Chapter Text
They had been on the road for a few days now. The last place, somewhere in south Texas, had been a bust. About a week ago, Machiavelli had approached Billy with a job— a lead on a gruesome murderer from Europe that he had tracked all the way from Paris, a murderer that Machiavelli was almost certain was an immortal or non-human being of some sort. Normally, if the threat decided to flee Europe, he’d leave it be but the thing had killed far too many, far too brutally. Thus, he had sought out his closest ally and friend, William H. Bonney better known as Billy the Kid, the famous American outlaw. The unlikely pair had become close friends after being assigned together by their respective elder masters to wreak havoc on San Francisco and kill the sorceress Perenelle Flamel but after failing at the latter and deciding against the former, they became Waerloga together. Oathbreakers. The decision was permanent and not an easy one to make and it had almost killed the both of them. Machiavelli was prepared to give his life for Billy and it created a sort of unbreakable bond that they had not yet come to fully understand.
For the past several years after the battle, the two exchanged letters, long and plentiful. Billy learned of Machiavelli’s exploits and the Italian learned of his, though being nearly 400 years older Billy had no doubt he’d run out of stories to tell far quicker. They had only managed to visit each other a handful of times due to both of them being extraordinarily busy. Machiavelli was still head of the DGSE, the French secret service. The man ran all of Europe and they didn’t call him a puppet master for nothing— he was good at what he did. Billy on the other hand… Well, he was just trying to secure his next meal. He was no government man like the Italian, or rockstar like the Saint Germaine he had heard all about, or even an alchemist who could just conjure his own coin and food like Nicholas Flamel. (Though, he had been meaning to see if he could convince the old man to teach him a thing or two.)
Billy had self-proclaimed the title of Professional Adventurer and Mercenary, something similar to what he did just before he was made immortal. Without Quetzalcoatl, he had no fallback and he had to provide for himself entirely instead of just waiting for his next orders. It was freeing, being the master of himself again, choosing what he wanted to do and what he didn’t even if he struggled to pay rent now.
So now, here they were, in the American South, chasing the threads of a murder’s trail. The last clue, a pack of naga, ended up having nothing to do with their target which had them packing it up and high-tailing it to Louisiana where they had heard whispers of a possible kidnapping. The long drives had become more frequent but Billy could tell Machiavelli was getting sick of it. After the last few decades of being able to take private jets and first class seats everywhere, sitting passenger in the Thunderbird for hours on end probably wasn’t pleasant.
Machiavelli also probably wasn’t too fond of Billy’s music tastes and endless chatter but he said nothing.
It had been nearly four hours since they last stopped but they had finally reached the edge of New Orleans. The city was, of course, laden with magical energies and entities, being so close to the Baton Rouge leygate which was one of the only leygates in the states with ten major ley lines meeting at one point. Not to mention, New Orleans was a major historical city, right by the ocean, and known far and wide for its spiritual activity. A perfect place to hide amongst the crowd for now. It was no San Diego but it would do.
It was nearing sundown when they pulled into a truck stop, the sky dipping into a rich cornflower blue, stark against the incandescent white lights beginning to dot the horizon. Travelers and locals of all kinds milled about the gas pumps and amongst the lights of the building. Both Billy and Machiavelli slammed shut the car doors and stretched their stiff limbs, the taller man straightening out his crumpled suit and grumbling in irritation.
Machiavelli sighed. “I’m going inside to get water and to see if they have anything remotely edible. Are you coming?” He fiddled with his shirt cuff under his jacket absently.
“Nah, I gotta fill the ol’ girl up but can you get me a sweet tea, please?” Billy asked, a bit of cheek coloring his voice, knowing the man found the drink repulsive.
The other man rolled his eyes and muttered what sounded like “ disgusting” under his breath but the slight quirk of his lips told Billy he’d do it.
He tried to quash the grin that pulled on his lips, turning around and running a hand through his hair (it was getting a tad too long for his liking) but failed to hold it back. It was no use. He was terribly fond of the Italian man. Every little interaction they had lit him up like a bonfire on a dry summer night. The joking, the grins, the little touches, the companionship… It made all the lives they led worth it. Being able to call Machiavelli his companion— his friend was a privilege unlike any other.
It was these thoughts that had him distracted enough to not notice the woman sauntering over and sidling up next to him, too close for comfort. Billy nearly jumped out of his skin and only just stopped himself from lashing out with his aura. The ever-so-slight scent of cayenne peppers permeated the air. The woman didn’t seem to notice or care if she did. She was dressed scantily in the shortest pair of bedazzled jean shorts he’d ever seen and a near-see-through crop top that only went a couple of inches down under the swell of her breasts. Nails long and makeup heavy, she also wore a pair of pleaser heels that brought her an inch or two above Billy’s height.
She linked her arm with his and smiled an overly glossy smile. “Hey there, mister, you’re lookin’ a little cold out here tonight.” She purred in a bright southern drawl, somewhat similar to his.
Stunned for a moment, his mouth opened and closed like a fish and a blush rose to his cheeks. Billy shook his head. “Uh, I mean, yeah, I guess it’s a little chilly?”
She giggled and pulled in closer, nearly draping herself across Billy’s chest. “You’re real cute. I like your car. What’s your name?”
“Yeah, it’s uhm, a Thunderbird convertible. 1960. My names, uh, William but most people call me Billy,” he stuttered, letting his mouth run away with his nerves.
