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.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission.

Author's Notes:

This is a giftfic for Gav-Imp of Deviant Art, who has once again given me the honor and privilege of bringing her character Ryan Smithers into my nuclear world. This is the second piece in a series featuring this cool young man. For those of you unfamiliar with Ryan Smithers, you may wish to read the previous piece in this series: "The Inception of Ryan Smithers."

In addition to Ryan and Waylon getting to know each other, we learn much about the back history of Charles Montgomery Burns.

Who was the shadowy figure that raised him? This scarcely mentioned Colonel Wainwright Burns?

Through this, dear Reader, you will find out.

I've greatly enjoyed this piece. It reminds me more, in tone, of Nuclear Attraction than some of my later works. I was heavily inspired by more gothic and early American literature: in such, it is my hope not merely to tell a story, but to evoke a mood, and I hope you, dear Reader, enjoy the experience.

~ Muse

The first rays of sunlight were beginning to cut through the fog. The nights had been refreshing lately, a pleasant break from the oppressive summer heat that had smothered the town only days before. A cool breeze blew in the open window, carrying with it scents of grassy fields and the notes of birdsong. Waylon Smithers yawned, stretched, and reached for his cell phone on the nightstand, a phone which doubled as his alarm clock. He was an early riser by choice, setting up before daybreak to hit the gym at the manor, or perhaps swim a few laps before heading to work.

Waylon Smithers took the phone and squinted at it, closing one eye. It was already seven. His alarm should've gone off two hours ago. If he didn't start moving now, he'd be late. Quickly he sat up, pushing the sheets back, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I overslept, Monty," he remarked, reaching for his glasses.

No response came from the other side of the bed.

"Monty?" Smithers asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Aside from him, the bed was empty.

Waylon wasn't completely shocked.

It wasn't unusual for Montgomery Burns to keep odd hours. The man regarded sleep as a hassle of necessity, as opposed to a relaxing process. He'd frequently complained over the years that genius and sleep were natural enemies, and if he had his way, he would stave off sleep indefinitely. Waking up to an empty bed, especially this late in the morning was hardly a cause for concern.

Waylon hastily showered, shaved, and got dressed for the day's affairs. He donned a pair of grey slacks, white button up shirt, and an olive blazer. A purple bow-tie completed the ensemble. It was essentially the same style he'd worn for years. While he'd been working abroad, he'd elected for a different style, and at the time he'd found he enjoyed it. Upon returning to Springfield however, Waylon had to confess his traditional workplace fashion was still a matter of habit. It was comfortable though. Waylon liked his routine.

He hurried downstairs to see if Burns was finishing up breakfast. Most mornings, they traveled to work together, Waylon selecting a fine vehicle from the extensive collection of cars Monty was so proud of.

The table clearly hadn't been used this morning. There wasn't even a hint of breakfast on the air. There was, however, a sealed envelope sitting at Waylon's place. Curious, he walked over and picked it up. He slit the paper open, and pulled out a single folded sheet. The letter opened, addressing him by his last name.

Burns tended to call Waylon by his first and last names interchangeably. While Waylon preferred his first name, years of being known merely as 'Smithers' had rounded off the edges of his surname. Smithers… Waylon… from Monty Burns either was equally fine. In all other cases, he asked that his friends call him Waylon. Burns was the exception, the one friend who still called him 'Smithers.'

Waylon began to read.

My Dear Smithers,

Recent circumstances have inspired me to take a sabbatical for such time as till I see fit to return. I know your apprehensions will no doubt be raised keen on this, so allow me to put them to rest as best I can. To address your first worry: no, I am not dying; I still have many more years left. Put that thought out of your head. It's a foolish worry for you to possess.

In your subsequent fears, for I know how your mind prioritizes its concerns: all matters of legality have been sterling, and there is no trouble, civic or criminal in which I find myself. I hazard to say things have been better than average, if I dare to be so bold in that matter!

And finally: all is well with the plant. I daresay you've taken the old girl from the dregs she'd become mired in, and under your steady guidance I see nothing but success for both of you! You've done well, Smithers, your recent undertakings have been laudable, even if I don't always make my approval common knowledge.

So, as best I can, I hope to have allayed your fears. Do not expect me to return by a certain date. Neither a week nor a fortnight might prove sufficient; or, conversely, they may drag to long and set me hastening back into your arms once again. Fear not, my dear friend. I simply need some time with the solitude of my own thoughts; a position any man can understand.

Sincerely,

Charles Montgomery Burns

Waylon wrinkled his face and folded the letter back into its envelope. It wasn't like Burns hadn't taken off before. His absences rarely lasted more than a few days. Montgomery Burns was a man who enjoyed his privacy.

In the past, it used to bother Waylon no end, especially when he had been nothing more than Burns' personal assistant. From time to time, his boss would be unexpectedly absent. Suddenly thrown from the position of loyal business clerk to running a nuclear power plant without preamble, Waylon struggled to learn the role of acting CEO on the fly. The first few times had left him mentally and physically exhausted, sleeping, close to tears, on the couch in Burns' office.

Over the years though, things had changed. Not Burns' erratic behavior and unexpected departures, but definitely in Waylon's ability to handle it.

These days, he could step deftly into the role of executive, handling all Burns' affairs with a casual grace and efficiency that made him both respected and feared by his employees. He had a reputation, admittedly deserved, for being more ruthless than Burns. There was an incident a few years ago where he might have sic'd a wolverine or two on a pack of slacker employees. While the wolverines had all been safely returned from whence they came, and the hounds returned, it had not been forgotten by the staff at the plant.

