a Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel fanart/fanfic challenge - Aug 30 to Sept 5, 2022 - tag posts with #SINFTROPEWEEK2022 - organized by Seb (quetzalaten)
Hi y'all! I dropped the ball on the Bang last year but I still wanted to do something, so lo and behold, a 1-week prompt list! This'll run from May 7th to May 17th. Any fanworks are cool! Tag me in them if you post them to tumblr and I'll reblog them here.
Aoife was tired. She had been fighting for a long time. At least that’s how it felt like. It could have been hours, days, or even weeks. But it was all fine as long as she could keep this filthy abomination, that happened to be the creator of her species, away from her twin, Scathach. She was a warrior, who has been through much more, she was sure of it.
As two snake headed Mother of All Gods stung her once more in her left arm, she thought she saw something flash on their right. However, she didn’t have the time to confirm her suspicions for she was fighting for her life. Aoife crouched down to dodge another attack form Coatlicue’s right head, that was trying to bite her.
(because I haven't had the spoons to finish a fic for the last couple days)
It is centred around Billy and Black Hawk at college (plus Tecumšeh and As-she-we-qua, two OCs of mine). In the end it'll be rated M, so reader caution is advised.
***
"God fucking damnit!" Tecumšeh shouted, slapping their graded exam onto the table before dropping into their seat. "Read that fucking grade and tell me why I shouldn't just drop this class and be done with it!"
Billy warily took the paper from his partner, and whistled softly. "Oh shit. That ain't good, sweetheart."
"You think?" Tecumšeh glared at the paper as if that would change the grade that had been written on it. "Fuck, man, my parents are going to fucking kill me."
"Hey, it isn't the end of the world, babe," Billy said, trying to reassure them. "It's just one bad grade among other pretty okay-ish grades. You'll be fine."
Tecumšeh grumbled in what seemed to be agreement, then stuffed the paper into their backpack. "That's a problem for another day, then."
Relieved that their partner was starting to calm down, Billy patted their shoulder. "Come on, I made a whole fresh pot of coffee for us. Don't want it to get cold."
"Speaking of coffee, where's Kêhkêhkwa?" Tecumšeh asked, looking around as if he would appear from nowhere to berate them about their grade. Billy shrugged, grinning at his friend. "He didn't come back to our dorm last night. I'm assuming him and Ash have been busy, y'know?"
Tecumšeh stared at him blankly. "Busy? Were they studying?" With a snort, Billy shook his head. "I seriously doubt it."
College AU! this is going to be an ongoing project, so I'm going to put just the prologue here. Just a little taste, lay the foundations, give you the premise.
September 2: College Au (1080)
“I can’t believe I let you drag me into this,” Billy complained for the fiftieth time as he dramatically slung his bag over his shoulder.
“It’s only nine months, Billy,” Kêhkêhkwa said, also for the fiftieth time, glancing sidelong at his friend as they exited the bus together and started off towards their pickup location. “You’ll survive.”
Billy grumbled incoherently. “We’re still roommates here though, right?”
“Um…” Kêhkêhkwa started carefully. “Yes. But it’s a suite.”
“So?”
“So we’re attached to another dorm, with two other people, who regularly go here,” Kêhkêhkwa said.
“What?!?” Billy exclaimed, whirling around so fast his bag smacked him lightly. “Hawk!”
“I didn’t choose the living arrangements!”
“I can’t believe — ”
“Would you just — ”
Someone loudly cleared their throat in front of them.
Kêhkêhkwa turned to the sound to see two men. The first thing he thought about was how these were two young men who were waiting at the spot where he and Billy were meant to be picked up by their new roommates, meaning these were likely them. And they’d just seen him arguing with Billy about how badly Billy didn’t want to stay with them.
Great.
Just great.
The second thing he noticed was that the man standing closest to them, the one who had cleared his throat, was frankly alarmingly attractive.
Fucking great!
“William Bonney and Mahkatêwimešikêhkêhkwa, I presume?”
“Black Hawk is fine,” he said. “You’re Niccolò and Dagon, then?”
“That’s us,” the other man said. He was large and hulking, but he had a soft voice. “Nice to meet you.”
They helped them load their luggage into the trunk of the car, and then the large man started for the driver’s seat.
“Hawk, you called shotgun on the way here,” Billy said suddenly, swinging into the backseat.
Kêhkêhkwa stood there for a moment before he headed for the passenger seat.
He was confused — he hadn’t called shotgun, and Billy loved riding front seat if he couldn’t be the one behind the wheel. At first he wondered if this was some sort of weird apology for arguing.
But then he glanced over his shoulder at the backseat and watched as the attractive man took his seat next to Billy, sticking out his hand to shake, and how Billy’s face was bright red and plastered with a grin.
