Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Billy! Scatty! Where have you been?’ Nicholas greeted them, a giant smile plastered on his face.

‘Eh…’ Scathach smiled awkwardly. ‘I was… Doing something…’

Behind her, Billy was smirking, seemingly trying to button up his shirt.

‘I’ve been doing something as well…’ He gave a sly side-eye to her, watching her face get redder.

‘What a coincidence!’ Nicholas exclaimed. ‘Do you guys want to join the party game now? Perenelle was worrying if you would come on time.’

‘What party game are we talking about?’ Scathach asked, threateningly glancing back at Billy.

‘Not sure…’ Nicholas trailed off. ‘It’s like a game of truth or dare but you can only pick truth and if you refuse to answer you have to take a shot of vodka.’ Nicholas looked back behind himself, stretching his neck. ‘And wait… Welp, it looks like Perry is in a plain old regular drinking competition with Niccolo now. Never mind that.’

‘What got you two so caught up though?’ He asked, turning back on them.

But before Scathach managed to come up with a reasonable excuse, Billy cut her off. ‘She was ebbin on my nezer till I scrooged, you know what I mean?’ He bumped Nicholas with his elbow, gleefully trying to refrain from laughing as he watched Scathach’s face about to blow up. ‘She tingtang on my wallawalla –’

‘DON’T WE HAVE ANY OTHER PARTY GAMES TO PLAY?’ Scathach yelled, perhaps a little too eager to change the topic.

‘I know a fun game –’

‘SHUT –’

‘Eh, um…’ Nicholas mumbled, a little confused by the exchange they had. ‘We can join the drinking competition…?’

‘A GREAT IDEA!’ Scathach said, dragging Billy behind herself, determined to pour a whole bottle of vodka down his throat.

BONUS:

‘Perry, what’s a ‘wallawalla’?’ Asked Nicholas.

Perry furrowed her brows, looking at him as if he’d gone mad. ‘I don’t know… Where’d you get that from?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Young people lingo, I guess.’

Chapter Text

'Wanna go to the cinema with us?' Hawk asked him once they were all lounging around the schoolyard during lunch break. Scathach and Aoife were sitting next to him, tastily munching on their sandwiches and bickering with each other.

'Sure.' Billy responded. 'What are we watching?'

'Eh, some mid-tier action movie or somethin'.' Hawk shrugged. 'But the point isn't to watch the film, no – it's to help Aoife stalk Niten.' He cackled.

'What do we get out of it, then?' Billy deadpanned.

'We get to skip school… Especially Mr. Dee's chemistry class.' Scathach grinned, taking a big bite out of her sandwich.

'Uh… I don't like how that sounds.' Billy interjected.

'C'mon, the old dude isn't even going to know. And it's not like he cares either. He very clearly hates himself and this job.' Hawk giggled.

'I don't know, I got the impression that he really doesn't like me. I wouldn't want more trouble.' Billy said as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He quickly reached for it and pulled it out.

'Trust me, he just lashed out at you that one time because he really needed someone to be his punching bag. If I was late, I'd fall victim to it too.' Hawk rolled his eyes.

'Huh.' Billy whispered. He didn't really listen to what Hawk had to say but instead was looking at the message that Machiavelli sent him.

See you in 15 minutes. Be ready ;)

Fuck, right now? He still had classes to attend…

'Billy!' Scathach called for him, making him snap out of it.

'Uh, yeah?' Billy mumbled, looking up from his phone.

'So, are you going or not?' She asked him. By the tone of her voice, Billy could tell that she wouldn't take any buts. 'If you ask me, Aoife can stalk Niten by herself. We're just cheerleading for her.'

'Ha ha, very funny.' Aoife faked a laugh, silently chewing on her sandwich. 'And Billy, you don't have to go. I understand that you wouldn't want to get on Mr. Dee's bad side.'

'Then…' Billy began, a little unsure. 'When are we going there?'

'In about 12 minutes and 31 seconds.' Aoife interjected. 'If we want to get there perfectly on time.'

