"Wakey, wakey, hands off snaky," Billy chirped cheerfully, grabbing Machiavelli's toes and giving them a small shake.

Machiavelli groaned and grumbled as he came awake. "Billy, that's not very sophisticated," he scolded.

"Big words from the man with a death grip on the little prince," Billy retorted, moving deeper into the room to open the curtains at the window. He laughed at Machiavelli's exclamation when the shades came up, the room suddenly in blinding lights. "I don't know much Italian, but that sounded like an expletive to me."

Niccolò shifted unhappily out of his comfortable position. He held up his hands. "To quote your English saying, look, ma, no hands."

Billy laughed. "Yes, but forgive me if I skip our usual morning handshake today," he quipped right back. His eyes were alight with mischief, a merriness dancing behind his eyes. He sat on the edge of the Italian's bed, talking to him and Machiavelli got comfortable again, folding his arms behind his head so that he was propped up enough to see the American. "Anyways, rest as much as you want. We're going to have a long day today." He sighed, stretching his neck to the left. There was a small pop and he did the other side.

"We're going to be driving for basically the whole day, aren't we?" Machiavelli asked, absently rubbing at his stomach. Billy nodded. "Are we going to stop anywhere?"

"I didn't have anything planned, but if you see something, feel free to stop me." Billy grinned at him. "You're going to be happy, honey. I called up the Philadelphia utility company early this morning. All of the utilities are guaranteed to be turned on, Friday morning at the latest."

Machiavelli gave a tiny smile, closing his eyes. "Good. No more well water baths."

"Right." The Kid got off the bed, and Niccolò looked up, feeling the bed rise a little. He watched with open interest as the outlaw went through a series of stretches. His eyes trailed lower at the flash of flesh that appeared and he decided he'd better get a grip.

"So are we going to get started or not?" Billy asked, straightening up and turning around to look at him. He settled his hands on his hips, attempting to look stern, which was really a goofy look for the American.

"No," Machiavelli said decisively. He turned over in bed, pulling the comforter more snugly around him. He closed his eyes. "We should sleep more."

"Sleep more?" Billy asked in disbelief. He waited a moment for the Italian to spring up and say he was kidding, but Machiavelli just seemed to sink further into mattress, sighing a little as he settled in. "Hey, come on," the Kid cajoled, grabbing Machiavelli's side and giving him a rough shake. "It's already nine in the morning. We're going to be driving all day. You can sleep in the car."

"Want to sleep here," Machiavelli mumbled back. "Comfortable. Go away." He covered his head with the pillow.

Billy tugged the pillow away, tossing it to the top bunk. He practically had to rip the blanket out of the Italian's grasp, bunching it up at the bottom of the bed. Even after all of his covers were missing, the lanky teenager curled into a tight ball and closed his eyes. "Mac. Mac!" Billy insistently harassed the other immortal. "I'm going to get dressed now. When I come back, you'd better be up," he warned.

Five minutes later, he still wasn't up. "Teenagers," the Kid whispered furiously. He considered his options, his mind momentarily skittering over the bucket in the bathroom, before deciding that would cause too much mess. He grabbed Machiavelli under the armpits and dragged him off the bed. The dark-haired immortal refused to find his feet until Billy threatened to drop him on the ground, then he reluctantly stood on his own. "What do you want to wear, Mac, your suit or sweatpants?" Billy asked, thumbing through the teen's bag. "That's all you have left."

"Sweatpants," Machiavelli said sleepily.

"Mac, are you feeling alright?" Billy said, feeling his forehead.

"I'm going to be sleeping in the car. I don't want to wrinkle my suit," Machiavelli defended himself, snapping the waistband into place. He struggled into a t-shirt and looked around for his shoes. "I'll dress up when we're living in the city again. That'll be nice."

"You going to miss this place?" the outlaw asked, grabbing Machiavelli's bag. Shutting the shades again, he led the teenager out, closing doors as they went past them.

"Not especially," Machiavelli said. "I'm always going to remember it as the place where I took a well water bath." He climbed in the car

"See, this isn't so bad," Billy said, shutting the trunk and coming around to the driver's side. "You can rest more, I'd just prefer you curtail your earlier operations until a later point of time, I mean these are genuine leather seats…" Machiavelli whacked him upside the head and Billy grinned happily. "Nobody can say you haven't been getting your fresh air, Mac."

"Mmm."

"Why are you so tired anyways?" Billy asked, curiosity alive in his voice, even as he backed the Thunderbird out of the driveway and shifted gears, spinning down the road. "You went to bed before me last night."

Machiavelli cracked one eye open. "I, uh, didn't go to sleep right away." He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders- the morning air was still fairly cool to his Mediterranean blood.

"Why, what could you possibly be doing… ah. I know what you were doing. Good for you buddy." Billy laughed. "This certainly speaks to your endurance. And to think that I thought you were just an old man when we met." He turned onto the highway, pressing down hard on the accelerator.

"I don't need any encouragement, thanks," Machiavelli said somewhat sourly. He made a big fuss over smoothing the blanket out flat.

Billy was still grinning. "You rest now, you've been through a lot of abuse."

