They left in the early morning. Machiavelli asked if they were going to wait for Zelda to get up, but Billy shook his head. "It's better this way," he said mildly and Niccolò didn't question it, remembering the fear and pain in her eyes. The night with Zelda had been interesting, but also curiously painful, a reminder of what could have happened to any of them.

"Now we really have to do laundry," Machiavelli said instead, helping Billy lug their bag to the car. He looked around. "Today's a much nicer day." It was true. All the clouds of yesterday's storm had been wiped away, the sky a light blue. What clouds remained were wispy, like cotton candy pulled apart. "What day is it today? I'm losing track."

"Friday," Billy closed the trunk. "Do you want to drive?" He held out his hand, the keys on his palm.

Machiavelli considered carefully. "Just for a very little while." The Kid cheered. "Are we going into any high traffic areas?" he asked.

"Are you kidding?" Billy chuckled, buckling in at the passenger seat. "We're in Indiana. There's no traffic anywhere."

"Well, somehow I doubt that, but I'll take your word for it. But if we do hit any traffic, you promise you're going to take over?"

"Naturally," Billy agreed. He stretched out in the passenger seat, wincing a little when Machiavelli ground the gears. "You have to brake before shifting gears, honey." He put a hand over the Italian's, stroking the back of it with his thumb. "No need to rush. I'll walk you through it again."

With Billy's guidance, they were soon back on the open road, though it was admittedly a very hesitant Machiavelli that was guiding the car forward. He sighed in relief when he saw that there was nobody else on the highway yet, meaning that he merged onto the speedway with little trouble. "Feel free to go faster," Billy instructed cheerfully, glancing at the speedometer. Only the numbers up to 40 were lit up. "This is a 65 mph area."

"The conversion from miles to kilometers always messes me up," Niccolò mumbled. He pressed down on what he thought was the gas but accidentally it the brakes instead and they lurched forward in their seats. "Sorry," he gasped, massaging his neck.

Billy coughed before talking. "It's okay. Just remember me shouting gas is on the right. I'm sure that as we drive across the country, you're going to hear me say that a lot."

Machiavelli eased on the gas, bringing it past where they were before to about 60 mph. He gripped the wheel tightly, having to continually readjust the wheel to keep between the lines on the road. "Billy, are you sure you want me behind the wheel?"

"You're doing alright, Mac," Billy said reasonably. He reached for the wheel, holding it steady. "Get in the habit of just holding it, you don't usually have to make adjustments unless you're turning."

After an hour of nail biting driving in which they passed several cornfields and even more scarecrows, Machiavelli insisted Billy take over at driving. The Kid agreed rather readily, perhaps not finding his place in the passenger seat as restful as he'd initially thought. "At least there was nobody else on the road," he said as cheerfully as he could, pulling back onto the road after they had switched. "Did I wake you last night?"

"No," Machiavelli negated. He looked over at Billy. "Why, what did you do?"

"I just kept waking up," the outlaw complained. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, but managed to keep the car going perfectly straight, Machiavelli noted with some jealousy. Billy continued on, unaware of the Italian's envy. "I kept thinking that there was something I had to do, like physically had to do, and I kept trying to do it, but I knew in my mind that I didn't have to do anything. It was weird. And annoying. You ever get that, Mac?"

"Occasionally," Machiavelli agreed cautiously. He wasn't sure quite what Billy was describing, but figured that he'd had plenty of problems sleeping over the years.

Billy stayed quiet for a minute, a record for him. "You talk in your sleep some, Mac."

Machiavelli's spine itched. "Did I say anything last night?" he asked, internally cringing as he imagined the various embarrassing things he might reveal when he wasn't conscious enough to stop himself. If I had said something about Billy he'd have acted strange this morning, he reasoned with himself. Too late, he realized that Billy had been talking again, but he hadn't been listening. "What?"

Billy laughed. "I said, you asked me to make you vegetable soup last night. I didn't even know you liked that so much, but we had quite the conversation." Now Machiavelli was really confused. The Kid picked up on his facial expression. "Yeah, that was my reaction, but you were explicit. You told me about the soup you wanted and which vegetables to put in it."

"Billy are you making this up?"

"I kind of wish I was," Billy said thoughtfully. "I was already kind of confused last night, what with my task that I was supposed to be doing and then you started telling me to make soup. Maybe that's what I thought I should be doing," he said suddenly as the thought occurred to him. He waggled his eyebrows at Machiavelli. "Huh?" He looked very pleased when he got a laugh out of the Italian immortal.

"We should sleep together more often," Machiavelli said sleepily. He realized too late how that must sound. "I mean, we'd have something to talk about during the day if we keep talking about more interesting things at night. Not that we should sleep together, sleep together. You know what I meant."

"No, Mr. Machiavelli, I thought you were trying to proposition me for sure." Billy's eyes were crinkled with merriment. "I thought you were suggesting we celebrate your eighteenth birthday in a completely different adult way." Next to him, Machiavelli had just taken a sip from his water bottle. At Billy's words, he accidentally spat the water out the window and, wiping at his now soaked shirt, frantically shook his head. The Kid seemed to be taking some pleasure from the tactician's discomfort. "So you're saying I stocked the house with condoms for nothing?"

Machiavelli made a squeaking noise that sounded very non-masculine. He took a deep breath of air and forced himself to calm down. "Perhaps we could have a water balloon fight," he suggested, but there was still an aura of pink to his face that he knew he wasn't going to be able to conceal.

"I'm sorry, Mac, I'll stop teasing you," Billy promised. The corners of his mouth twitched and Machiavelli saw him bite down on his lower lip with his oversized front teeth.