'Ha, nerd!' Scathach exclaimed, earning a bump on her shoulder from her twin sister.

Billy turned on his phone again, typing a response.

I still have, like, two classes
Can't we do this later

He stared at the 'Typing…' at the bottom of the screen for a few moments before he received a message back.

Don't worry, I'm sure that the principal will understand if you miss out on school a little because of "work".

Billy gulped. What excuses did he have now?

'Biiiiiiiiii – ly!' Scathach called out for him again.

'What are you being annoying for? Can't you see that he's texting someone?' Aoife snapped at her.

'Well, he still didn't respond to your question!' Scathach defended herself.

Billy took a deep breath in, trying to calm his fingers. Would it be a good idea if he told him the truth?

I was also planning to go to the cinema with my friends after
I told them I'd go

His palms were sweating as he waited for Machiavelli's response.

You can do that some other time.

Billy felt disappointed. He was stupid for believing that he could somehow convince Machiavelli to do something that isn't ideal for him.

'Sorry, guys.' Billy said with a defeated look in his eyes. 'I really don't wanna poke the hornet's nest here. I'd rather not anger Mr. Dee with my absence.'

Hawk let out a long, exhausted pfft.

'Since when do you care about school that much?' Scathach rolled her eyes with a devilish smile on her face. 'You're kinda suspicious here…'

'Yeah, bet.' Billy responded, putting his phone back into his pocket. 'Not wanting to get kicked out of the school for skipping class is so not me. Totally.'

'Whatever rows your boat. I and Hawk are gonna have fun without you.' Scathach responded, wrapping her hand around Hawk's shoulder. 'Ain't that right, pal?'

'Ey, don't be so mean to Billy.' Hawk laughed. 'He's so clearly a man with a reputation to uphold now. He has to get back his honor.'

'Both of you, shut up!' Aoife joined in, cackling. 'Not like the movie is what we're there for.'

'The movie is not what you're there for!' Scathach responded. Hawk snorted.

Billy smiled watching them bicker, when he heard the bell ring, signifying the start of class.

'Oh, shoot!' He said, quickly getting up. 'I can't be late for Mr. Dee's class again…!'

'Good luck!' Hawk waved at him as the blond ran off into the hallway. 'Have fun being bored out of your mind!'

As he ran through the hallway, Billy ran straight past the chemistry class and instead exited the school building altogether.

Chapter Text

Machiavelli finally made it back to his small flat in Paris.

Well, barely.

He was stopped by a peculiar figure, waving at him from a dark corner of the city's many cold and narrow streets. The man carefully observed the shadow.

Who could that be? Was it an old friend of his? Or was it an enemy?

Perhaps the second option was much more realistic.

But it was okay. Machiavelli was more than ready to die at the hands of the people that he turned against himself over the decades and centuries of overstaying his life's welcome. He was very aware of that. He knew it while helplessly standing in the street lights, with the heavy rain soaking his fine clothes, his wet hair sticking to his forehead.

Standing here, without his documents, or someone watching over him for security reasons... It wasn't something that he'd ever allow. And yet here he was – helpless and lost.

Without a soul by his side.

The figure stepped into the light. Machiavelli braced himself for the sweet release of death, calmly closing his eyes. Any moment now, and he should expect a painful hit to his brain knocking him out cold for the rest of eternity - or perhaps the cold blade of a knife swinging past his neck, quickly bringing an end to his long, but ultimately pointless life. He felt his heart wildly drum in his chest.

'Niccolo!' A familiar voice rang out.

Machiavelli opened his eyes.

It was Billy who'd been calling for him.

The cowboy was dressed in all black, yet his outfit was still casual. He playfully approached the immortal, letting the rain soak him too. Once he got close enough, he poked the man in his chest.

'Billy.' Machiavelli said, staring down at the shorter man, who was now trailing his finger downwards.

'You're being dramatic again.' Billy pouted, removing the finger and leaning in closer, pressing his whole chest against the immortal's. 'Come back home. We miss you.'

