Silver

Don't take this the wrong way, but you mean nothing to me.

He stared out the passenger side window as Smithers drove them from Luigi's in his sedan, then looked down into his lap. The evidence that gave lie to his claim about Smithers' value to him burned in the left breast of his jacket – a check for a million dollars, a pass to every Broadway show ever, and a carefully crafted letter of apology he'd made his lawyers work overtime to write. He never was good at putting his feelings to words. He had always tasked Smithers with this responsibility, but without Smithers, the task had fallen to his legal team.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket.

My dear Waylon: I am heartily sorry for my insensitive behaviour...

Not the words he would have written, that was certain. What did Smithers mean to him? What was he worth? As with anything, whatever the buyer is willing to pay. And Monty Burns was the one making the bid: a million dollars, plus the tens of thousands he'd had to fork over to procure that lifetime Broadway pass and the Starbucks gift card, the latter constituting only twenty-five of those thousands. At least he wouldn't have to give Smithers the million dollars. He could keep both the million dollars and Smithers. And all it had cost him was a kind word and a hug.

Those didn't feel like expenses as he had anticipated. The check, the Broadway pass, the gift card... those were expenses. He had felt his coffers diminish as he'd made each transaction. But complimenting him, hugging him – those had felt like revenues. Indeed, much as he loathed human contact, he always felt safe and warm in Smithers' arms, almost as much as he felt when he hugged his precious Bobo. And this time, he even felt loved.

He cares about me more than a million dollars.

He smiled and stole a glance at Smithers, whose eyes flitted to the side to flirt with his. A slight smile stretched Burns' lips upward. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Smithers' presence, missed something even beyond his eager compliance to his whims. During Smithers' absence, Burns had wondered just how much of his success he owed to Smithers' loyal lackeying. Several million dollars' worth, at least.

A week passed, and life went on as normal, as though they had never parted. Smithers laughed at his jokes, released the hounds, and went over budget reports. Burns sent people through trap doors, bribed public officials, and took lunch in his office.

But as normal as life was, it wasn't quite the same, and yet it felt more the same. Smithers began to hear more "good work," "excellent," and "thank you," and his adulation took on a more earthy, intimate tone and less a plastic, affected tone. Burns found himself inviting Smithers more often to accompany him on his leisurely pursuits. "With Smithers" quickly became the most frequent phrase in his datebook, and he took to abbreviating it to "W.S.," which he quite liked as the "W" could stand for either "with" or "Waylon." Monday – "golf W.S." Tuesday – "snow plow soccer W.S." Wednesday – "gala W.S." Thursday – "dine at Gilded Truffle W.S." Friday – "movie W.S." Saturday – "ballet W.S." All quite business as usual for them, as they had enjoyed these recreational activities together for years.

It wasn't the "W.S." that was new, although he had only recently begun to explicitly mention the importance of Smithers' involvement. What was truly new was when "..." began to pepper his datebook. Sunday – "... W.S." Wednesday – "... W.S." The "..." served as a placeholder for when he knew he wanted to do something, but had no particular preference for what that something was. He did, however, have a distinct preference for who that someone was.

On a "..." day, Smithers stood with him in front of Burns Manor, his shoulder turned a few degrees, as he was not scheduled to assist Burns at his estate that evening, and he had received no invitation to the premises on social grounds. They stood facing each other for a moment. "So..." said Burns, sliding the palm of his hand over the back of his neck. In a rapid transformation from shy to sharp, he spat out, "Are you coming inside, or aren't you?" and Smithers took it as the awkward attempt at an invitation he'd meant it as.

"I'd love to, sir." They stepped inside, and Smithers filled a snifter with brandy and fluffed Burns' favorite pillow, then set it on his favorite chair in the parlor. He remained standing while Burns sat.

Burns gestured to an adjacent chair. "Sit." He did as he was told. "So, you thought you could get away with running out on me."

Smithers' eyes tensed in worry. "Sir, I –"

"No need for apologies, my dear Smithers. It's only fair, I suppose. After all, I thought I could get away with my churlish reproaches all these years." He looked into his brandy. "Isn't it rich? Me losing my timing this late in my career." Smithers leaned forward slightly, anxious to say something but sensing he wasn't done talking. "Do you know how long you've worked for me?"

"About twenty-five years."

"Exactly twenty-five years today."

"Today exactly?"

"Today is the twenty-fifth, isn't it? That was the day you saved me from those environmentalists protesting my plant. They were trampling me, when you swooped in and –"

"I remember."

"–And when I looked up and saw your face –"

"You screamed."