Kêhkêhkwa turned away, ignoring the sharp pang in his chest and striking up a conversation with Dagon instead.
~~~
The two men were staying with him and Dagon for the next nine months. It was a study abroad program for them.
For Niccolò, it was a massive pain in the culo.
First subject: Mahkatêwimešikêhkêhkwa, or Black Hawk. Pre-Med track, planning on going to med school to become a doctor. Reputation for being the best student in every class he took. All of his social media platforms were normal, no sign of illicit or problematic activity. He had a couple photos from pride parades, and appeared to be queer.
Second subject: William Bonney. MechE track, planning on going to grad school. Decent grades in his classes. On the equestrian team. Reputation for being a work hard, party hard kind of guy. His social media was a lot more… chaotic. Also had photos from pride parades in which he sported a bi flag. And very, very little clothing.
Black Hawk was fine by Niccolò.
William Bonney…
Less.
They’d talked little during the car ride over. He went by Billy, apparently. He had a southern American accent, shaggy blond hair, and bright blue eyes, as well as a broad grin framed by pouty lips and —
Niccolò shook his head to clear it, turning back to his work. He had to focus — he’d done his snooping months ago. He didn’t need more information on these two — if he wanted it, he’d just have to ask them himself.
There was a time and place for stalking, and this was no longer it. Besides, Niccolò had bigger things to worry about than his new American roommates.
Like his relationship with Dagon, for example, which was still…
Confusing? Undetermined? Unspoken?
It was a lot of things.
And Niccolò hated having any sort of tension with his best friend, so he was going to have to settle this, and soon.
~~~
Dagon was happy to have guests.
Not that he didn’t love living with Niccolò. He did. He really did. Niccolò was incredibly intelligent, witty, and once you got to know him, kind, though he’d never let you say it.
Niccolò had gotten him out of a small crisis with his family, details he’d rather not get into, the point being that he was in Niccolò’s debt. As much as Niccolò insisted he wasn’t.
Anyway, he was glad to have guests. Fresh faces were nice — not that Dagon was tired of Niccolò’s! Niccolò was very handsome. Dagon might even say he was beautiful. He had sharp features and soft grey eyes and Dagon loved his smile.
But it was good to have guests.
For no particular reason.
Shit.
He always managed to do this, he thought, thinking himself in circles until he was dizzy with it. Until he was left with only the locked box in the back of his mind, the knowledge stored there pounding to get out, to scream at him that he was in love with his best friend and there was nothing he could do about it.
A distraction was very much needed, and Billy was a right firecracker and Black Hawk was intelligent conversation.
Dagon was happy to have guests.
~~~
Billy had a problem.
That problem had long black hair, olive skin, grey eyes, and the sharpest wit Billy had ever seen. The problem was tall and lean and incredible at ignoring him, and had a firm handshake and a wicked grin.
His new roommate, Niccolò, was…
Gorgeous.
Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but Niccolò was somehow about a million times more intimidating than anyone else Billy had flirted with in the past.
Maybe it was because he was smart. Maybe it was because the only thing Billy knew about him was that he was smart.
Maybe it was because any time Billy tried to talk to him, something about the way Niccolò looked at him turned Billy into a puddle of melting candle wax, or because his brain kept reading wayyy too far into everything he said.
He needed to either do something about this obsession, or figure out a way to shake it.
one of my faves!! coffee shop au. love them. so much freedom!
cw: should be all clear!
meet blind Machiavelli :0 I love him.
September 1: Coffee Shop Au (4654)
Billy had had worse jobs.
And besides, this one he got to do alongside his best friend.
Black Hawk was working at the very same cafe during almost all the same shifts. He needed a little extra cash while he studied medicine.
Billy just needed money.
He had been couch surfing for a while, staying with Hawk, then Scatty, then Virginia… he just didn’t want to be a problem anymore. He needed to be able to rent an apartment.
The problem was, he couldn’t afford a nice outfit, so he couldn’t apply for better jobs. So customer service it was.
Billy didn’t mind so much. He liked people - most of the time. He did have a bit of a temper, though, which wasn’t good. Angry customers got Billy fired.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He just wasn’t very good at this whole adult thing. At least, not the way Black Hawk was.
It was his first Sunday on the job. Almost a week had gone by, and everything was going smoothly. The woman who owned the cafe, Perry, was old but not elderly, and was kind but fierce. She had a lot of patience with Billy during the interview, where he was very nervous.
It was early morning, seven-o-clock on the dot. The cafe had just opened. Billy was behind the counter and Hawk was set up to make drinks.
Billy wasn’t expecting anyone in that early on a Sunday, so he was leaning against the counter, facing Hawk.
Well, not facing him, just watching him. He was making a drink.
