, handsome?"

The Italian nodded. He came to stand behind the couch where the Flamels were sitting but didn't sit down himself.

"Oh, Niccolò," Perenelle said, getting to her feet. Nicholas followed her as she went around the furniture to where he was standing. She held his elbows. "We'll see each other sooner than later," she promised. "Keep thinking about your wife. I want to help you when we see each other again."

"Take care, my friend," Nicholas said, surprising him by kissing him on the cheek. "Safe travels." Machiavelli nodded, biting his bottom lip. He wandered into the kitchen where Scatty was leaning on the counter. "Aren't you going to give me a hug?" he asked her, giving her a small smile. She shook her head. "Come on. Please?"

"You know I'm not the hugging type," she said frostily.

He closed the space between them anyways, leaning next to her. "I wish you could come with us," he said under his breath. They watched Billy interacting with the Flamels in the other room.

The Shadow leaned in closer to Machiavelli. "I would have thought you'd like the alone time with Billy," she observed archly. He didn't deny it, glancing at her quickly and he ran a hand through his hair. He gave her a small half smile.

"I'm still going to miss you. I love you," he said very quietly.

Billy came into the kitchen. "Ah, Scatty, here you are." He wrapped his arms around her despite her mild protests and kissed her on the cheek. I love, love, love you. I'm going to miss you." She scoffed and he squeezed her tighter. "I'm not lying," he mumbled. "Am I, Mac?" he asked, releasing her.

Machiavelli shook his head. "No, he's not. And I should get a hug too, now that he got one." She sighed, but held out an arm. He enveloped her in a quick embrace and released her.

"Alright, Mac, we'd better go," Billy said. Machiavelli nodded and followed him out. He got in the passenger side, looking back at the cabin. Billy and he both waved at the others as the outlaw steered down the driveway. He looked over at the Italian a couple of times as they picked up the interstate. "Don't be sad, Mac-a-Whack."

The corners of Machiavelli's mouth turned up. "Don't call me that," he said automatically. "My father named me Niccolò after his father before him. It's a good name, isn't it?"

"It's a great name," Billy agreed. "But you were Mac when I first met you, and Mac you'll always be. And I've been thinking, Mac," he went on. Machiavelli looked over at him, wondering how one person could possibly talk so much. "I've been thinking that we should do something fun when you turn eighteen."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You still won't be legally old enough to drink, but I guess there are other fun things to do besides drinking." He whooped as they really opened up. "Like lotto tickets!"

That made Machiavelli laugh. He shook his head, holding an arm out to the wind. "Are we going to stop anywhere today? Any grand plans?" he asked, feeling the air slip like water out of his hands.

Billy shrugged. "We can stop if we see a place we want to go into, but firm plans, no I don't have any. But there's no set schedule, so yell out if you see something." He drummed on the wheel, playing a slightly syncopated rhythm. "Hey! Want to play a game?"

"What kind of game?" Niccolò asked suspiciously.

"It's called 'Who Are They?'," Billy said excitedly. "When you see the people in another car, you have to make up a story for them. I'll go first." A red pickup truck with four bearded men drove down the other side. The Kid sucked on his teeth. "Ooh, difficult. But I'd have to say that they are a ballet troupe coming back from a big dance competition. They just won the big prize. A lifetime supply of soup." He grinned as another car came towards them. "You're turn."

"Ah, okay." Machiavelli leaned forward. "Old lady. Young man. They're obviously lovers. I think it really turns him on when she tucks her knickers in under her breasts."

"Oh, Mac, you're sick," Billy hooted. He made a face.

The Italian lay a hand across Billy's chest. "I'm not done. She is a professional flame eater, he works at the local butcher. Any number of puns referring to her cooking his meat will work." He waved his hand dismissively. "How about that car?"

"Obviously international spies."

"And that one?"

"Pirates from a different space and time. Hey did you know that there was a female pirate with the last name Bonney? I didn't know that until years after I took my moniker, but I think it's pretty cool. I mean, I don't condone her being a pirate, but then again, I was an outlaw, so I'm not one to judge…"

Machiavelli cut across his babbling. "What other games do you have?"

"Well, there's fortunately/ unfortunately."

"And how does one play this game?"

"One person starts with a statement that says fortunately at the beginning of it. The next person has to say a sentence that continues the thought, but starts with unfortunately. Do you want to start?"

Machiavelli scrunched up his face. He thought he'd better start with something rather mundane for safety's sake. "Fortunately… I have a lot of clean socks."

"Unfortunately, we left them at the cabin."

"Ah, well that is unfortunate. Let's see… fortunately, I have enough money that I can buy more socks when we stop next." He smiled in Billy's direction. Billy grinned back. "Unfortunately, if we keep up this speed of 60 miles per hour, it'll still take us ten hours to get across Montana, meaning we might not stop at a real store for days."

"What?"

"Fortunately," Billy continued, undeterred. "We have each other for company."

The conversation further deteriorated as they sped down the roadway. Machiavelli was caught up in a burst of emotion at Billy's words and let the conversation go down a strange pathway. Eventually, he ended it with the statement, "Fortunately, we're not two obese women attempting to flirt with a construction worker." Neither immortal was really sure how they had gotten to that point, but they were nervous to try to trace it back.

For a while afterwards, they rode in relative silence. Every once in a while, Machiavelli would change the CD. They found that while they didn't totally agree on music, there was enough they had in common to enjoy the ride. Machiavelli was a little surprised to find so many musicals in Billy's CD collection, but chalked it up to the outlaw being a fairly unusual man.

