AN: So here's Zelda. I'm always a bit nervous introducing OCs as I don't like them much myself when I read other fanfics, so I welcome your constructive criticism on her. I hope I did her justice as she is a terribly interesting historical figure. Anyways, let me know! Enjoy!

Billy, for his part, grinned nervously when the door finally opened. Whoever had opened it had only done so a crack, so Billy looked through that. "Evening, Mrs. Fitzgerald. It's Billy Bonney, remember me?"

A small woman peered out at them from the chink in the door. "No," she said sharply and made to shut the door. The Kid deftly caught it before it closed all the way, but made no attempt to open it further.

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, we met about fifty years ago at this point. I helped you repair the house. I remember you liked the green room in the back, in particular." He waited.

The door creaked open a little bit more and Machiavelli saw the other immortal in clear contrast for the first time. She was petite with a fine bone structure, her hair bobbed. Zelda Fitzgerald squinted at them suspiciously. "How do you know about my green room?" she asked, her voice raspy from apparent lack of use.

"I helped make it for you," Billy repeated patiently. "I know I'm kind of a sight right now, being as wet as I am, but I think you might remember me if I could get dry." He gestured to the storm behind them. "Zelda, we were hoping to spend the night here. We'd be gone by morning," he enticed. "Please?"

"Who's he?"

Billy looked behind him at Machiavelli. "This is my best friend, Niccolò Machiavelli. He's a great guy and probably a better guest than me."

"I thought your friend was a big Indian," Zelda pulled the door open and wandered down the hall, which was apparently their invitation to follow her in. Billy grabbed the bag and stepped over the threshold. Machiavelli wanted to be a little more cautious, but was prompted to follow by a sudden gust of wind. He pulled the door shut behind him.

"You do remember me," Billy said happily. "Listen, ma'am, let me and my friend settle in and I'll come down and make you a cup of tea. We're just going to stay together in the sailboat room." She made no sign that she heard him, but Billy grabbed Machiavelli by the shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs. "Our room's on the third floor."

Machiavelli kept a strong grip on the banister as they made their way up. Despite the fact that Billy had said he'd done work on the house, it looked like it had fallen in some disrepair. He knew that Billy could see that too, by the way Billy's head swiveled as they reached each landing. It wasn't until they were safely ensconced in the room that Billy had mentioned that either of them spoke. "She's certainly different," Machiavelli said mildly. He hesitated. "Is she mad?"

"Little bit crazy, yeah," Billy agreed softly. He sneezed. "She goes back and forth like that a lot. Sometimes she recognizes you, sometimes not. But there are some moments when she's completely clear." He opened the bag. "I just grabbed the one bag, cause I didn't want to be stuck out in the rain for too long. It's all your stuff, so if you don't mind, I'm going to borrow some clothes." He sneezed again. "Unless you want me to die of hypothermia."

"Go ahead," Machiavelli told him, already beginning to strip out of his wet clothes. He brushed at his chest, trying to get dry. Beside him, Billy snagged one of the shirts that needed to be washed and used it as a makeshift towel, so he decided to follow the American's lead. In a rare display of modesty, Billy drifted off behind a big folding screen to change.

Dressed again, Billy held out a hand to Machiavelli. "Well, ready for an evening you probably won't forget for a while?" he asked.

Machiavelli grinned. "Bring it on."

"Well, I think it goes without saying that there's no TV in this house," Billy mumbled as they left their room. "But I'm sure Zelda will find new and interesting ways to entertain us."

Machiavelli nodded. As they reached the ground floor of the house, he drew close enough to Billy that when the Kid stopped short, he crashed into him. Billy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to prevent him from falling. "Sorry," Machiavelli gasped, massaging his neck. "Hello, Mrs. Fitzgerald," he said, injecting a polite tone to his voice as he saw the female immortal.

"Can we come in?" Billy asked, poking his head into the room.

Zelda whirled around the room, a flurry of energy in contrast to her earlier reticence. While she didn't exactly invite them in, she began to speak with Billy, so they took it as an acceptance and came through the threshold. Machiavelli was trying to listen to what the other two immortals were talking about, but got momentarily distracted by the paintings in the room. This was apparently a studio of sorts for the author's wife and was in remarkably good condition, considering how the rest of the room looked. He peered into the pictures, transfixed.