“What’re you doin?” Billy asked, confused. “No one’s here.”
“He will be,” Hawk said simply. “I might as well make the coffee, he always gets the same thing. Bag up a scone, will you? Just plain vanilla.”
Billy frowned but did as Hawk asked, and just as he was putting the cafe sticker on the paper bag to hold it closed, the door opened.
Billy was thankful he’d put the scone on the counter, because otherwise he was sure he would have dropped it.
The man who walked in was tall, lean-built, and wore a perfectly tailored suit. His black hair was slicked neatly away from his face and ended just before it would reach his collar. His face was sharp, his milky-white eyes alert and open.
Billy felt light-headed.
He knew this man.
Well - knew was a strong word. He knew of this man. He was rather famous, quite so if you cared much about politics, which Billy didn’t, but even so.
Several feet behind him, lurking in the doorway, was another man Billy recognized, also in a suit but with dark glasses covering his eyes.
A bodyguard.
Niccolò Machiavelli, famous philosopher and politician, approached the counter.
Billy thought his legs might give out, and years and years of customer service weren’t kicking in for some reason. He’d occasionally greet friends with his cheery “hello, what can I do for you?” and he couldn’t even manage it now.
“I’d like a double short espresso and a vanilla scone, please,” the man said without prompting, and Billy nodded hastily and passed him the scone.
Hawk passed the drink up to him. Billy managed to put the total into the register and swipe the proffered credit card.
Machiavelli’s fingers overlapped his as he handed the card back, and Billy barely kept himself from making an embarrassing squeaking sound.
Suddenly Machiavelli’s eyes narrowed. His attention focused on Billy, scrutinising him.
“He’s new,” Hawk put in.
Machiavelli nodded. “I gathered.”
And he took his scone and coffee and took a seat in the corner by the window.
Billy turned to Hawk, eyes wide, but Hawk just shook his head, pressing a finger to his lips.
Okay. Yeah. Billy could do that.
Niccolò Machiavelli occupied the corner of the cafe for the next half an hour. He sat and sipped his coffee, staring blankly in the direction of the window. He had round, black earpieces in, no cord attached, and Billy wondered what he was listening to.
Billy watched him.
No one else was there for the whole half an hour.
Just himself, Hawk, and the diplomat.
Hawk went about business as usual, apparently unbothered, cleaning tables and obsessively organising the pastries.
Billy just stared.
He wanted to talk to him, badly, but Hawk didn’t seem to think that was a good idea.
Plus there was the bodyguard, standing in the corner.
He looked familiar - Billy was certain he was the same one from all the pictures.
Wasn’t there some sort of scandal about him? There always were, he supposed, with famous people. Still, he’d have to look into it.
Billy honestly didn’t know much about Niccolò Machiavelli. He didn’t care for politics - or philosophy, for that matter. He was more of a celebrity crush than anything. A really, really big celebrity crush that had lasted too many years. And hardly any information was available about the guy’s private life anyway, so there wasn’t much for Billy to know.
He didn’t even know if he liked guys.
Not that that mattered!
Jesus.
Billy had finally managed to stop staring when Machiavelli stood and left without a word, neatly placing his cup and paper bag in the trash can. The bodyguard was close behind.
Billy waited a few beats.
“Okay, what the fuck?”
Hawk just laughed. “Oh, your face was priceless,” he said, grinning. “I wish I’d gotten a picture.”
“You knew he was coming, didn’t you?” Billy demanded. His face was hot. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hawk pointed out. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drool that much.”
“Shut up,” Billy groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Hawk knew, of course. There wasn’t anything about Billy that Hawk didn’t know. That was how they were.
“How did you know he was gonna be here?” Billy asked.
“He’s here, at the exact same time, every week,” Hawk shrugged. “Always has been, since I started. It freaked me out too at first.”
“What did?” Billy asked. There were a lot of things to be freaked out about, in his opinion.
Hawk eyed him sidelong. “He does that every time.”
“Does what?”
“The thing, with the credit card.”
Billy blinked. Remembering the feeling of Machiavelli’s cool fingers overlapping his own.
“…why?” he finally managed to ask.
“It’s how he tells who’s at the counter,” Hawk explained. “He’s not good at telling the difference between voices, what with the music and the machinery - at least, that’s what he told me.” He shrugged. “That’s why I make the coffee early. Less things for him to listen to.”
“Oh,” Billy said.
He wasn’t sure what else to say.
“You can talk to him, next time,” Hawk offered. “He’s really friendly, actually.” He chewed his lip the way he did when he was thinking about whether he should say something or not. “I think he’s lonely.”
The door opened again, and Billy wasn’t able to press the issue further as the day went on.