Finally, out of sheer boredom, Billy pulled the car over at a museum advertised on one of the many billboards they'd been passing. There was only one tour going on when they arrived at the museum, an interactive history of chocolate from the perspective of science, history, and popular culture. Machiavelli was particularly happy because after the tour ended, Billy bought him the biggest box of chocolates the gift shop had. "Don't eat too many of them," he warned the Italian. "You're going to make yourself sick."

An hour later, Machiavelli had slipped into a sugary coma. Billy let him sleep, but wrenched the box out of his hands and put it on the floor of the backseat. Using the cell phone they had just gotten the Italian, he checked the temperature. It was due to drop soon, and he briefly thought about pulling over to put the top up, but decided to keep pushing forward.

Finally, he pulled off the highway. Going some ways down the road, he pulled into a parking lot and turned the engine off. Getting out, he went around to the other side of the car. He sighed, but shook the teenager awake. "Mac. Mac! Time to wake up."

"Where are we?" Machiavelli asked groggily. He sat up slowly and peered into Billy's face, his eyes barely open.

"Miles City, Montana," Billy replied promptly. "More specifically, the Miles City McDonald's. Say that five times fast."

"Why?" Machiavelli groaned.

"Well, cause it's kind of fun with the repetitive letters and all… Oh, why are we at McDonald's? You need food and I need to get off the road for a little bit. Do you know we've been driving for nine hours? Not to mention the time we spent at the museum." He pulled the Italian immortal out of the car and led him towards restaurant.

Going into the restaurant, he ordered for both of them. Machiavelli was apparently too tired to care, sliding into one of the booths as Billy ordered. When the outlaw put a tray down in front of him, he picked at the burger. "Promise me we'll never eat here again," Machiavelli whispered across their Formica table.

"What's the matter, Mac, this doesn't meet your high standards?" Billy asked cheekily. He held out a fry to the Italian, who grudgingly took it.

"I'm not even sure this meets the health department's standards," Machiavelli answered darkly. He nibbled on the edge of the fry and made a face. All he could taste was the oil they had cooked the fries in. His heightened sense of taste made him want to throw up.

Needing something else to do, he looked around the McDonald's they were currently situated in. The franchise had attempted to look a little classier by decorating the area in soft browns and tans, but somehow their desired effect hadn't quite come through. The Italian was particularly disgusted with these glass divisions throughout the restaurant which seemed to have been deliberately made to look like the cracked windshield of a bad car accident.

"I don't like it here," he said quietly. "It makes me sad. Nobody seems to want to be here. Not the employees, not the customers.

"Well, unfortunately, nobody here is really ecstatic to be here during the day, let alone at," Billy checked his watch, "eleven at night. Nothing else is open at this hour and you were hungry. Eat something."

"I can't taste anything but grease," Machiavelli insisted. He covered one of Billy's hands with both of his own in an effort to be truly sincere. "It's my sense of taste. I can taste everything that went into this food and you know I have a weak stomach as it is." He fluttered his lashes at the American.

Billy sighed. "I know, I know. It's just there's no place else that's open at this time. We're in the middle of east Bumfuck."

"I'd rather wait until later and just not eat right now," Machiavelli beseeched him desperately. "Please?"

"Alright. If you're sure. But we might as well go now," Billy said, tossing everything into their bag and getting up. "Are you sure you can wait that long? Your body needs more food than the rest of ours. We won't be able to get real food for a couple of hours."

Machiavelli nodded gravely. He climbed into his side of the Thunderbird and shivered slightly. "Billy, can we put the top up? I'm getting cold."

"I can do that," the American immortal agreed immediately. "In fact, here." He went around the back of car. Machiavelli craned his neck, but couldn't see what he was doing. Billy came back a moment later with a blanket. The Italian immortal was embarrassed, but rather pleased when Billy tucked it around him. Going around the other side of the car, Billy set to business bringing the top of the car up. Having changed the car over, he got in. "Warm enough now or you want the heat on?"

"I'm fine now," Machiavelli said sleepily. "He pulled the lever on his right so that his seat tilted back a bit more. "Why do you think I get so tired all the time?"

Billy shrugged, already backing the car out of its spot. "Your body doesn't match up to who you really are. It's playing catch up right now." He pet the top of the Italian's head, then dropped his hand to the back of the seat. "Try to stay awake just a little bit longer, honey. I'm going to stop at that motel across the street. It'll be easier to move you if you're awake."

"Okay," Machiavelli said sleepily.

"You want a room of your own?" Billy asked, backing out. He maneuvered down the road, pulling into another parking lot, this one dimly lit by orange light. A sign above them read 'Welcome to Miles City'. Soon, they were up on the second floor landing, the Kid fumbling with the keys they'd been given.

Machiavelli felt a little guilty, complaining about how tired he was when he watched Billy slump on to the bed closest to the window. He putzed around the room, shutting the blinds and making sure the deadbolt was on the door. He glanced over at his American friend. Billy had fallen asleep on top of the blankets. Wrapping an arm around the outlaw's knees, he lifted the man enough to pull the blankets out from under him. He yanked off Billy's boots, pulled the covers over him and moved over to his own bed. There, he stayed awake only long enough to undress and climb under the covers. Pulling on the chain above him, he turned out the light.