Any time Waylon Smithers was at the helm, people tended to tread very cautiously. Waylon found he didn't mind that at all. If anything, it gave him time to get ahead on the routine projects. He shrugged his shoulders, stuck the letter into his lunch bag, and headed down to the garage.

Any day without Burns would be a lonely day to be sure, but nothing beyond would he could handle. The morning would pass slowly, but it would pass nonetheless.

After he arrived, Waylon took up his post in the executive office, setting his day bag behind Burns' massive desk, and having the secretary bring over a list of the day's agenda. There was almost nothing scheduled.

Waylon rose and faced the windows overlooking the cooling towers and river beyond, hands clasped behind his back. He'd never asked to run the plant, never particularly had a desire to. Every great leader needs a great follower, he thought as he watched the steam rising from the curved towers in the early summer morning, the surrounding air still cool in the early sun.

It was his pleasure to follow, to be a second in command; advisor to the king, but never a king himself. More of a queen, he allowed himself a faint chuckle at the private joke before his thoughts resumed their somber narrative. He wasn't as surprised as he usually was by Burns' strange absence.

Montgomery Burns had returned from Chicago, Illinois scarcely three days ago. A business trip he'd taken to meet with several other business owners in the industry. He'd also invited his son, Larry, to join him; going to far as to pay for Larry's lodging right downtown.

Waylon wondered if something had happened between him and Larry. Burns had been in a most disagreeable mood ever since he returned. His disposition alternating between hostile and withdrawn, seemingly at the flip of a coin.

Waylon had seen Burns' strange episodes before, had put little stock in it. The man would settle down eventually. Still, concerned, Waylon had tried gently to dig answers from his partner. Summoning up his courage, Waylon joined Burns in the man's private study after the man returned. Waylon asked if it had been something Larry, Burns' son, had said or did in Chicago.

Larry be damned, he's the least of my concerns right now. And you! Get out, Smithers! Leave me now and trouble me no more with your ceaseless inquisition!

Waylon Smithers knew better to press the issue. He'd hoped, over time, Burns' mood would settle down. If anything, it had intensified over the next day, and Burns refused to leave study. He would sit in the dark, blinds drawn and a fire roaring at the hearth, despite the heat of the season. By the third day, he'd stopped going to the plant. Bah! That place? That atom mill be damned! he snarled at Smithers. Deus or devil take it all! Or run it yourself, Smithers, if you're so inclined. I care nothing. Do as you will.

Then, last night, Burns' mood had changed yet again. Ironically, Burns had been in fairly good spirits last night, even racking a few jokes over dinner. Waylon had hoped whatever tempest swirled in the brain of Monty Burns was blowing itself out.

In retrospect, it was probably just because Burns had plans to leave.

He had an escape planned, that's what made him so cheerful, Waylon thought.

And thus, Waylon Smithers had assumed command of the power plant yet once again. At least these days, the role came more easily to him. Perhaps, he mused as he surveyed the scene below, he had more in common with his father than he'd known. The man built the place, well, designed and directly oversaw the construction; if not built with his own hands.

It wasn't taking control of the nuclear plant that concerned him.

The speed at which Burns' moods fluctuated since he returned from Chicago that worried him. His beloved Monty Burns was old, Smithers knew. Born in 1881, Burns had outlived the peers of his youth; and some of his middle age as well. How long, honestly, could the human mind stay sharp? Waylon didn't like to entertain the idea of Burns mind or body faltering, but he couldn't deny the possibility.

Waylon unclasped his hands, and drummed his fingers anxiously on the gold pocketwatch at his right hip. Time. Ceaseless and relentless. Were these the beginning signs that Monty Burns' long life had run its course? The first skipped second here, a hint of dementia there? Waylon had assumed he'd have many more years with his husband, now he wasn't so sure. Burns' temper and behavior as of late was like nothing he'd seen before. Aside from that though, Burns seemed well enough physically. He took his meals, and tended to his personal affairs without assistance.

His memory was as acute as always.

Burns didn't fit the textbook signs of dementia.

Then again, Waylon thought pensively, there was very little 'textbook' about Charles Montgomery Burns.

Waylon took his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. Still early, but it was warming quickly outside. The steam was no longer visible from the cooling towers. He tucked the lion-faced watch back in his suit pants and shook his head. It would hardly do to keep letting himself get distracted. He had a job to do, a plant to run, and a compliment of employees that depended on him to lead them.

He turned from the window and sat down purposefully at the massive desk. His desk. At least for now. He might as well get comfortable. Waylon reached for the daily roster report, and began.

The day had passed quicker than he would've expected. When he finally glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see it read four thirty. Almost time to leave. He quickly packed his bag, eager to get back to the manor. The odds that Burns would be back so soon were slim, but Waylon couldn't help his optimism. He slung his bag over his shoulder, locking the office behind him.

An easy jaunt down a flight of stairs through the main hall to the executive parking lot. He tossed his bag into the passenger seat of his Porsche, and quickly darted home.

He drove quickly, lost in thought and anticipation, scarcely noticing the details of the familiar route from the power plant to the manor.

He barely slowed as he came down Mammon drive, hitting the remote for the gate as soon as he was in range. Silently, the wrought iron doors swung open. He whipped his car through them before they'd even finished opening. Without hesitation he swung up the curved drive in front of the manor, barely bothering to turn his car off before leaping out.

In his mind's eye, Monty would be there waiting for him. Though it had only been an afternoon, he couldn't wait. He was up the front steps in a heartbeat without so much as a backward glance.

Had Waylon Smithers bothered to look over his shoulder, he would've seen a young man piloting an Indian motorcycle up the drive behind him.