In the end, he decided to do some digging online and find out as much about the man as he could. Besides what he already knew, which was that he was unfortunately gorgeous.
Publicly, there was a lot known about his involvement in politics. He had a few books published, all on philosophy or politics of the philosophy of politics.
Privately, though, all that Billy could reliably confirm was that he’d been born blind, and that he had been engaged. At twenty-two, Niccolò Machiavelli was going to marry a woman named Marietta.
She died two days before the reception.
It was now twelve years since, and as far as the public knew, Machiavelli had never entered another relationship. There were rumours here and there about his relationship with the bodyguard he was always seen with - Dagon was the only name that was associated with him, and Billy wondered if that was his actual name or a code name. But all that was just speculation, and there really didn’t seem to be anything backing it up that Billy could find.
Billy sat on this information for a week. He ended up watching a few videos of Machiavelli speaking, but he always got distracted and lost focus on the topic.
Except for on one, which he found squirrelled away on a blog somewhere, clearly shot from someone’s personal cell phone - probably illegally, if the lack of any other footage and the abrupt start was any indicator.
“There’s an issue someone brought up to me once,” Machiavelli said, a trace of humour in that powerful voice. “It was - I won’t say who he was, but he had been invited to the premier of the movie, same as I. And he was next to me when the lights came up and he looked at me and just said - I’m sorry, it’s just, it’s terribly funny. He says to me ‘Niccolò, I don’t get it. The main character is an immigrant, queer, and disabled? That’s just too much, that’s forced diversity.’ And I look at him and I say ‘John,’ or whatever his name was, I say ‘John, I’m a queer disabled immigrant. Are you telling me I don’t exist, and that all the people who voted me into this position were voting for a ghost?’”
The crowd laughed. Billy found himself grinning along too as he watched the video. Machiavelli was standing up on the podium, and he was smiling.
“Forced diversity. Really. People just exist, John!”
And Billy had laughed, because yeah, people do just exist, and Machiavelli was so different in this more private setting than he was in front of large audiences where he knew he’d be documented. There he was rigid and fierce and intense and yes, he was brilliant, and he was an amazing politician. But he was so vibrant like this, and Billy wished he could be open about this side of him.
People started asking questions.
“Machiavelli, do you - ”
“Oh, Niccolò, please.”
“Niccolò, how often do you deal with people like, ehm, like John?”
“Every day. Every day. I don’t think they always mean any harm, I think they just don’t understand. The difference between someone who doesn’t understand and someone who is bigoted is their willingness to learn. Don’t write anyone off right away, my friends. Anyone can learn. It is their will to do so that matters.”
Billy watched the whole video. It ended rather abruptly, but what he had was more than enough.
There was a lot more to Niccolò Machiavelli than the world knew.
There was so much Billy wanted to ask him next Sunday.
And one whole, long week later, it was Sunday morning again.
Billy bagged the same vanilla scone and put it on the counter with the expresso Hawk made. And barely a minute after opening, same as before, there he was.
Billy was at the counter again, and this time he managed to speak. “What can I get for you?”
“I’d like a double short espresso and a vanilla scone, please,” Machiavelli said, exactly the same as before.
“Alrighty,” Billy agreed, passing the drink and bag across. “That’ll be 4.50,” he said, though he was sure Machiavelli had the total memorised by now.
The credit card was passed to Billy.
Billy swiped it.
He handed it back.
Machiavelli’s fingers brushed his, and he smiled briefly. “You’re still here.”
Billy blinked. “Should I not be?” he asked.
But Machiavelli just turned away and went to his corner window seat.
“Okay,” Billy murmured to himself, not sure what to do now.
“I usually do the counter,” Black Hawk explained. “Hello, Mr. Machiavelli.”
“Good morning, Kêhkêhkwa,” Machiavelli replied from his window seat, not moving, not even turning his head, speaking to the window.
“How’s the week treating you?”
“Very well, thank you,” Machiavelli said. “I am wondering after the name of your coworker.”
Hawk looked to Billy, raising his eyebrows.
“Billy,” he said quickly. “I’m Billy.”
“Nice to meet you, Billy.”
“Yeah,” Billy managed. “You too.”
Then he put his earpieces in, apparently signalling the end of the conversation.
The following Sunday, Billy was a little smarter.
They had their usual counter exchange. Machiavelli touched his hand and immediately smiled and said good morning. But this time, instead of passing him his coffee, Billy told him it would be right out.
And Machiavelli nodded and went to his usual spot.
Billy waited a moment, Black Hawk looking at him curiously. Taking a deep breath and trying to steel himself, Billy grabbed the coffee and walked over to Machiavelli’s table.
“Here y’are,” Billy said, setting the coffee down on the table.
“Ah, thank you, Billy,” Machiavelli said. “Could you hand it to me, please?”