“Well, Billy , you lookin’ to have a good time? It's mighty lonely out here tonight.” Her eyes darkened several shades and it suddenly occurred to Billy what her intentions were. His mouth dropped open in shock, briefly, before pulling gently out of her grip and backing away.
“I’m quite alright, thank you, ma’am. I’m out with, uh, a friend right now and I’m not looking for—“
“Oh, you can bring your friend if you want, I can bring someone for him too or… he can join us?” She crowded back into his space, backing him against the Thunderbird and running her hands down his chest. The picture of being between Machiavelli and the hooker flashed in his mind, causing him to choke on his spit. If his face wasn’t red before, it certainly was now. The woman laughed, “You like that idea don’t you!”
“N-No, that’s not—!” Billy was about to push her off again when he was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. Machiavelli stood a couple of paces away, one hand holding a bag and a stormy expression coloring his face.
Billy’s face paled. “M-Mac it’s— this isn’t— I wasn’t gonna—“ Machiavelli just raised a single eyebrow, silent. Billy cringed and pulled himself out of her hold once again. “Thank you very kindly, ma’am, but I am not in need of your, er, services tonight.”
She pouted but acquiesced, putting her hands on her hips. “Well, why not?” She asked, more to herself than to anyone else. “Unless, you’re married or the religious type, I guess…”
Machiavelli sighed and rolled his eyes rudely. “He’s nothing of the sort, he just has standards. Now, if you will—“ He pushed past her to get to the passenger side.
The woman’s mouth dropped open in offense. “You—! I am a catch and any man would be lucky to have me, you stuck-up old man.” She looked Machiavelli up and down. “Why is someone like you hanging around someone like him anyway? What’s a cute boy doing with a cranky old businessman? Unless you’re his… Oh .” She looked between them again and her face relaxed into something like startled understanding but Billy had no idea what sort of conclusion she had just come to.
Machiavelli’s gaze grew stormier with a strange red tinge to his cheeks and stood up straight. He towered over the both of them but the mildly embarrassed look on his face diminished his intimidation. “You little—!”
Billy stepped between them and held up his hands in a placating gesture towards his companion, having to look up to meet his eyes at such a close distance. “Alright, alright, no need to get all bent outta shape. Why don’t you get back in the car and I’ll deal with her, yeah? Take a nap or something, I know you’re tired,” he whispered gently.
Machiavelli relaxed but he pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “You know I can’t sleep on the road, William. It is impossible to get comfortable in car seats.”
Billy laughed softly. “Your fault for having long legs. We oughta stop at a hotel then. I’m gettin’ kinda tired too, it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve slept good.”
Face softening, Machiavelli looked closer at the American’s eyes, which were underscored subtly with dark circles. “Why didn’t you say anything? We should have stopped sooner,” he said, a concerned note in his voice.
“Ah, well—“ The woman behind them cleared her throat and Machiavelli frowned. Billy chuckled. “I’ll deal with her.”
The Italian got back in the car with a decisive slam of the door and Billy crossed his arms. “Ma’am, I really am sorry but I’m not interested in—“
“Well, I know that but now I’m curious,” she spoke softly, almost conspiratorially and there was a hint of what he assumed was her perfume on the air. “Is he good?”
Billy blinked. “Is he… good? What does that mean?” He liked to think he spent enough time around people to catch onto new slang but sometimes the pace of pop culture eluded him.
She grinned, her glossy pink lips glittering in bright gas station lights. “Does he, you know… treat you right? In bed? I’ll admit he isn’t too bad-looking if you have a thing for silver foxes.”
The implications she was making shot electricity down his spine, and a flood of heat into his face. Mouth gaping open like a fish, Billy struggled for words. “I-I mean, uh, it’s not, I mean, he’s not really, er, like that, I mean, we’re definitely not, uh, you know—“
“Oh no, sweetheart , is he leavin’ you high and dry?” She looked at him pitifully, and Billy had no idea how to begin to explain their situation. The thought of him and Machiavelli… together… in bed… His throat ran dry. He shook his head but couldn’t speak.
She took a step back. “You don’t gotta say anything, I totally understand. Sometimes they’re just too sweet if you know what I’m sayin’. That is unless you’re just with him for the money, which I also understand—“
“No!” He shouted, suddenly, startling the both of them. “No, that’s… that’s not it, I mean…”
The woman blinked. “You must really like him then. If it’s not the money and he’s not puttin’ out… But you know what, Billy.” She pulled out a small pink card from her bra and put it into his hand. “This is a number to my day job. If you find yourself in want of… relationship advice, just call that number and we can help.” Before stepping away she pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear, shoving her hand into his back pocket and giving him a firm squeeze. “But if you can't manage to work it out, you give me a call directly, okay hun?”
With that, she pulled away and sauntered off, likely to find her next victim. Shakily, he pushed himself off the side of the Thunderbird and made his way around to the driver’s seat of the car.
It suddenly occurred to him that Machiavelli could have heard that entire conversation, had he wanted to, and Billy felt like sinking into the pavement.
He slid behind the wheel and threw the card into the back seat without even a glance at it. “Did you hear any of that?”
Machiavelli sighed, his eyes closed and his head laid back against the headrest. “No, I have a headache. Should I have?”
Billy relaxed. He was in the clear. “Nah, she was just… bizarre.”
“I gathered,” Machiavelli hummed.
They were silent for the rest of the drive to the hotel but the heat in Billy’s veins would not fade for the rest of the night.