Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.
"I found my father's journal the other day," Smithers remarked as casually as he could over breakfast one morning.
"Oh, did you now?" Burns asked carefully.
Smithers nodded slowly. "Yes."
"Read them, did you?" Burns inquired, looking down at his plate with a sudden intensity.
"I skimmed," replied Smithers.
"I see."
Smithers set down his fork and rested his chin in his hand. "There was a part that I almost couldn't believe was true; but even moreso, I can't believe it's made up. I wanted to ask you about it, Monty."
Burns didn't meet Smithers' eyes. "Well, stop beating around the bush and damn well ask it then," he sighed. His mind took him back through all the memories he had shared with Smithers' father. He was more than a little concerned what his lover might find.
"It has to do with the lab in the basement."
Burns stiffened. He'd never told Smithers anything about his private lab. Oh sure, Smithers knew of its existence, but definitely not all of his secret projects.
Smithers sat up and clasped his hands in front of him. "He said you were taking injections, the sort that could prolong life."
"Really," Burns replied, not meeting Smithers eyes. "He said that, did he." It wasn't a question.
"Yes." Smithers paused. "He said you were giving some to your favorite dog, Crippler."
Burns nodded. "I deny nothing so far," he said, tone guarded.
"I have to ask, Monty, is that the same 'Crippler' that you have now?"
"I have a hound named Crippler?"
Smithers narrowed his eyes. "Don't play coy with me. You know your dogs better than I do. And I know for a fact you have an old one named Crippler living now." Smithers lowered his head, and spoke slowly, drawing each word for emphasis. "Is that the same dog, Monty?"
Burns made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and looked away.
"Yes or no?" Smithers demanded.
"Eh," Burns paused and fidgeted before finally relenting. "Yes, Waylon. It is."
Smithers leaned back and drummed his hands on the table nervously. "Jesus, Monty. That dog's nearly as old as I am."
"Older, actually," Burns confessed. "We got him two years before you were born."
Smithers swore violently and rubbed his face. "And you're still taking these injections?"
"Old habits die hard, my boy," Burns confessed. He reached across the table to take Smithers' hand, but Smithers jerked away.
"No. Don't touch me. If you've managed to make a dog live well beyond normal years… my god… what does that mean for you?"
Burns sighed. "In part, Waylon, it means I may very well live long enough to see everyone I hold dear die. I've outlived so many. More gone every year. And yet, through it all, I don't wish to die. I'm afraid of what might lay beyond this life."
"So you're willing to say goodbye to me, watch me grow old and die, all because you're afraid of a natural part of life?" Smithers pushed himself back from the table.
"Waylon, please. This isn't about you!"
"No?" demanded Smithers. He stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table. "Well maybe it should be." He turned and started to leave.
"Damn it man, you're starting to sound like your father."
Smithers paused, and looked scornfully over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you always wanted, Monty?" He made a snort of disgust. "At least one of us does." With that, he stormed off, slamming the door behind him.
Burns sat in silence, unmoving. He waited, hoping against logic that Smithers would come back.
He's gone, the little voice in Burns' head muttered softly. There's no telling when he'll be back.
"I know," Burns murmured aloud, and dropped his face into his hands. Unbidden, a line from an old poem he once saw Waylon Sr. reading passed from his lips: "'Light breaks where no light was before; where no eye is prepared to see, and animals rise up to walk; oh lucifer, what have you done.'"