“Oh,” Billy exclaimed, picking the coffee back up and pressing it into Machiavelli’s hand instead. “Here.”
Machiavelli took a small sip, then set it down, keeping his forefinger touching the edge of the cup. “Sit.”
Billy blinked. “I - sorry?”
“Sit,” Machiavelli repeated. “Kêhkêhkwa always makes the coffee before I arrive. You wanted to talk to me. Sit.”
“Okay,” Billy managed, carefully taking the chair opposite him, casting a glance behind himself at Dagon. “Hi.”
Machiavelli smiled. “Hi,” he repeated, a trace of humour in his voice.
“Sorry, I’m not… very good at this,” Billy admitted. “I mean, I’ve been in customer service for too long and I’ve never had anyone wanna talk to me for longer than they had to.”
Machiavelli just shrugged. “I always give people a chance to be interesting.”
Billy smiled. “That’s smart, honestly.” He tapped his fingertips on his knee. “Sorry, um, you’re… different than I was expectin’.”
Machiavelli raised an eyebrow.
“Good different,” Billy clarified softly. “Er, sorry, not that I - ”
“Stop apologising,” Machiavelli said.
“Right, sorry - ”
“Billy.”
“Yeah, okay,” Billy managed, biting his tongue to keep from apologising again.
“Why do you work here?” Machiavelli asked.
Billy shifted. Machiavelli was… incredibly straightforward. “I’m sort of in between jobs right now. I never had much growin’ up and I still don’t, and I’m just tryin’ta get out of my friends’ hair right now.”
Machiavelli hummed. “I assume you know what I do.”
“Yeah,” Billy mumbled, feeling strangely shameful.
“Do you know what I did before my wedding?”
Billy blinked. He guessed Machiavelli meant the wedding that never was, considering he was pretty certain he would know if there had been another. “No,” he admitted.
“I worked at a flower shop in a small town outside the city,” Machiavelli said. “I would steal lilies to bring to Marietta.”
“Oh,” Billy said plainly, not sure what else to say. “That’s… pretty romantic, actually.”
Machiavelli chuckled softly. “She thought so too, which was why I did it.” He shook his head. “I only started this well-paying, highly acknowledged, exciting job once I was no longer in love.”
Billy fidgeted with his hands. “Did… did being in love make the boring job easier?”
“Yes,” Machiavelli said simply. “But I can’t say this job is easy, either.”
“Just in a different way, right?” Billy asked.
Machiavelli nodded. “In a different way.”
Billy hesitated. “Have you… I mean. Have you thought about gettin’ out?”
“Every day,” Machiavelli shrugged. “Someday, in many, many years, I will have money enough for a villa in Florence and I will return to my home country.”
“That sounds really nice,” Billy said. “Wouldn’t have to take bodyguards with you there, huh?”
“No,” Machiavelli chuckled. “Although I might keep Dagon around, for company.” He offered a small wave to the stoic, silent man in the corner. “Besides, I don’t know that he’d leave me alone.” He leaned in conspiratorially across the table. “Between you and me, I think he’s a little paranoid,” he stage-whispered, grinning the whole time.
Billy was sure he was blushing. How was it possible that this man, who was so incredibly intelligent, intimidating, and strange could also be so… cute?
They talked for a while longer, Billy doing his best to treat Machiavelli like any other person, and not like… well, how people usually treated celebrities.
Machiavelli never stopped being so jarringly straightforward about his questions, but Billy was almost starting to get used to it.
He was kind, and funny, and offered excellent advice, and chuckled at Billy’s horrible jokes.
He was…
wonderful.
Suddenly there came a small chime from the watch on Machiavelli’s wrist.
“Oh,” he exclaimed. “I must be going.” He reached across the table and covered Billy’s hand with his own. “Thank you for the conversation, Billy. Next Sunday, I think?”
He gave Billy’s hand a small squeeze, smiling, and then he stood, turned, and left the cafe, Dagon following silently behind him.
Billy sat there frozen for a while.
“Um…” Black Hawk said slowly after a moment, and Billy looked over to see him grinning. “Was it just me, or did The Niccolò Machiavelli just hold your hand?”
“He didn’t hold it,” Billy argued weakly, “just sorta… put it there.”
“Uh-huh,” Hawk said. “Right.”
It took about a million years for next sunday to roll around.
It was much of the same, Machiavelli asking about Billy’s life and Billy usually responding with the same questions in turn. Billy learned to watch the clock, knowing that Machiavelli always left at exactly half-past, regardless of whether they were in the middle of a topic. He also learned to always give the coffee cup to him directly rather than placing it on the table, because it was easier for him to keep track of where it was that way. It took him longer to get used to, but he also learned he couldn’t just nod, because that didn’t do anything. Which seemed obvious, but he forgot an embarrassing number of times.