A weak smile flashed across Machiavelli's face, before fading away again. His eyes felt heavy and irritated with tears – almost as if he was holding something back, something too large to be let out. Something that must never be let out.

He placed his shaky palm on Billy's head. He gently caressed the blond, his fingers running through the soft hair. 'You're right.' He answered. 'Take me back.'

Take me back home. To my family, Black Hawk, Dagon, and you. Let us live together, share our days and nights and discrete smiles. Like every day is our last day. This time, I'll appreciate it better. I'll be better.

It's what he wanted to say.

But he'll never be able to.

The immortal woke up with a gasp. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

The night was still dark, the lonely street lights shining through his windows. The fresh smell of rain was coming from the outside.

And he was still alone.

Chapter Text

Niccolo nervously fiddled with his hands as he sat in the cold prison cell, all by himself. His stomach was being torn apart by an intense feeling of hunger, not having eaten something ever since he found himself in the cell, and a repulsive feeling of anxiety.

Having time to reflect on his thoughts between the three cold, dark, stone walls and a door of bars made of heavy metals, Niccolo started wondering where exactly did it all go to hell. And even more importantly – how in the world was he going to get out of here?

Because he knew that he had to, urgently. Who knows how much time did he have left before someone unassuming – let’s say, a simple royal guard – comes down here in the dungeons to let him out, just to take him straight to the noose, up and waiting for him…

And to make matters worse, he had absolutely no idea why he was even here.

When the enemy’s army finally broke into his city after a relatively short and pointless period of resistance, by all means, he should’ve been executed right on the spot, dying merely as yet another target of some enemy soldier’s blind rage. But instead, as he watched everyone around him get slaughtered – not that he cared much for them, but it was still a horrifying and a gruesome scene – for some reason, he was spared. It was almost as if that one soldier – a strong and quite a beautiful man, even if he didn’t dare to admit that to himself – simply didn’t see him. But Niccolo knew that wasn’t possible, because me clearly saw the man look in his direction before digging a sword into the flesh of one of the unlucky citizens that found themselves in his way, and it was almost impossible for him to somehow forget about seeing Niccolo in the short span between killing the citizen and pulling out the sword from their flesh. Unless he decided not to kill him on purpose…

But that’s why there’s now a much worse fate waiting for you, his treacherous mind whispered to him. Niccolo covered his ears with his hands, hoping that the voice would go away, going mad with paranoia plaguing him for hours on end ever since he came here.

The last thing he remembered before falling unconscious during the fierce battle was the beautiful soldier looking at him one last time. And the next thing he knew, he woke up here as a prisoner.

Since the soldier didn’t kill him back then, it was only logical to assume that there was a public execution waiting for him instead.

What else could it be? The soldier having a change of heart, and turning into a pacifist? The King of the attacking nation is excited about providing the citizens of conquered lands new and unique opportunities as prison employees?

Because if that were the case, he’d have woken up on the other side of the bars!

Not before long the dreaded sound of footsteps marching down the hallway echoed through the long, desolate hallway. Niccolo quickly threw himself at the bars, desperate to at least see the face of his executioner before meeting his inevitable end.

The normal-looking guard paused in front of his cell, fiddling with the cluster of keys in his hand before finally finding the right one and unlocking the cell.

‘You’re going with me,’ he said to Niccolo.

‘Do I get any last words?’ The prisoner exhaled in desperation, trying to come to terms with his unfortunate predicament. Oh, how cruel is fate! Why must he die so young? He wanted to grow old with a wife and kids like everyone else, yet those dreams will remain crushed as his consciousness is reverted back to nothing at all. Unspilled tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t dare let them free. That would be too undignified of a death.

‘What?’ The guard looked at him, visibly confused. Instead of placing another heavy pair of steel cuffs on his now pale and weak wrists, the man took a step back, tugging the cluster of keys back in his pocket. ‘You won’t need to use those for a long time. Unless you decide to go against the king’s command, that is.’