"Well, for a moment there, I thought I was seeing the ghost of your father." His eyes drooped a bit, doleful, before he perked up. "You escorted me to my car and drove me home, and you settled me in my bed and served me tea and honey, without me even asking." He hummed in pleased reminiscence. "I knew then and there I wanted you in my employ."

"When I brought you your tea and you offered me the job, I was shocked. Overjoyed."

"You know, in the days before you quit, I had been making preparations for a party."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"What kind of party?"

"For you." Smithers' jaw dropped. "To celebrate your becoming a quarter-of-a-century man."

"Sir, I don't know what to –"

"Of course, when you quit, I cancelled everything – the caterers, the band, the ice sculpture –"

"Ice sculpture?"

"I'd commissioned a lovely piece, a replication of Bandinelli's Hercules and Cacus, with me as Hercules and you as Cacus." Smithers looked up a picture of the statue on his phone and blushed. The sculpture depicted Cacus crouched between Hercules' legs, both quite naked.

"We could still make the ice sculpture, at least. I'll get the ice sculptor on the line, and we can arrange a time to model for it. We can do it right now! I'll just take my jacket off now –" He started to remove his jacket.

"Put your jacket back on." He pouted for a moment before obeying. "No, you won't be getting the lavish party."

"That's okay, sir. I don't care about any party. Just knowing you appreciate me enough to have planned one is enough for me."

"I did get you a present. I thought about returning it, but... I had it inscribed, so I can't." He handed Smithers a box about the size of the palm of his hand.

Smithers pried open the black, fuzzy jewelry case, revealing a silver watch. He gasped. "Oh, Monty... It's beautiful!"

"Look on the back." He flipped it over, and on the back of the watch face was inscribed: "25 Years Together" with an outline of Burns' face staring straight ahead, grinning malevolently just above tented fingers.

"Thank you, sir..." A tear slipped down his cheek.

"It's a tritium watch, so you can tell the time even when it's pitch black."

"I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"If you like that, you'll love this," he said, reaching into his left jacket pocket. "I can't return this, so you may as well keep it," he said, handing him the lifetime Broadway pass.

He gasped. "Oh, Mr. Burns..." He held it to his chest and grinned. "These are the best gifts I've ever gotten."

"We can see whatever shows we like, whenever we want."

"But sir, we always could see whatever shows we wanted. I couldn't afford to, but you could."

"When I bought this for you, I didn't think we would be going to shows together anymore. When you quit me, I didn't think you liked me much anymore."

Smithers' stomach sank. "Of course I still liked you! I left because I thought you didn't like me anymore."

"I never stopped liking you."

"Then why did you tell me I was nothing to you?" His chest hiccuped in a sniffle.

Burns sighed through gritted teeth in frustration. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry, Monty, but I have a hard time believing that's the best answer you can give me."

"Disbelieve it if you will, but it's the truth."

"I've seen you lie enough to know it's not."

"What do you want me to say? That I rebuked you because I don't know how to express affection, or that I've erected a wall to keep anyone from getting too close to me, or some other such psycho-mumbo jumbo?"

"No. I just want an honest answer."

"Because I liked you too damn much! There, are you happy?"

"What do you mean by that, sir?"

"Exactly what I said."

"But what does it mean, to like me too much?" Burns looked away. "Did you cut me off because you knew what I was about to say?" Burns ignored his question and took a long sip of his brandy. "Did you cut me off because you felt the same way about me?"

"Smithers!" He spat out the name as well as the brandy like a snake spitting venom. "If you keep crossing lines that were never meant to be crossed, I'll have to dismiss you."

"What lines am I crossing, sir?" He reached over to pick some lint off Burns' shoulder. "Is there something wrong with my devotion to you?" He began gently massaging the back of his neck. Burns arched his neck back, then rubbed the base of his skull side to side against Smithers' knuckles. Smithers reached his fingers up through Burns' hair and rhythmically swirled his fingers through his hair, fingernails just grazing skin and sending shivers down Burns' spine. "Is there something wrong with you liking it?"

Smithers looked into his now closed eyes with the same longing he had in his eyes when Burns had arisen from his parachute and shaken his head to and fro. His eyes snapped open. "Who said I was enjoying anything?" Smithers rubbed behind his ear, and Burns moaned a bit involuntarily.

"Sir, I think this is a line we were meant to cross together." He leaned forward, bringing his nose just behind Burns' ear and sniffing. He turned his head to face Burns and whispered, "I love how you smell." Smithers' heart quivered rapidly. He had never gone so far in trying to seduce him, but once he had gotten to this point, long after losing his nerve, he kept going on sheer momentum. He had to see this through as far as Burns would allow him. As long as he avoided uttering those three words in sequence, Burns might let him keep going. "I love how your skin feels."