Eventually he asked why Machiavelli always came on the same day at the same time, and had he tried any other cafes?
“I already have the layout of this one memorised,” Machiavelli shrugged. “And you open earlier than most. That way I’m not…”
“Bothered?” Billy suggested, just as Machiavelli finished with the words “in the way”.
Billy frowned. “You’re not in the way.”
“Not in a place where I know the layout and the staff,” Machiavelli argued. “Let’s just say I like to play it safe.”
Billy learned that Dagon did, in fact, speak, but that it was only ever in private company. He also learned that both Machiavelli and Dagon found the rumours about their relationship highly amusing.
“It’s rather entertaining, the drama,” Machiavelli said, smiling. “They love to latch onto that, don’t they, reporters? So many interesting things I have to say and yet they focus on my nonexistent love life.”
“I’ve actually been meanin’ to ask about that, but if you don’t wanna talk about that, that’s fine by me,” Billy admitted.
“Because if you wanted to tell people about our conversations, you would have by now, and you haven’t,” Machiavelli said simply. “So ask.”
“Right,” Billy said. “Okay. I guess I was just wonderin’ why you haven’t… started dating again. I mean if it’s about Marietta I completely understand that obviously, I just –”
“It is not,” Machiavelli cut him off soothingly, smiling gently. “I did love Marietta, but the time for grieving has long since passed.”
“Then why?”
Machiavelli shrugged. “I suppose I hadn’t found the right person,” he said, and his voice was strangely soft and something about the words felt off but Billy couldn’t place it.
“Oh,” Billy replied, not sure what else to say, and Machiavelli smiled that same gentle smile and that warm fluttery feeling Billy had come to know well settled in his chest. Every sunday he spent half an hour talking to someone he had never thought he’d meet, someone who was achingly handsome and ridiculously smart who was spending his time with him, with Billy, of all people.
It didn’t seem real.
If Black Hawk didn’t always have something to say after Machiavelli left, Billy would be inclined to think he’d finally lost it and started hallucinating. But Hawk always had some sideways comment or joke to make and Billy always blushed or stuttered and Hawk always laughed at him.
He really should be more offended.
And he always said the stupidest things, telling him that Machiavelli liked him and all this bullshit. Billy didn’t know why he was trying to get his hopes up for no reason.
On their fifth weekly conversation, Machiavelli did something that surprised him.
Billy was waiting anxiously behind the counter, checking the clock, willing time to move faster.
“Jesus, Billy, calm down,” Hawk rolled his eyes. “Your boyfriend won’t be late.”
Billy just sighed. He knew better at this point than to go down the “he’s not my boyfriend” path. Hawk was both better at arguing and more level-headed than Billy was, so it was a fight he was always bound to lose.
Finally the door jingled open, and Hawk didn’t turn around, just offering a “Hello Mr. Machiavelli” over his shoulder.
“Hello Kêhkêhkwa, Billy,” Machiavelli replied. “And really, I don’t think there’s need for such formalities.”
Billy and Hawk glanced at each other.
“Sorry?” Hawk asked.
“Mahkatêwimešikêhkêhkwa, mio amico, I have a weekly coffee date with your best friend, I think we’re past the point of ‘Mr. Machiavelli’,” he said dryly. “My name is Niccolò. Use it.”
When neither Black Hawk nor Billy had any idea how to respond to that, Machiavelli just walked to his table and sat down.
Billy scrambled to get his coffee and scone, shooting Hawk a helpless glance as he headed over. Hawk just shrugged, looking like he was trying not to laugh.
Billy went through the usual routine of greeting Dagon, handing Machiavelli the coffee and scone, and sitting across from him.
“Um, Mach – Niccolò – what does… ‘mio amico’ mean?” Billy asked, trying to avoid any of the other many, many questions he had about that one loaded sentence.
“My friend,” Machiavelli replied simply. “I would think you could have figured that out, seeing as you’re fluent in Spanish and the two languages are fundamentally similar.”
Billy blinked. He’d forgotten he’d told him that. “Okay, yeah, fair. I guess I did know that.” He swallowed. “Sorry. You just caught me off-guard, is all.”
Niccolò’s lips twitched. “I have a habit of doing that.”
“I know,” Billy grinned. “Not my first taste of it myself.”
Everything fell back to normal, and Billy nearly forgot about it until Machiavelli left.
“Okay, tell me I didn’t imagine that,” Hawk said mere moments after the door closed behind Dagon. “He called me his friend in Italian. He called your talks coffee dates!”
“I don’t understand any more than you do,” Billy managed.
Hawk whistled lowly to himself. “How does it feel to be on a first-name basis with a world-famous politician and philosopher?”