Mrs. Fitzgerald clearly enjoyed drawing dancers; most of her paintings contained at least one, but they were grotesque in their own nature, with some bloated, others skeletal thin. And the faces- some laughing, some crying; facets of emotions caught in fractures. In a way, the pictures had their own, very strange charm. As he moved around the room, he dimly remembered that she hadn't been received well when she first began putting her paintings out there. At the time, he'd paid very little attention to it, feeling that he'd had more important matters to attend to. Now, he couldn't help wondering how many other immortals were out there, veiled by reputations of lunacy.

It was only after he'd made a full circuit of the room that he realized he was alone in the room. Panic blossomed in his chest. Where had Billy gone? He strode out into the hallway and listened hard, but the thick walls of the Victorian house shielded any sound that might have escaped. It didn't help matters that while the hallway was unlit, all the other rooms streamed bright light.

He edged down the hallway and glanced into the first room, on the right. This house is deceptively large, he thought, taking in the small ballroom. From the outside, he would never have imagined all these rooms, but here they were. Billy wasn't in this room, but he took a moment to look around anyways. Long velvet curtains reached from floor to ceiling, blocking out the outside world. The room was mostly free of furniture with an S couch at one end, veiled in white sheets. Around the walls were several small tables on spindly legs, sporting dusty statuettes and porcelain figurines. The walls had minimal decorations on them, with a large painting on the opposite wall and scroll carved woodwork at the floor and ceiling. Overall, it spoke to a former opulence, but seemed saddened by the curtains and coverings. Machiavelli didn't stay here long.

The room at the end of the hall must have been the green room that Billy had referred to. At the time, Niccolò had thought Billy was referring to the paint color on the wall, but now he realized the outlaw had meant something entirely different- plants. There was a solitary chair in the middle of the tiny room, facing a wall of windows; besides the chair, there was merely a precarious pathway amidst many, many plants. This room was an antithesis to the room he had just exited, crowded with plants and planters, each overflowing with green stalks. Ivy clung to the walls and he wondered if Billy had known it was going to look like this when he helped the female build the room.

That left the door on the left of the hall. Niccolò retraced his steps and entered this last room, sighing in relief when it was just a dining room. At the other end of the room was another doorway, and through this, he could see Billy sitting with the other American immortal. Not so much as glancing around, he picked his way through and stopped by Billy's side.

"Hey, you found us," Billy noticed happily. He pulled out a chair next to him. "Sit down, I'll get you a cup of tea." He got up.

Machiavelli folded himself into the chair. An uncomfortable silence sprung up as soon as Billy left. He wasn't quite sure to say to the petite immortal in front of him and to judge from her expression, she was uncomfortable too. "Thank you for letting us stay here," he said. Zelda jerked her head. "I don't really like driving in the lightning, myself," he continued. "Makes me a little nervous."

"I never minded it." Her voice was a lot softer than he had imagined it would be. "Scott and I used to be wild. We'd drive around on top of cars." She frowned. "Can't be nervous if you're fearless. I was fearless once. Not anymore."

Machiavelli couldn't really think of what to say to that, but luckily was spared a response by Billy, who placed a mug in front of him. "See, Mac, I've never done that at least," he said joyously.

"That's true," Machiavelli agreed dubiously. He poked him on the side of the head. "I don't want you to get any ideas."

Billy laughed. "I won't." He looked over at Zelda. "Are you going to show Machiavelli the rest of your house? Zelda?" She was staring dreamily at the ceiling fan above them and was either ignoring them or didn't hear them at all. A second call from Billy, accompanied by a tap on the shoulder, brought her back out of her reverie. Billy repeated the question.

"Sure," she said, rising out of her seat. Machiavelli had read the Great Gatsby before and wondered now how much she had influenced her husband's writing, her movements reminding him of that line in the book 'two women buoyed up as though on an anchored balloon.'

They followed her, Zelda floating from room to room. When they got to the ballroom, she stood in the very middle of the room and spun around, her arms stretched out as though trying to reach the walls. For a moment a rare smile broke through on her melancholy face. It all struck him as being very sad and he knew now why Billy had been reluctant to stop here, even for one night. Still, looking over at the outlaw, he could see the other man smiling.

Billy followed her to the middle of the room and held out a hand to her. She dipped in an elegant curtsy and took his hand. Niccolò sank onto the couch, watching them waltz around the perimeter of the room. He cocked his head, trying to make out what he was saying to her, but couldn't quite hear.