Niccolo’s eyes snapped back at the guard, looking at him in disbelief and confusion. ‘Where are you taking me?’ He asked him as the guard urged him forward.

‘The fewer questions you ask, the easier it will be. For both of us.’ The guard simply stated.

Niccolo almost stumbled over his feet as he took his first steps outside the cell, his body temporarily stunted by the shock of his expected death seemingly being cancelled.

Chapter Text

'Dagon?' Machiavelli gently asked the fishman. The former was desperately hunched over the armrest of Machiavelli's luxurious sofa, his entire body trembling.

'Dagon… Are you crying?' The immortal felt uncomfortable asking about it. The mere suggestion of Dagon showing any kind of emotion was scandalous; after all, that'd be equal to admitting a weakness, and in front of his boss no less, the person he was supposed to stay strong for.

Dagon turned his tear-stained face towards him. Machiavelli's heart dropped down to his feet. The sight scared him, and he couldn ease the worry clawing on his insides.

'I'm sorry…' The fishman sobbed. 'I didn't mean to wake you up…'

Machiavelli quickly knelt beside him. 'No, Dagon… It's all right… You can tell me, whatever's worrying you…'

'I just…' A heart clenching sob escaped his lips. 'I had a dream… In which we were all together. And I woke up… I miss them…' Tears streamed down his face, and before long, his voice completely died down as the fishman attempted to silence his sobs and calm his shaking body.

Machiavelli didn't need to think about it much before he realized who Dagon meant by 'they'. His expression softened, and he gently placed his warm hand on the fishman's back, trying to offer him comfort the best he could.

'They won't come back, Dagon. There's no use to wondering about the 'what-ifs'.' He whispered.

'I know.' Dagon sounded completely defeated as those words escaped his throat. It physically pained Machiavelli to see his bodyguard – no, his friend – in such a state, but he simply felt useless facing off against Dagon's emotions. They were just like him, in a way; calm and collected on the outside, but once the dam broke, all of the ugliness would surface… 'It's been so long since she slaughtered them, yet I…'

He didn't find it in himself to finish the sentence. The mere shadow of the turth was too much to bear

'Don't you miss your family and friends sometimes?' Dagon asked. Machiavelli paused for a long moment before he answered, carefully considering his next words; but when it all came down to a definite answer, Machiavelli realized that he didn't need to think about it much at all.

'Every day.' He said. It was the truth, after all.

'Does loneliness ever get easier?' Dagon attempted to wipe away the tears from his face in harsh gestures, leaving the irritated skin below. After the question was asked, total silence fell on the two of them, almost as if they were afraid of the answer.

In the end, Machiavelli spoke again. 'I'm not lonely, Dagon.'

The fishman slowly raised his head towards the immortal from where he had it cradled in his palms, trying to hide his shameful display of emotion. It made him far too vulnerable, far too susceptible to Machiavelli's judgment.

He was surprised to find none of the scorn he'd expected appeared on the immortal's gaze. Instead, he was met with a gentle crinkle of his eyes, which looked at him in understanding instead of disgust. His heart rate sped up, light blush spreading across his cheeks.

'How?' The fishman asked. It was a rather pointless question, and he was painfully aware of it, yet he couldn't help but want to know the answer.

'I have you.' Machiavelli smiled.

'You're the only one I need.'

Chapter Text

'Your cock is not nearly as satisfactory in terms of lenght, John.' Machiavelli said coldly. The insult was aimed towards the black-haired Englishman with a permanent smirk carved into his bastard face… And whose dick he was riding, bouncing up and down. Beads of sweat rolled down his exposed skin and he fixed his gaze upwards, panting as he tried not to meet his eyes. He sped up the pace, frustration showing on his skin. He could almost feel Dee's cock hit the spot that made his eyeballs roll all the way back into his skull, but he still couldn't get to it, no matter how he positioned himself. 'No wonder you couldn't keep Virginia happy.'

