AN: Two more chapters after this. Let me know how I'm doing!

They finally got into Philadelphia around eleven o'clock at night. By the time Billy pulled up to their new home, Machiavelli was asleep, curled up in the passenger seat. Some of the brighter lights of the city woke him briefly, but not enough to really rouse him from his slumbers. The outlaw parked in front of the dark building. He had to shake the other immortal awake, unable to carry Machiavelli up the stairs to the door. Machiavelli groaned and stumbled out of the car, stretching on the sidewalk. He looked up, trying to make out the building's façade. "Are we here?" he yawned.

Billy dug a flashlight out of the emergency box in the trunk. "Yep," he acknowledged, tossing Machiavelli a bag. He grabbed his bag of clothes too, and shut the trunk. "I'll get the other stuff tomorrow," he told the Italian, pulling the other immortal up the steps. The front door was hidden in a small alcove, making it impossible for them to see the doorknob in the darkness. Billy flicked on his flashlight and held it clenched between his teeth as he searched his key ring again. "You'll like this place. We're just off of Rittenhouse square."

Opening the door at last, he ushered Machiavelli over the threshold and shut the door behind them. He felt around for the light switch and they both blinked in the sudden wave of light. "Come on, honey, let's get you to sleep," Billy cajoled. He started up the stairs. "The bedroom's up on the third floor. Unfortunately, you'll be getting a lot of exercise on these stairs.

"Just one bedroom here too, huh?"

"Yeah, well it was just me in this house. By the time I got this place, I had realized that I was never going to have a child. So there was no use in trying to pretend anymore, I figured," Billy explained.

"That's kind of sad," Machiavelli commented. He grabbed Billy's hand, half as an expression of comfort and half to slow the outlaw down. He was lagging behind, sleepiness and the bag of clothes he was carrying, weighing him down.

Billy smiled at him. "Oh, it's just life. Give me the bag, I'll carry them all." He slipped an arm around Machiavelli's waist, helping to propel him up the last flight of stairs in silence. The Italian immortal didn't like experiencing Billy like this. The American immortal was supposed to be full of life, not sad. He started to say something, but Billy cut him off suddenly. "Come here!" He pulled the teenager over to the closet in the bedroom. "Look at this."

"What?" Machiavelli asked, beginning to grin. There was the life loving Billy that he knew and adored.

"You thought my ties were bad at the cabin, didn't you?" Billy said, pointing at him accusingly. The outlaw actually waited for the other immortal's nod. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes that made him handsome. His actions were grandiose and exaggerated. "Well, then you're going to hate these ties. I lived here during the 70's."

"Oh, no," Machiavelli groaned.

"Oh, yes," Billy answered him back. He beamed. "Going in!" he shouted. Momentarily, he disappeared into his closet. He came out a second later, clutching an incredibly wide tie with the faces of the Beatles floating over it. "Well? What do you think?"

Machiavelli closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was disappointed to find that the tie was still there when he opened them. Massaging his chest right about where his heart was, he sighed. "Billy, promise me you'll never wear that."

"I don't know, I still think it's kind of cool," Billy said wistfully, looking at the tie again. "Kidding, kidding," he added hastily, the look on his companion's face rather murderous. But he hung it up again with a certain reverence that the gray eyed immortal didn't like. "Hey, I've got the suit that goes with it."

"Please, please," Machiavelli cut him off. "I've seen too much already."

"Oh, but Mac, it's corduroy." He sneezed. "Wow, everything's dusty." He picked at the bedspread and sneezed again. Shaking his head, he grabbed Machiavelli by the shoulders and shook him good-naturedly. "We're not going to be able to sleep in this. I'll run to the store. Get some more sheets, another blanket."

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed blindly, swaying on his feet. "Want me to come with you?"

"Nah," Billy disagreed. "Do me a solid, strip the bed while I'm gone. You can just toss the old blankets in the corner."

"Thought you covered all your furniture in sheets for this reason," Machiavelli slurred, pulling at the blanket.

"Apparently, I forgot," Billy said cheerfully. "Be back soon!"

Machiavelli balled up the sheets. He tossed them in the indicated corner and sat on the bed heavily. He felt like his body was weighted down. Reaching down, he pulled off his shoes, then his socks, and lined them up at the bottom of the bed. He looked around the bedroom. This one was more bare bones than the cabin in Montana and he had to wonder if this was because of what Billy had said about living in the city and how he didn't like the enclosed spaces.

He was happy when he heard the other immortal come through the door again. Going out to the landing, he watched the immortal come up the stairs. "Need some help?" he called down.

Billy shook his head. "I left the other supplies downstairs. I'm just bringing up the bedspread and the sheets." He came up the last steps, exhaling sharply. "Maybe I'm out of shape, but going up and down these stairs is giving me quite the workout."

"That's how I felt in Paris," Machiavelli told him, snagging the smaller bag. "I think at a certain point, a lot of stairs is just a lot of stairs."

They had some trouble getting the bed made, neither of them being exceptionally good at such a domestic task. Twice, they tried putting the sheets on the wrong way. Finally, Billy found a tag that told them what end it was and they managed to get the rest of the set on with only a slight struggle. "We should clean this place up," Machiavelli suggested, pulling the comforter over more on the side he was standing on. "It's really dusty. That's why you keep sneezing."

"Yeah, well, that's something for tomorrow. Right now, I'm tired and you're tired. We should turn in. You're falling asleep on your feet. Tomorrow, we can figure out everything- the bed situation and the cleaning situation and everything," Billy rambled, tossing their bags in the corner. "But for tonight, we'll just share this one." He paused from where he was bent over the suitcase and looked up. "Unless you're uncomfortable with that. I could just stay up tonight."