He stood as their dance ended and hovered on the edge of the room, unsure if he should go over. Billy glanced over Zelda's shoulder and smiled at him. He waved him over. "Mac's a good dancer, too," he told the female immortal. "Right, Mac?" Machiavelli blushed and shook his head. "Ah, he's shy. Well, we've seen your painting room and the green room in the back, how about the second floor?"

Zelda tilted her head, her eyes momentarily cloudy, then gave a short nod. She grabbed Niccolò's hand, surprising him, and dragged him towards a set of doors on the other side of the room that he hadn't noticed before. "You'll like this," she said decisively, and ducked out the door. They were suddenly in the front entranceway again and it seemed even darker in contrast to the bright lights of the ballroom.

Zelda was already ascending the stairs. Reaching the top, she spun around, Machiavelli really thought she was going to fall this time, and put her hands on her hips. "Coming?" she sounded lofty and imperious.

Billy touched the Italian on the small of his back as he passed. "It's alright," the other man said softly. "You will like this."

He climbed the steps, reaching the first landing. Directly across from the stairs was a door that had previously been closed that was now flung open. To his left were two doors, bedrooms, he supposed, and in between them a mirror that was dirty and cracked in half. But he was getting distracted again. Billy and Zelda were already in there. Machiavelli was, again, the last person to enter the room.

Zelda had been right, curiously. He did like this room, even better than the ballroom below. He had found himself inside of a small library, lined with bookshelves. Nicholas would be in heaven, he thought, glancing around for Billy and finding him sitting at a window seat. He dove down one of the narrow aisles between the shelves, looking at all the books. There was no apparent order to how the books were organized. He found ancient Greek texts, similar to those he had kept in his secret offices, next to Harlequin romance novels with the covers torn off. In particular, there seemed to be a lot of art books, some of them littering the ground as though Zelda had picked them up to read, then dropped them as she grew bored.

Edging down the second aisle, he began to find other items that seemed to have gotten mixed up amidst the novels. He found an old teddy bear, scattered wine glasses, what appeared to be the wheel of a bike next to a tome about the war of 1812, and inexplicably, a pair of men's underwear that he was careful not to touch. There was a window at the end of the third aisle and, glancing out, he was surprised to see that it was still raining. He had forgotten about the storm really, the thick walls muffling any outside noise.

He was halfway down the third aisle, a vague intention of getting back to Billy in his head, when the lights flickered off. Almost immediately, there was a rather blood curdling scream. Conjuring up his auric candle of light, he hurtled toward the noise. Bursting out of the aisle, he saw that Billy had made his red ball of light and was attempting to comfort Zelda, who was wringing her hands and practically wailing in despair.

He dropped to her side. "It's alright, Mrs. Fitzgerald," he said quietly, taking her hand. "You're not in any danger," he said, trying to comfort her. He cast his mind around, thinking of his daughter Bartolomea and her fear of the storms. What did he use to tell her? It seemed so long ago now, he couldn't remember. "The thunder won't hit us in the house, you've got a nice place to keep you safe."

"Let me out. Let go of me," she screamed and he dropped her hand, but she continued to shout. "Undo the belts. I'll be good this time, I won't do it again. Scott!" He wasn't sure what was happening, but Billy got in her face.

"Billy, what are you going to-?" His voice died in his throat as Billy slapped her rather forcefully, but it seemed to get her attention. "Zelda, listen to me," Billy said gently, taking the hand that Machiavelli had let go. "You're not in that place anymore, I got you out of there. You're safe in your house, just like Mac said." Zelda didn't say anything, but she watched him carefully. "Would you like to look around your house, to be sure?" he asked her. She nodded. And so, Machiavelli found himself touring the house for the second time, except that in a bizarre twist of fate, it was Billy showing Zelda the place where she lived instead of the opposite.

They ended the strangest tour Machiavelli had ever been on by putting Zelda in her bedroom for the night. Machiavelli looked carefully out the window while the Kid tried to maneuver the woman into a nightgown. When he was at last certain that she was covered, he turned around again and watched Billy tuck her into bed. He winced badly when she looked up at Billy and asked timidly, "Who are you?" She accepted his answer blindly, seeming to understand that he was her friend as he said. The outlaw patted her hand kindly before letting the curtains to the bed draw shut.

Turning around, Billy put his finger to his lips and motioned the Italian to follow him. Machiavelli crept along as quietly as he could. Machiavelli thought they were going to go to bed, but was greatly relieved when he was led to the kitchen instead. Billy got a box of pasta out of the cupboard, frowned at the expiration date, and put a pot of water on the stove. Niccolò sat at the table watching him try to pull together a meal from the little food Zelda seemed to keep in the house. "You got her out of the asylum, Billy?" he asked at last.