"Oh, shut up."

"Self-abuse, but all the same…" The Kid patted his knee. "We can stop for lunch in Minneapolis. I imagine there's still a few malls there, it being the capital and all." He looked over. "It'll take about four hours to get there from here. Think you can last that long?"

"Machiavelli nodded. "Sure. I'm probably going to nap a while anyways. You can leave the radio on though. It doesn't bother me."

"Okay, honey."

"Hey, Billy?" Machiavelli asked with his eyes shut. "Are you going to keep calling me sweetheart and honey and such when I'm an old man again?"

"I won't if you don't like it," Billy promised. "I just got in the habit of it. Sorry about that." They drove for a little while in silence, the Kid keeping quiet so that Machiavelli could rest. "Mac, you asleep?" He shook his head. "Are you going to be an old man again? Like, go the whole way back?"

"I hadn't thought of it," Niccolò said back, his eyes still shut. "We never really spoke of it after you initially told me. You were kind of ambiguous about what you wanted from me."

"I like you younger," Billy proffered. "But I liked you when I first met you, too. So I guess for the moment, we just let it be?"

"Yeah."

Billy fiddled with the radio station as it got increasingly obscure with static. He found a different station, playing a lot of oldies. "Get some sleep now, sweetheart, you need it. I'm sorry I've been keeping you up."

Billy stopped at the mall early that afternoon. The rain had held off so far, but the skies were looking slightly threatening, so the Kid parked his car as close to the building as they could. They ended up cutting through a kitchen supply store and had to wend their way back to the food court, swinging around numerous kiosks and teen shops. At the food court, they split off in two directions,

"You really got pizza?" Machiavelli asked disbelievingly when they sat down again, at a table under a large potted tree. Next to them, a play area was resplendent with children crying, screaming, laughing, and kicking. "Billy, that's all we've been eating for the past week."

"I like pizza," Billy mumbled around a slice. "Nothing better."

Machiavelli tutted, opening his container of teriyaki. He nimbly worked a pair of chopsticks, trying to ignore Billy who was giving him puppy eyes. "I thought you liked pizza," he grumbled at last, handing the outlaw his chopsticks.

"I like a lot of different kinds of food. I'm a growing boy," Billy said primly, trying and failing to pick up the chicken with the chopsticks. He kept dropping the food. Machiavelli let him go as he looked kind of cute, sticking out his tongue in concentration, but decided to intervene when Billy began to stab with the utensil. "I don't know how you do that," he observed, as the Italian picked the food up easily.

Machiavelli stuffed a rather large piece of chicken in the outlaw's mouth. "You need to experience a little more of the world, Billy. This isn't exactly rocket science."

Billy swallowed thickly. "I eat Japanese food, I just don't see the merits of eating with a stick. Besides the value of showing off for your friends, that is." He tapped Machiavelli's plate. "How do you plan on eating the rice for instance?" So saying, he again opened his mouth expectantly.

Niccolò rolled his eyes and gave him another piece of chicken. "It's sticky rice. It all sticks together." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You want some of the rice too, don't you?" Billy nodded his head vigorously. "Why didn't you order yourself some then?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

"I'm hungry, I might." Billy chewed through his pizza crust. "In fact, I will. Want anything else to eat? There's a sub place." Machiavelli shook his head, then thought about it and snagged the back of the American's jeans before he got away. "Get me a sub and I'll split my chicken with you."

"Deal." Billy scurried off.

~MB~

"Are we driving into a storm?" Machiavelli asked, ducking down so that he could see the sky above them. He assessed the darkening air with a critical eye. "It seems awfully ominous out there."

"The forecast said there'd be some rain," Billy said offhandedly. "Hopefully, we'll miss most of it." He paused. "But yeah, it does look kind of bad out there. If it gets too awful, we can always find a place to stop for the night."

"Is this roof going to be enough to keep us safe, if we're driving through a lightning storm," Machiavelli wondered out loud.

"Sure," Billy said easily. "Besides, I have a few immortal friends in this area. We could always crash at one of their places for the night if it gets really bad."

Lightning forked in the sky above them, looking like a tree turned upside down. One area of the sky looked particularly bleak. "What's your definition of really bad?"

"Not this," Billy said cheerfully.

Around them, the wind was picking up. Glancing out his window, Machiavelli could see the trees that were lining the highway. They were swaying ominously. "Billy, talk to me about something," he begged as rain began to spatter the roof.

"About what?" Billy had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind and the rain.

"Anything- you talk a lot. Pick a topic and run with it," Machiavelli commanded.

Instead of being insulted, Billy took to the challenge like a fish in water. "Okay, Mac. You know, I was thinking, you're going to be turning eighteen on Saturday. We've got to do something to celebrate. First, I was thinking bounce house. We never did that, but then I got thinking. You're going to be an adult. We have to do something adult."

The Italian stiffened as another thunderclap broke in the distance. "What are you thinking of, Billy?"

"We should go to a bar or something," Billy said excitedly.

"Isn't that illegal for me? I'm just turning eighteen," Machiavelli traced quotes around the number. "Don't you have to be twenty one?"