He couldn't quite recall the reason as to why he'd insulted him. Maybe he did it just so that he didn't have to think about the position he was in. Working with the other immortal was already a hassle, but fucking him was another thing entirely, and something that he'd never admit he enjoys to anyone, not even himself.

The Englishman's face, in turn, turned completely red with anger. 'It keeps you happy, you fucking whore. How can you even insult my dick when you're the one who couldn't wait to pounce on it?!'

'You're lucky that you're my only option,' Machiavelli exhaled through his teeth, completely ignoring the other man's previous remarks. He closed his eyes, focusing on getting the most pleasure out of this experience he could.

'Your only option? Why don't you just start paying for prostitutes again if I'm so bad, hm?' Dee devilishly taunted him, pinching his thighs hard enough so Machiavelli just barely restrained himself from yelping in pain. 'Or is there some kind of a rule that forbids you from fucking people in your own line of work?'

'You talk an awful lot for someone whose legacy is almost entirely based on incompetence,' Machiavelli snapped, glaring at the man below him, and doing his best to ignore the way that his already hard and leaking cock strained even more. 'Shut up and try to enjoy yourself before I change my mind.' 

But as he finished the sentence, stars appeared in his vision when Dee's girth finally brushed against his prostate, making him let out an audible gasp.

'Don't lie to me, Niccolò, I know that you get a kick out of it, you– ah–' Dee moaned when he felt Machiavelli's walls clench around his cock, his pace now erratic, rushing to reach his high. 'That's it, baby, fuck yourself on me ~'

He reveled in the pleasure of Dee's cock hitting the right spot every time he would bounce on it, and within a minute, Machiavelli was riding him through his orgasm, his release spilling on Dee's stomach. 

'Ah– Fuck...' Dee moaned as he thrust upwards to meet Machiavelli's hips, edging towards his own high. Soon, he was shooting white liquid deep into Machiavelli's insides, filling him to the brim.

When they were both finished, panting from exhaustion, Machiavelli plopped down on Dee's chest, the man's cock still buried in his hole. His stomach revolted in disgust at the idea of post-coital cuddling with the Englishman, but he was too tired to hold himself up.

'Good boy.' Dee whispered in his ear, smacking his ass.

Machiavelli didn't like that motion in the slightest, and immediately slapped his hand away. 'Ti odio, pezzo di merda...'

'Ti amo anch'io, tesoro.'

Chapter Text

'Scathach!' Joan gasped in fear. Her voice echoed in the dark, narrow alleyway. She immediately ran to her side, cupping her face.

'Joan…' The redhead groaned, dreamily looking up at the woman leaning over her. Her eyes fluttered and she gently grasped her hand, letting a slow but pained exhale escape her lips.

'What the hell happened?' Joan demanded an explanation. Scathach was lifelessly sitting on the floor, her back pressed against a wall. She looked awful, as if she'd been in a fight, and it made Joan's heart wince in pain.

Hands shaking, she pulled out a small handkerchief out of her pocket, fumbling with it for a few seconds before she was able to get it out, gently wiping away the blood streak under Scathach's nose.

'It's not that serious…' Scathach groaned, trying to push away Joan's hand from herself but finding her touch too warm and comfortable to do it. 'Some ruffians were trying to pipe a girl in there, and she looked very unhappy about it, so I showed them their place.'

She winced as Joan gently tapped her bruises, trying to get rid of the blood and grime on her face. 'Scathach… Really, you have to keep yourself safe,' she scolded her. 'It's noble of you to help other people, but I'm dying out of worry every time you go out – !'

'You're not my mom,' the redhead cut her off. 'Or my girlfriend.'

Joan quickly shut her mouth, her cheeks flushed.

Joan spent a few more minutes wordlessly wiping her face, and Scathach started feeling guilty for her inappropriate reaction. Joan was the only person who even worried about her, and she treated her so harshly.

But before she could even mumble out a shy apology, Joan quickly leaned towards her face and pressed a light kiss on her lips.