"No, it'll be fine," Machiavelli said smoothly. The thought of sharing a bed sent small shivers of electricity down his back that he did his best to ignore. "Ah- do you have a side preference?"

Billy tilted his head with thought. "I want to be on your right side," he decided finally. He went back to his suitcase, extracting a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay," Machiavelli said, pulling the last of his clean clothes out of his bag, looking for something he could sleep in. He had a pair of dress pants left and a vest. He shook his head and decided that he'd have to sleep in his boxers tonight. Getting a hanger out of the closet, he hung his dress clothes up, shedding layers as he moved around. The rest of his dirty clothes he tossed in the pile with the old sheets.

Hearing the shower shut off, he dove under the covers. "That was really short," he commented to Billy.

Billy had a towel wrapped around his waist that he was keeping up firmly with one hand. He dug through their shower bag and grabbed his conditioner which he shook at the Italian. "Forgot this," he explained, ducking back into the bathroom. Machiavelli tried not to stare too much at the other man's retreating form, wondering if this was just a phase he was going through, brought on by the massive influx of hormones. He still hadn't decided when he heard the shower turn off for the second time.

By the time Billy came out of the bathroom, Machiavelli lay without moving very much, trying not to draw attention to himself. Under the covers, he reached his hand down and pushed firmly down on himself to prevent any indication of what was happening to his body. Once again, he wished that he had control of his body. He had simply forgotten how hormonal his body had been the first time around, or perhaps he had not had an object of attraction so close to him at the time. He decided it must have been the latter. There was a girl that he had been incredibly fond of, growing up, but he certainly hadn't had to sleep with her casually.

Either way, Billy puttered around the room, seemingly unaware of any of Machiavelli's inner turmoil. What he was doing, the Italian immortal couldn't quite make out because that would require him to sit up and he couldn't do that and conceal his bodily reaction at the same time. Furthermore, he had the sneaking suspicion that his body couldn't handle seeing anymore of the American than he already had seen.

Finally, endlessly, Billy was ready, it would appear. Machiavelli could smell the mint of his toothpaste when the American sighed. Billy stretched out his whole body- Machiavelli could feel the cowboy's leg brush against his- and turned off his light. They stayed in silence for a couple of minutes afterwards. Breathing carefully, Machiavelli let his erection subside.

"Did you have a good day today?" Billy asked. His hand groped for the Italian's under the covers and upon finding it, gave it a quick squeeze.

It took the Italian immortal a moment to answer, as he had felt his entire stomach dissolve at the touch of the American. "Yeah," he said, a little breathlessly. He smiled in the darkness and began to relax a little.

"Good," Billy grunted sleepily. He rolled back over onto his back, but kept his head turned so it was facing Machiavelli, despite the fact that his eyes were closed. His breathing evened out; the warlock could feel a slight warmth every time the man exhaled though. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" Billy asked, his words coming out like a slow tide, steady, but sluggish.

Machiavelli considered the question. "We should explore the city more. I'd like to go into the older sections."

"Okay."

It was very quiet on Billy's side of the bed now. Machiavelli listened to the gentle whoosh of air coming in and out of Billy's mouth. It would appear that the American had finally fallen asleep.

The Italian however, couldn't quite fall asleep yet. He lay in the darkness, savoring this moment of tranquility. Now, more than ever, he felt the slipping of time passing over him, dragging him forward to a life of loneliness. He resisted this forward movement, trying to stay paused in the present, held in this moment indefinitely. Tomorrow he was going to turn eighteen and with that, it would become harder every week to justify his staying with the American. Despite Billy's best reassurances, he knew that it would look increasingly odd for him to stay with the outlaw, once he was clearly and legally able to take care of himself again.

Billy mumbled incoherently, startling him from his thoughts. He turned over on his side so that the two immortals were facing each other again. Some dusty moonlight filtered in from the windows. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Machiavelli could make out the features of his bed companion more and more.

He wouldn't tell the American immortal about this, knowing Billy's sensitivity to the topic, but Billy actually looked far younger when he slept. Gazing at him now, the Italian had to wonder after about that young boy who had lived long ago, who had ridden horseback in the night and had gotten shot at in gunfights. How would Billy have turned out if his mother hadn't died so early on in his life? Would Billy have still become the person he loved so much? He lay awake thinking of the various consequences of time.

Had Billy's mother lived, the American surely wouldn't have become the outlaw he had. Machiavelli smiled, recalling Billy's stories of his loving but stern Irish mother. She would have held Billy in line, he decided. And, had he not become an outlaw, surely Billy wouldn't have been placed in the situation where he had earned his immortality.

It was enough to make his head spin. He couldn't help but feel that Billy's mother had been sacrificed for his own happiness. and with a guilty lurch of his stomach, he realized that both he and Billy should have been thinking about their loved ones and where to find them. If he continued to follow his train of thought- and he almost didn't want to- Billy wouldn't have become immortal without the death of his mother and they would have never met. And that thought filled the tactician with so much dread that he sat up.

"Billy," he called faintly. And waited, but Billy didn't wake up, just kept slumbering. "Are you asleep?" he said, only a bit louder, hoping and not hoping that he would accidentally wake the other man up. Still the American didn't reply and he decided that he was tired enough that he would fall asleep soon anyways.

Satisfied that his companion was soundly asleep, Machiavelli felt no qualm about giving him a kiss. He gently stroked Billy's face. "Buonanotte, amore mio. Ti amo. You subject me to a thousand and one thoughts."