Billy waved a dismissive hand. "We've got an entire suitcase full of fake IDs for you. Besides you're not really eighteen and they're more likely to card me." He scowled. "They still do sometimes."

That made Niccolò laugh. Outside, the rain was picking up, drumming steadily on the top of the car. Billy had to crank up the windshield wipers, so that they whipped back and forth. Still, the sightline outside was minimal. "Where does your friend live?" the tactician wondered as the rain poured down on them.

"Mm, not too far from here under normal conditions, but at the rate we're going, probably an hour or so." Billy's voice was momentarily drowned out by a crash of thunder. "Everyone's slowed down cause of the storm conditions. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. You're the one always telling me immortal not invulnerable."

"True. Should we get off the highway?"

"No, we're actually safer now here than we would be on the backroads. This is higher up and has a better irrigation system. I bet a lot of the backroads are flooding right now," Billy calculated. "Don't you worry, Mac, I'll always keep you safe."

Watching Billy, he realized that the other man seemed to be looking for something as the rain pressed down harder. At last, when Machiavelli was completely convinced the outlaw was planning to just drive through the storm, he made a small sound of recognition and pulled onto an exit ramp. "Where are we going?" the Italian asked, looking over at Billy expectantly.

"Storm's getting too bad. We're going to stop at a friend's house for the night," Billy explained, easing onto the backroad carefully. He turned on his high beams and practically had to drive down the middle of the road to stay out of the enormous puddles that were forming on the sides. "Who would have thought we'd get this much rain, this suddenly?" he exclaimed as the right side of the car dipped into the water, sending a massive wave up as they went. "It looked nice this morning."

"I think we drove right into it," Machiavelli observed, wincing as they heard thunder nearby. "So who's your friend?"

"Maybe you know her? Zelda? Zelda Fitzgerald."

"Zelda Fitzgerald? F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife is an immortal?" Billy nodded. "I didn't know that!"

"Well, you didn't have much information on me, either did you? You seem to underestimate us American immortals," Billy teased. "I should have gotten at least a book in your secret stash. I mean, I'm a legend and you're just summer reading."

Machiavelli ignored the jab, focusing on the new information like it was a delicate dessert. He was momentarily distracted from the looming storm. "Is the author an immortal too?"

Billy shook his head. "No, and I understand that's kind of a sore spot with her, so we don't speak of it very often. But Zelda's kind of like a crazy great-aunt to me. You know the kind, sends me Christmas cards when she remembers, doesn't always. Interesting person, but not totally reliable."

"Are you friends with a lot of immortals?" Machiavelli asked, feeling woefully inadequate when he considered his solitary lifestyle over the past couple hundred years.

"Mm," Billy hemmed. "I wouldn't say I'm great friends with a lot of them, but I know quite a few and we're friendly. Black Hawk and those guys I mentioned when we were going to Alcatraz, those are my main friends. But Zelda takes care of me whenever I come through."

"Didn't she have a lot of mental health problems?" Machiavelli asked quietly.

"Quite a few," Billy said, sounding graver than he usually did. "I visit every once in a while, but never stay long. Sometimes she, uh, switches. But still, she'll take care of us for the night. And I've been meaning on getting in touch with her, check in, you know." He reached blindly for the other's knee, giving it a slight squeeze. "I think you'll like her, crazy personality aside."

Machiavelli nodded. After much navigating on Billy's part, they eventually came to a stop before an old Victorian home. "Here we are," Billy said, stopping the engine. He sounded a lot more cheerful than Machiavelli felt. Glancing out at the house before them, the Italian immortal felt a feeling of foreboding. The house didn't look particularly well kept, with scraggly bushes in the front and a pane missing from one of the attic windows. "Did she know we were coming?" he asked Billy. The Kid shook his head, sucking on his teeth slightly. Tilting his head back and forth, he made a gesture with his hand. "With Zelda, it's really no use planning for the future. You just kind of have to show up. He leaned forward, looking at the sky. "I don't think it's going to slow down at all. We should just make a run for it."

"I'm going to get the bags out of the trunk. You run to the porch. I'll be there in a minute," Billy instructed. "And, go!" They both opened their doors. Machiavelli took off towards the house, taking the steps two at a time to dive under the cover of the roof. He turned back to watch Billy's progress. The American snagged the duffle bag from the trunk and practically flew towards his friend, laughing the whole way. Getting to the porch, the two looked at each other. Machiavelli was decidedly wet, but Billy was absolutely soaked. "Nice weather," he croaked.

"Billy, you look like you jumped in a lake," Machiavelli sympathized.

The American did. All of his hair was pressed flat against his face, his t-shirt clinging to him and dripping a continuous river down his body. He pulled his hand across his face, trying to dry his visage, but it helped very little. "Well, there's no helping it. Let's hope she's home."

It took several minutes of banging on the door to get an answer. Machiavelli suspected that the house's occupant couldn't hear them knocking over the sound of the wind and the rain. At last, a light appeared from inside the house and the silhouette of someone approached the door. Unconsciously, Machiavelli came to stand behind Billy, even though he was now significantly taller than his companion. He reached forward to hold the American's hand discreetly.