Scathach's heart raced and she stared at the brunette with her eyes wide open, unable to process what had just happened.

'Well, now I am.' Joan mumbled. 'I am your girlfriend now. And I'm prohibiting you from going to bars...'

Chapter Text

Aerop-Enap watched Perenelle's hair sway in the wind as the sorceress wrote their initials on a small locket in her hand.

'Are you sure about this?' She asked her. Perenelle smiled, turning the pen she gripped in her hand to dust and twisting the small key inside the lock, causing the metal handle on the locket to unhinge with a click.

'It's a popular humani tradition,' the sorceress answered. 'According to the legend, once we write our initials on the locket and lock it on this bridge, our love will last until the locket is severed.'

Aerop-Enap wanted to roll her eyes at this silly humani superstition, but she simply found the woman's excitement too endearing to complain about it.

'We should do it together,' Perenelle added. She approached the spider with the locket, letting her place her spider limbs on the small metal hinge. Their initials looked quite nice, the way Perenelle scribbled them on; she always had a beautiful handwriting.

As Perenelle excitedly placed the locket around the metal of the fence, Aerop-Enap glared at a group of judgy humani gathered at the both ends of the bridge. They didn't dare cross the structure with the intimidating spider on it, lest she devours them, but they clearly didn't like the idea of waiting for her to finish her business either. Serves them right, she thought. Besides, this moment was always supposed to be just for the two of them; they were better off without passers-by anyways.

'Aerop-Enap,' the woman called for her attention. The spider immediately turned her eyes on her, irradiating a gentle red glow of joy that looked intimidating to everyone except her beloved.

The two of them finally pressed the locket together, and it locked, now finding its place on the bridge for the rest of eternity. The sun was setting down in the distance, and it cast a beautiful, orange glow on Perenelle, making her look even more beautiful than she already was.

'Perenelle,' Aerop-Enap called. The woman looked into her numerous eyes, and she felt as if she'd melt on the spot.

'My love for you is stronger than a measly locket. Even if the metal corrodes or the fence falls off, the locket destroyed, you will still be the only one in my heart.' She said.

Perenelle laughed. Her gentle laugh filled the air, more beautiful than any songs humani or Elders could come up with.

'I know, Aerop-Enap,' she chuckled.

'I love you,' the spider said. It was spontaneous, but it felt like the right thing to say.

'I love you too.' Perenelle responded. She leaned against her body and dreamily stared into the distance, watching as the sun shone its last rays of light for the day.

Chapter Text

Dagon finally entered the building after a long day spent running errands for Machiavelli. Too tired to mind his surroundings, he carelessly placed the keys on the small counter next to the doors and slipped past the coat hanger with increasingly luxurious coats hanging from it each time he came back. The clank of his heavy steel-plated shoes echoed through the hallway as he made his way up on the second floor of the small apartment they rented for the purposes of this trip. He simply couldn't wait to get some rest; although immortals generally aren't known for their excessive sleeping habits, Dagon was… Well, he wasn't immortal in the same way as Machiavell – he was and always will be a mere fish-like creature – so he still required at least a few hours of sleep every so often.

But before he entered his room, his hand gently hovered above the doorknob as he paused in thought. He supposed that he should at least notify Machiavelli of his return before he went to bed.

He glanced at the other end of the upper floor. The white doors of Machiavelli's room blankly stared back.

Perhaps the reason Dagon was so reluctant to talk to him was that he couldn't explain the strange things he felt near him. His heart rate would increase, he'd sweat more than usual, and not to mention that afterwards, his dreams would be plagued by rather… Obscene situations involving his boss. Then, he'd suddenly wake up rutting into his bed, laying in a pool of white.

However, it wasn't like he didn't enjoy those dreams. Sometimes, late at night after a tiring day of work, he'd lay by himself and imagine Machiavelli's hands sliding over his body, the immortal's shy gasps and sighs beneath him, pleading for more –

Enough, Dagon scolded himself. He has already started to feel his head spinning in excitement. Warmth rose to his face. He knew that it was wrong to think of Machiavelli that way. He knew that he wasn't supposed to desire him like that, but every time he'd see those gray eyes gaze at him, the soft, silky skin of his hands when he'd finally take his gloves off, and the way he called out his name… He'd already lived through the most forbidden of his fantasies.