Billy nodded, looking slightly troubled. "I told you that I can see people's auras pretty good. I mean, yours is just a ring of white around you, but Zelda's is bright yellow. I was passing through a town one time, about fifty years ago. They had the asylum patients out taking a walk. Most of them looked completely lost. But there was Zelda, shining in the middle of the group. I knew what she was right away."

"She's one of us," Machiavelli nodded.

"Right, so I knew I couldn't leave her there. I had to get her out." Billy put two plates of food down in front of them and sat beside Machiavelli. Over dinner, he described the place she'd been in and how he'd tricked them into letting him take her. At the end of the meal, the American immortal leaned back and sighed. "I don't visit her very often though. I couldn't stay for very long. Just the couple of hours we've been here has been tiring, hasn't it?" Machiavelli nodded, glancing at his watch. He felt like he'd been there for a day or two, instead of just four hours. Billy cleared his throat. "Want to play a game of checkers in the library? She keeps a board in the fifth aisle." He smiled wanly, so Niccolò agreed.

~MB~

"Here's the bedroom," Billy said, leading him up the stairs to the top floor.

"Bedroom? There's only one?" Machiavelli asked tiredly. He ducked into the room at the top of the stairs and looked around. He had to admit, it was pretty big, so it wasn't like they were going to be right on top of each other. But still, there was only one bed and the Italian immortal wasn't sure this was the best thing to quell his raging hormones.

"Think you can handle it?" the outlaw joked.

He chose not to answer that. "This has certainly been an interesting evening," Machiavelli whispered, climbing into bed with Billy. The Kid still hadn't explained to him why he'd insisted on putting them both in the same bedroom when there was obviously many options available, but stuck in this rather creepy, squeaky old house, he wasn't going to question it. Billy was already lying down on the canopy bed, but Machiavelli had been looking around the room, prowling in the corners where various knickknacks were hidden. At last, he climbed under the covers. "Today wasn't boring, I'll give you that. She doesn't talk very much though."

"Why are you whispering, Mac?" Billy asked sleepily. "Zelda's one floor down." He yawned and flipped onto his side, throwing an arm around the Italian immortal's shoulder.

Machiavelli lay very still for a moment, getting used to the casual contact with Billy. "Sorry. Uh, I guess I just found her a little more off putting than I thought I would." He raised his head a little. "You must too, you locked the door to our bedroom."

"Yeah, well, I have had my weird moments in this house," Billy breathed in his ear. Already, it would seem that the Kid was fading. "One time, I woke up in bed with her."

"What?"

Machiavelli's shout jolted Billy awake and the American sat up, looking, in the darkness, very off put. Machiavelli made several apologetic noises, coaxing Billy back down. It took a moment, but the American finally laid down, folding both of his hands over his stomach. He still seemed a little bit out of it with his explanation. "I didn't sleep with her, Mac. She just climbed in bed with me one night. I think she got confused."

"Ah."

Billy laughed a little. "Except for the memory lapses, paranoia, and you know, general schizophrenia, Zelda kind of reminds me of my mother. I try to visit every once in a while, so she won't be lonely, but it is kind of hard." He breathed in. "You saw all the damage on the second floor. That's new from the last time I was here. Back then, I repaired the house from the previous damage she'd done."

"Was it the process of making her immortal that broke her?" Machiavelli wondered, turning his body so he was angled towards the American.

Billy looked over at him. He squinted in the semi-darkness. "I think so. It's hard to say, cause she doesn't willingly talk about it. But I think she became immortal and she thought her husband would follow her, but the process, it well, ruined her," he said quietly. "So, she tried telling her husband what'd she done, but everybody thought it was just the rambling of a lunatic. After her husband died, she just kind of faded from view."

"That's sad."

"Try not to think of it." Billy tugged the blankets higher. "Are you going to be able to sleep tonight? With the lightning and the storm?"

"Yeah. I'm not afraid of lightning, it's just that out on the road, we seemed to be in unnecessary danger. But here I'm fine. As long as the house holds up, at least."

"I like lightning storms," Billy said. "Always have. Hey Mac, we're going to leave pretty early in the morning tomorrow. You should get some sleep."

"Okay."

"No more nightly activities, at least not tonight," Billy laughed. "I need you in top form tomorrow in case you have to take the wheel."

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"No."