Burns stared wide into Smithers' eyes. He had lived long enough to know the next lines in this script. "Waylon, you're confused." He sat up in the chair, Smithers' arm falling back, his hand gripping the back of the armrest. "You think we have some special connection, but it's an illusion. We are just employer and employee, nothing more."

"Is that what you really think?"

"Yes." He sipped his brandy. "Perhaps it's my fault. We've been spending too much time together. It's giving you unseemly ideas. It's not proper for a boss and his subordinate to get so chummy."

Smithers' lungs seized up as if ceasing to breathe would cause time to stop. All the pain of Burns' last rejection rushed at him like a freight train. Had it been an actual train, he would have opted to let it hit him. How many times had he let Burns torture him like this, pushing him away and drawing him back, leaving him forever dangling in purgatory, still clinging to whatever shreds of hope he could gather in his hands?

It was time to let this train hit him.

So rapidly that the words blended together, he said, "Monty, I love you." It wasn't the first time he'd said it to him. But it would be the first time he'd stand by those words, he vowed it to himself.

Burns' lips tightened in unease, and his eyes opened wide.

"I mean – what I meant by that is... what I love is..." He braced himself for the blare of one of Burns' characteristic reproaches. "I love you, Monty, I love you! I always have, and I always will." He got down on his knees, then reached out and slowly set his hand upon the back of one of Burns'. "I love you, sir." He bowed his head down, partly to signal his unconditional devotion and partly to give himself an extra precious second in which he could imagine a future for them together, then ran his thumb up and down Burns'. "I adore you." Burns remained silent for as long as Smithers could hold his breath. His chest heaving, Smithers, eyes still planted on Burns' feet, said, "Sir, I'm afraid to ask, but... but..." He held his breath again. "Sir...?" The next thing he felt was Burns running his spindly fingers through the closely shorn hair atop his head, and he barely audibly gasped.

Burns overturned his other hand, meeting Smithers palm to palm. "For heaven's sake, look at me!" Smithers lifted his head and looked straight into his eyes. "Do you think I love you?"

"I wouldn't be so scared right now if I were sure you loved me."

"Do you think I'd tell you if I did love you?"

"You said you like me too much. But Monty, I don't believe in 'too much.' I don't think it's possible to like someone 'too much.'"

"It is for me." He stood, his hands slipping out of Smithers' hand and hair as he turned his back to him. Smithers stood and put his hand on Burns' shoulder, only for him to pull away and turn sharply back to face him. "Tell me, Smithers. How long have you known me to be with a woman?"

"Since I've worked for you? Four months, two weeks, and four days."

"And how long have I been with you?"

"It's our twenty-fifth anniversary."

"You are my constant companion. Why would I jeopardize what we have by incorporating something as capricious as a romantic element?"

"Because I would never, ever, leave you."

"You left me three weeks ago!" He turned away again. "I can't let that happen again."

"I only left because you said I meant nothing to you!"

"You mean everything to me," he said in an indistinct whisper. Then, louder, he said, "And I told you I was sorry about that."

"No. You never did."

"I meant to. Isn't that enough?"

"No. No, Monty, that isn't enough. You need to actually say what you feel. I broke two decades of silence to tell you how I feel; the least you can do is say you're sorry."

"I am. I'm sorry, Waylon." He rested his hand on his shoulder. "Come with me," he said, and Smithers followed him to the play room, which was dark save a meager glow from a single, dimmed stage light focused on center stage. They sat in adjacent seats in the back row.

"Why did you bring me here? You Can't Take It With You closed last week."

"I wanted to show you something. Close the door and shut the light off," he said, and Smithers followed his instructions. As total darkness descended on them, Smithers stumbled back to where Burns sat. "Take a look at your watch." Smithers looked and saw the numbers and hands glowing. "That's the tritium making it glow."

"It certainly is brilliant, sir."

"Yes. Yes, it is." He reached his hand for Smithers' head and stroked him behind his ear. "What time is it?"

"6:45. Why, sir?"

"Remember that time." He slid his hand down to Smithers' neck, then tilted his head and brought their lips together. The contact was very brief, yet tenderly rendered. Smithers was sure the glow on his cheeks outshone the glow of his watch. "It's the time I made your dream come true."

Smithers reached his arms around his shoulders and held him close, one of his hands clutching at the tufts of hair on the back of his head as he leaned in and kissed him, moaning softly. "Oh, Monty, I love you." He nestled his head beneath Burns' chin and kissed his chest.

Absentmindedly caressing the lobe of Smithers' ear, he said, "I... I do, too. Love you, that is."

Smithers looked again at his watch. "6:46. That's the time you made my dream come true."