And he knew that it'd happen all over again every time he saw him.

With a heavy sigh, he finally got himself to knock on the immortal's door. The man hadn't even answered them yet, and he already felt breathless, as if he'd ran a mile to get here. How embarrassing, he thought.

But even with all of his expectations in the world, nothing prepared him for the sight when Machiavelli finally opened the door.

'Dagon?' He asked him in his usual, emotionless voice, leaning against the doorframe. He wore nothing but a light, silk robe, its sleeves sliding off his shoulders.

Dagon's mind came to a halt. His mouth dried and fell slightly open as his eyes unashamedly roamed all over Machiavelli from top to bottom, heat rushing to his face.

He didn't think that he'd ever seen the immortal in anything less than a three-piece suit with his coat on, even in the hottest temperatures possible, and now this…?

Finally realizing that he'd been ogling Machiavelli in complete silence this whole time, he coughed, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His eyes quickly darted to the side out of pure embarrassment. 'The job is done as instructed.'

'Good.' Machiavelli responded in a low voice. Dagon, unable to help himself, glanced down at the man again, hoping to get a single more glance at his half-bare chest.

A self-satisfied smirk appeared on Machiavelli's face. 'Hm, like what you see?'

Dagon almost jumped out of his skin at the comment. His cheeks turned an aggressively red color. What was he even supposed to say now that Machiavelli caught him staring, and even worse, acknowledged him?!

'Don't worry,' Machiavelli reassured him, shifting away from the doorframe. 'I've got more to show…'

And before Dagon could even say anything in his defense, Machiavelli let his robe slide on the floor beneath him, leaving him entirely bare.

Dagon's eyes shot wide open at the sight of Machiavelli's silky, uncovered skin. He began panicking as the last bits of propriety evaporated from his brain. His eyes excitedly followed Machiavelli's form, and he mustn't look down below, don't look down, don't –

Dagon looked down and shut his eyes in shame immediately, as that part of Machiavelli's body was inescapably burned into his memory.

He heard Machiavelli let out a small huff of laughter. He must look incredibly ridiculous like this.

'Dagon…' Machiavelli switched to a more serious tone. Dagon could feel Machiavelli's body press against his, and if his pants didn't feel too small and strained yet, they sure did now. '...don't you know what's to be done when an unclothed man is standing in front of you?'

Dagon slowly opened his eyes again. They were met with Machiavelli's piercing gaze. He wanted to look away from him again, but they pinned him down, burning with want, like an animal waiting to pounce on its prey.

'Come on now,' Machiavelli whispered seductively, his breath brushing against Dagon's cheeks. He grabbed him by the collar of his rough work shirt and dragged him into his room. 'You have some more work to do…'

Chapter Text

Black Hawk absently noticed Billy shuffling next to him.

Until now the trio had been focusing all of their attention on the large screen in front of them. It wasn’t a particularly exciting evening but no one felt like sleeping just yet, so they agreed to watch a movie. Billy immediately called the dibs on some mid-production thriller and they comfortably sat down — with the exception of Machiavelli having to get up every so often in order to grab them more popcorn. But now, Billy appeared to be the only one unable to focus on the movie he barely convinced the other two to watch.

“Billy?” Black Hawk curiously glanced at the blond. Billy’s hands were flying all over his face, pressing and lifting his palms off his skin.

When he sensed Hawk’s attention on himself, Billy immediately grabbed his hand. “Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“My hands. They’re cold.”

Billy stared at him for a few more moments. Black Hawk decided to break the silence again. “I guess they are. Does it bother you?”