“I dunno, ask yourself,” Billy pointed out. “This is gonna sound really fucked up, but sometimes I’m almost glad he’s blind cause I can’t seem to stop turnin’ into a goddamn tomato.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hawk said. “I don’t exactly have much to do while you’re talking, but watching you make goo-goo eyes is pretty funny.”
“Shut up,” Billy complained, punching Hawk in the shoulder.
This went on for almost three months.
Every sunday, Niccolò would turn up at the same time, and Billy would have half an hour to drink him in before the start of another long week.
Fall was slowly turning to winter at the end of three months, and it looked set to be a cold December. The winter months were heaviest for a cafe, more people dropping by for a hot drink before work.
It was an unremarkable Wednesday.
Hawk was at the counter, Billy making drinks. They’d just had a rather large crowd come through, presumably on lunch break. By 3:00, though, it was quiet once more. There was the occasional person trickling in, but nothing really stopping Billy from checking his phone when it chimed.
It was a news notification, which he normally ignored. Especially if it was from what appeared to be a gossip column.
But this one caught his eye.
Elusive Niccolò Machiavelli hints at romance? In this exclusive interview, watch…
Billy just had to click it, then let out a groan as it took him to a website with a subscription paywall.
“You good?” Hawk asked.
“It’s nothing,” Billy said, but not before Hawk snatched his phone. “Hey!”
“Are you stalking him online?” Hawk laughed, shooting him a sideways glance. “Billy. I don’t think anyone has gotten as many ‘exclusive interviews’ as you have.”
He tossed the phone back and Billy nearly fumbled it. “I guess.”
“Besides,” Hawk grinned, “why would you watch an interview about yourself?”
It took embarrassingly long for Billy to process the comment and realise what Hawk was insinuating.
“He doesn’t - stop,” Billy said weakly.
“He does,” Hawk argued.
“You said it yourself, he’s lonely, I’m mildly interesting, a nice chat with an average person to get away from the shitty celebrity crowd -”
“Exactly, he’s lonely, but he’s also fucking Machiavelli. He could talk to anyone, why you if he doesn’t like you?” Hawk shot back.
“You’re being stupid,” Billy said.
“You’re being stupid!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re not the one talking to him -”
“You say, as if I’m not here every Sunday -”
“Hawk, please -”
“At least tell him!” Hawk said, sounding exasperated. “It’s been - what, three months? You can’t pine forever, mate.”
“What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Niccolò, I know I’m just some random fucker your bodyguard barely tolerates but I think I’m in love with you’?” Billy demanded loudly, angrily. His patience for this was completely gone. He was not going to confess to Niccolò, that would be a huge mistake. He would not turn into some sort of creep, someone Niccolò would never talk to again.
Hawk’s eyes were wide, but he wasn’t quite looking at Billy, and Billy wasn’t sure why. He was about to apologise for yelling, for fighting, when -
“I imagine that would work, yes,” a soft voice said from behind him.
Billy whirled around so fast his head spun.
Niccolò stood there, looking vaguely amused.
Well.
That was a fair step up from disgusted.
Billy had no idea what to say, but that didn’t stop his mouth from running. “I - you weren’t supposed to hear that, I didn’t - fuck. Um - wait, what are you doing here? Where’s Dagon?” he asked. He was distantly aware of Hawk backing up and ducking into the staff room.
“Dagon is in the car,” Niccolò said. “I asked him to stay behind this time.”
Billy blinked. “...why?”
“Is it true, what you said?” Niccolò asked instead.
“...which part?” Billy asked weakly.
Niccolò raised an eyebrow.
Billy pressed his lips together. His heart was pounding faster than he thought it ever had before. He felt stupidly restless, too, all this energy pent-up beneath his skin. “Um.” He swallowed. It took considerable effort. “Yeah.”
Niccolò smiled. Just smiled, in that way of his that said he knew more than you did. He beckoned Billy over, and Billy obeyed, slowly approaching the counter.
Niccolò reached out his hand. “May I?”
It took a moment for Billy to realise what he was asking. He couldn’t seem to speak, so he just extended his hand over the counter, carefully touching Niccolò’s hand with shaking fingers.
Niccolò’s hands were much larger than Billy’s, engulfing his whole hand in his palm, his thumb tracing smooth, almost comforting strokes over the back of Billy’s hand. Billy was finding it strangely hard to breathe. Then, gently, Niccolò took Billy’s hand in both of his own, and slowly, slowly raised it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to Billy’s knuckles, and when he spoke, Billy could feel his lips moving against his skin.
Sinf trope week: Day three, Coffe shop / flower shop AU
In this AU Sophie and Josh own a flower shop. Flamels are their loyal customers (though it's usually Perry that buys flowers and Nick trying to stop her).