"Good," Machiavelli said, glancing out the window. Next to him, he could feel Billy positively thrumming with controlled glee.

"Perhaps we could use the lube for a slip and slide," Billy suggested, speaking rapidly as though that would make it better. "Sorry, slip of the tongue." He laughed again when Machiavelli punched him in the shoulder. "Okay, this time for real- I won't say anymore."

"I really doubt that."

"Mac-a-whack, I love you so much," Billy professed. He edged the car up to 80 mph so that they were nearly flying down the highway. "Don't you love your old friend Billy?"

"No."

~MB~

They ate lunch at a tiny roadside restaurant that didn't even have indoor seating. Billy insisted they eat outside of the car, so they ended up propped next to each other under an oak tree on the side of the parking lot. Machiavelli didn't want to get his dress pants dirty, so Billy very gallantly let him sit on the outlaw's jacket. The Kid himself was content to sprawl in the leaves pooling on the ground below the tree.

After lunch, Billy filled up the tank at a self-serve gas station across the way. It wasn't until they had been on the road for another thirty minutes that Machiavelli spoke up. "Billy, when do you think we're going to reach some form of civilization next?"

"Ah, not for a while," Billy posited. "Why, are you bored?"

"No, I have to use the restroom," Machiavelli said, crossing his legs.

"Why didn't you go at the gas station?"

Machiavelli sucked in air, making a hissing sound. "It was dirty. I couldn't go in there. I don't know when my next shower is."

"Oh, well, we're pretty far away from any public bathrooms right now, Mac. I'll pull over. You can use the field." Billy put his blinker on, but Machiavelli stopped him, looking scandalized.

"Use the field? We're not barbarians, Billy." Machiavelli looked rather like Billy had suggested he urinate on a picture of his mother. The Kid's suggestion to use a bottle met with an if possible, even more negative response. "I can hold it," Machiavelli decided at last. He shifted unhappily in his seat. "We've got to go through a town at some point."

"Well, if you're sure," Billy said, sounding a little hesitant. He pulled out onto the road again and pushed down on the gas. "I'll do my best to get you there fast, so long as you promise not to pee all over my car."

"I promise, I promise," Machiavelli said, sounding crabby. They got maybe ten minutes down the road, with a lot of squirming from the Italian before he gave in. "Pull over. I don't care anymore." He dove into the cornfield, making sure he was out of sight of the car before relieving himself.

Billy was waiting, looking out at the field on the other side of the car. Climbing in, Machiavelli noticed that they were absolutely surrounded by cornfields. Billy looked over at him when the door clicked shut. "Feel better?"

"I feel uncultured," Machiavelli said, taking a napkin out of the glove compartment and polishing his shoes. Billy chuffed at that. The Italian allowed a tiny grin, glad that Billy found most of the more anal things he said to be amusing. "I'll never forgive you for making me urinate in a field," the Italian said solemnly. "After all my ancestors toiled for, to be reduced to this maggot of a human being…"

"Ah, you'll get over it," Billy cut in, whistling along with the radio. "We're almost all the way there now. Just a couple more hours."

"A couple more hours," Machiavelli said to himself, sighing slightly. "Billy, are we going to stay long in Philadelphia? Or can I expect another one of these cross country trips in a week or so?"

"I don't know how long we'll stay there," Billy said, thoughtfully. "More than a couple of weeks unless we get found. Maybe a couple of months?" He didn't sound too concerned about it either way. "You'll like Philadelphia. It's a historical city, more culture in it than the cabin, so I imagine you'll be able to amuse yourself. I have a brownstone that I bought long before it was desirable to have one." He laughed.

"What are we going to do once we're holed up in your brownstone?"

Billy's eyes crinkled with thought. "I was hoping you'd teach me some of your tricks now. You're old enough that it won't drain your aura. And we'd be shielded by the other immortals that live in the city."

"Who else lives there?"

"I saw Ben Franklin once, but we don't socialize much," Billy said, grinning. "Though I understand he works as a Benjamin Franklin impersonator when money is low. Then there's Alain Locke, he's a cool guy, and Margaret Mead, she's quiet, but I think she gets together with Locke sometimes, I've seen them around town together. There's not a lot of people my age, so I'm kind of separate from them all…"

"There's not many immortals as young as you," Machiavelli agreed. "That's how I knew you were special when we first met." As soon as he said it, he blushed. "I mean, I thought there must be a good reason that you were made immortal."

"I think I just kind of stumbled into it, like most things," Billy said modestly. "Oh, and the other Billie is there, too, in Philadelphia. Can you guess which one I'm talking about?"

"Bill Roberts?"

Billy scoffed. "The real Billy the Kid? You're putting me on. No." He shook his head, looking affronted. "Billie Holiday. I used to go see her when she'd perform in bars. She was great." He cocked his head. "I take it back, I am friends with Billie sort of. I'll bring you to see her. She was the one who showed me Langston Hughes."

"Well, at least we know you're not prejudiced."

"No, well, I always was fascinated with Hispanic culture and they taught me a lot. Can't be prejudiced when there's too many good people in the world. Some people don't realize that." Billy glanced sideways at Machiavelli. "When you were off doing your thing, I was looking for a radio station. Came across a news station instead. You know that some poor homeless man in Boston was beaten by two men coming back from a ball game? Isn't that awful?"

Machiavelli was aghast. "Is he alright?"

"Don't know. They didn't say." The car was quiet, save for the engine, both men caught in their own thoughts. Machiavelli was divided amongst himself. It was awful to admit to himself, but as bad as he felt for the Boston man, he was still caught up in the elation of finally being old enough to hold a serious conversation with Billy again. He couldn't wait to settle in with the American in their new place, as much as he missed those other immortals.