“I guess so,” Billy considered the question. “And I think it’s weird that I haven’t noticed it before. I definitely should’ve, I use them all the time…”

“Here,” Machiavelli interrupted Billy’s pointless chattering by wrapping their hands together. He briefly looked away from the screen and smiled. “Is this better, Mr. Cold Hands?”

“Yeah.” Billy shyly nodded. He hadn’t actually expected Machiavelli to hold his hand but he still welcomed the warmth.

Black Hawk pretended to roll his eyes but wordlessly slipped his fingers around Billy’s other hand as well. Billy felt his brain buffer.

The three of them continued watching the movie. All seemed to be back to normal, the only sounds in the room being the loud movie soundtracks followed by the unfairly quiet dialogues. Machiavelli and Black Hawk pressed closer to Billy. The Italian rested his head on his shoulder and Black Hawk subconsciously traced tiny circles on the inside of Billy’s palm, making it all the harder for the blond to focus.

And then, before he could even think about the sentence that flew out of his mouth, Billy spoke again. “...my chest is cold too.”

Both Machiavelli and Black Hawk immediately reached with their hands to hug Billy tighter, squishing him between themselves like he was in a sandwich. A very warm sandwich, Billy thought as heat rose to his face.

“Oh, now my face is cold too.” He lied. A small part of him yelled at him that this wasn’t a very smart idea, but Billy’s brain was a tricycle and the devil riding its pedals wanted to know how far he could push it before either of them realized that he was making it up.

Only this far, it seems, he thought as he caught Black Hawk giving him a knowing glare. Yet his lips were pursed as if he was trying to hold back a laugh, and a mischievous spark appeared in his eyes as he looked over to Machiavelli… Who was, for one, still intent on warming Billy up. He started pressing light kisses on his cheek, soft lips brushing against skin.

“Okay! Fine! I’m warmed up now!” Billy squealed. His face and neck were completely red and he attempted to wiggle out of the human sandwich he found himself in. Next to him, Black Hawk finally burst out laughing.

“What, already?” Machiavelli sounded as if he was trying to hide his disappointment, and it only made Hawk laugh harder.

“I doubt that he was ever cold in the first place,” he snorted.

“I didn’t lie about having cold hands…!”

“Well, we’re cold too now,” Machiavelli whispered, burying his face in the crook of Billy’s neck. “Right, Hawk?”

“Right,” he responded with a devilish grin on his face. “It would be best if we all pressed close together. To conserve the heat.”

“Okay, I get it,” Billy pleaded. “I learned my lesson. Now, can you guys let me go before I die of heat exhaustion sandwiched between the two of you? Thanks!”

And with Billy’s cold hands problem being effectively solved, the movie night went on.

Chapter Text

After the battle on Alcatraz, the world slowly started to settle back into routine.

In the end, all of the survivors were at peace with each other. Machiavelli, even though he still didn't dare to say that he was on overly friendly terms with the Flamels, thought that at least every trace of animosity between them dispersed. Besides, two new people crashed into his life; Billy the Kid and Black Hawk, ever the jokers of their ragtag group. They both taught him something valuable, and for the first time in his long, immortal life, he felt as if all of life's paths have been truly opened before him.

He was no longer bound with servitude, not to Aten, not to the French government. His enemies had forgiven him and for the first time, there were people he could call his friends.

Yet, as he stared off into the vast and boundless sea from the small island, he realized that there was one more thing missing.

He could finally turn his mind away from the monsters threatening the fate of the world, and started thinking about what the rest of his life will look like. The possibilities were endless, true, and he was a changed man… But what did that amount to?

He was able to make amends with everyone else, just not with him. The one person that was always by his side for four hundred years. The one person - or fish - that he showed any amount of sympathy towards, rescuing him from a cold death on that fateful day. Had it really been that long already…?

He knew that he had to return to Paris. He knew that he had to search for Dagon.

He couldn't possibly start fresh without the fishman by his side. Or at the very least, without saying goodbye one last time. He wanted to come up to him and tell him, "Look, I've changed… I found my humanity again…"

He didn't want Dagon to remember him as a heartless monster he'd once been.