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For SINF Trope Week 2022!
Day 2, “There was only one bed”
Rating: General Audiences
Fandom: SINF
Pairing: John Dee / Niccolo Machiavelli
Summary: On a shared trip their Elders had sent them on, Machiavelli and Dee are forced to share a room due to an unfortunate error.
There was only one problem…
Billy was going to murder Black Hawk. He was the one who had made the arrangements for this stupid mission, which meant he’d booked the rooms.
“Oh.”
Billy swallowed. “Yeah,” he managed.
“That’s alright,” Niccolò said, “I’ll ask the front desk if we can get an extra mattress. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
“What?” Billy exclaimed. “Aw, hell nah. You take the bed, I’ll be fine.”
“Billy, you’re the one who got impaled.”
“Yeah, like, a month ago!”
Niccolò huffed, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re so stubborn. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually wanted to sleep somewhere else.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “What? No! I didn’t mean — I don’t mind rooming with you, I just figured — you know — it would be more comfortable — ”
“Why don’t we just share?” Niccolò shrugged. “Unless that bothers you.”
“No,” Billy croaked. “I mean — no, that doesn’t bother me.”
“It’s settled, then,” Niccolò said.
Billy didn’t know how Niccolò could possibly be so calm about this. Maybe it was because Billy had never shared a bed with someone without — well.
Or maybe it was because he couldn’t stop thinking about being in that alternate situation with Niccolò.
Jesus, get a grip, Billy scolded himself, setting down his bag on the opposite side of the room from Niccolò.
It suddenly hit him that this would be their situation for the whole trip. Four days. Not just one night.
Shit, Billy wasn’t going to survive this.
Not the mission, which really was what he should be worried about. But Billy had come so close to actual death so many times that by now it barely fazed him.
No, the danger was in sleeping next to Niccolò.
~~~
Niccolò almost forgot about it. The day was long and tiring, and the sleeping arrangements nearly slipped his mind in his exhaustion. Both of them were far too tired to talk about anything, and simply crashed on opposite sides. He didn’t really care, anyway – the bed was big enough for both of them.
Until Niccolò woke up in the dead of night to the sound of muttering and the faint scent of cayenne pepper.
He turned to the smaller man asleep beside him, frowning at the expression on the cowboy’s face. “Billy?”
Unintelligible muttering was his only response, but as Niccolò slowly sat up and scooted closer, he noticed the beads of sweat on Billy’s temple.
Was this… a nightmare?
More mumblings, this time a few half-formed words standing out among the nonsense.
“Garrett”, “friend”, and… crust? Ah, “trust”.
Oh dear. Was Billy reliving one of his encounters with Pat Garrett? Niccolò hoped it wasn’t the one that would end with Billy fatally shot.
“You’re alright, mio amico,” Niccolò murmured, brushing Billy’s hair away from his face. He didn’t want to wake him, but he would if it got bad. “You’re safe. You’re here, with me and Black Hawk, and you never have to deal with Garrett again.”
Suddenly, something in the dream seemed to shift. Billy started struggling, against what Niccolò didn’t know, but soon his thrashing became violent and Niccolò had no choice but to put a firm hand on his shoulder and gently shake him awake for fear that he might hurt himself.
Billy sat up with a jolt, eyes wild, his focus landing on Niccolò.
He didn’t look… like he was seeing him. Not really.
Niccolò was so worried he wasn’t expecting it, didn’t see it coming when Billy lunged, slamming Niccolò down, one hand wrapping around Niccolò’s throat. Billy squeezed, his whole weight on top of his one arm pressing down on Niccolò’s windpipe, magenta aura swirling chaotically around his body.
“Billy, it’s me,” Niccolò choked out, only prompting Billy to growl and lean harder on his arm. Niccolò couldn’t breathe. Spots were dancing in his vision. “You’re – safe –”
Suddenly the pressure was gone and Niccolò sat up with a gasp, bringing a shaking hand to his throat.
Billy sat next to him, eyes wide, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth slightly.
“...Billy?” Niccolò asked, his voice coming out strange and hoarse. He coughed. “Are you alright?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” Billy mumbled. “Niccolò, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I just – I thought you were –”
“Pat Garrett?” Niccolò finished gently. “You had a nightmare, carissimo. It was not your fault.”
“I’m sorry,” Billy repeated anyway. “I never wanna hurt you.”
“I know,” Niccolò assured him. He scooted closer, slowly reaching for the cowboy, giving him time to back away. When he didn’t, Niccolò brought him into a hug, folding him tight against his chest. Billy immediately wound his arms around Niccolò in return, and though Niccolò wasn’t usually a fan of physical affection, with Billy it felt alright.
