A/N: Hey, guys! This story was inspired by the fact that Smithers is always working for Mr. Burns, so I thought, why not make Mr. Burns work for Mr. Smithers for once? And so, this idea was born from the realms of my mind. Mr. Burns talks a lot like my seventy-something-year-old eighth-grade math teacher, Mr. Pedro, so he's fun to write about. Happy reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons, which stinks because it's, like, comedy gold.
Day after day, night after night, week after week month after month, year after year, he was always working. Rarely ever did he get a break, and rarely ever did he want one. He was addicted to his work and dedicated himself to the man he loved most: Mr. Charles Montgomery Burns. This addiction (on top of his working almost 24/7) could be a little much for his body to handle at times, sometimes wearing him down and making him ill.
One day in particular, Mr. Smithers entered Mr. Burns's office with his hair hanging haphazardly down his face, eyes blood-shot, and his hands shaking. He felt hot from the surrounding heat since his body was already warm with fever, and noticeably taken off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt a bit with his bow-tie hanging loosely. His throat was sore, he had a raging headache, his stomach was churning and rotating like a Ferris wheel, and his voice was rusty and shrieky. And yet, he couldn't have been in the most cheerful of moods.
Upon seeing Mr. Burns that morning, he smiled good-naturedly and poured the old man some coffee.
"Good morning, sir~!" he chirped in a singy-song way, like the eager young songbird he was. Mr. Burns's eyes were barely open and he was slouching, as most people do before their morning coffee.
"Hmm," he groaned, wrinkling his nose momentarily in disgust at having to wake up without coffee waiting on a tray right away.
"Here comes the airplane~!" Smithers sang in a sweet, cooing voice, putting the coffee mug up to Mr. Burns's lips so that he could smell the fresh waft of roasted beans.
"Smithers, stop with this foolish balderdash! Do I look like a baby to you?! Well, newsflash: I'm not! ...Now get me my bib and make sure to burp me afterwards!" Mr. Burns commanded. Even so, Smithers continued to sing happily.
"Yes, sir!~" Mr. Burns grunted, took the coffee cup from his hands, sniffed it, snorted, and took a sip. As soon as he had enough energy again, he began to open his eyes.
"Oh, and one other thing! Stop fricking smiling and prancing about with your 'sunshine' and 'lollipops'! It's annoying me! When I'm not happy, nobody else should be eith - PFFFFFFFFF!" The old man's eyes bugged out in surprise and he spat out his coffee. Smithers calmly cleaned the stain off his shirt with a rag before asking,
"What's the matter, sir?"
"You're what's the matter, Smithers! You look like you just got ran over by a train and then it got you drunk!" Smithers rubbed the back of his head, smiling guiltily.
"Yeah, about that...I'm uh, sorta sick. But I didn't want to tell you because I really like my job, sir, and I want to - to keep - " With that, he ran out of the room and didn't return after five minutes. But judging by the retching noise heard in the bathroom, he was not in a very good condition. "Well, anyways, you get the point. I want to work."
"Confound it, man! We can't have you walking around like some sort-of bootlegger from back in the day! Now, you go lie down on that couch and take the day off!" Mr. Burns barked domineeringly. Despite this, Smithers tried to protest against it. He whined,
"Oh, but sir! I'm fine! Really, I - "
"Dammit, Smithers! Lie on that couch or I'll fire you!" Mr. Burns retorted, shooting him down. Smithers cooperated, shrugged, and lied down on the mahogany couch near one of the windows facing the power plant. Mr. Burns strided over to where he was standing and towered over the recumbent body from behind. "Now you just stay right here and rest. If you need anything, feel free to ask. Oh, and Smithers?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Please don't need anything."
"Yes, sir," the young brunet stated, touching his hand to his forehead military-style and coughing. Mr. Burns grimaced, admittedly feeling a bit sympathetic for him. Being ill was never fun, he knew. Plus, he wouldn't have a good assistant and personal servant until he got better. He decided to take a man named Homer as a substitute assistant even though (and Monty hated admitting these things) it just would not be the same without Smithers there. ...Even though, ironically enough, Smithers was laying on the couch in the same room.
Meanwhile, Waylon was struggling to unbutton his shirt even more and escape the insufferable heat of the sultry August afternoon. But he found that he just could not get it open. His hands were too sweaty, and he was too tired and hot to move around a whole lot. His dry, unwatered voice croaked embarrassedly,
"Um...Mr. Burns? Sir?" The older man turned irritatedly in his chair. It was bad enough that the little arse had to go and get himself sick, but now he was asking for assistance (which Monty was a little rusty at), Homer was giving a worser shoulder massage than he'd ever received from the firm soft hands of Smithers, and he couldn't say 'no'. Every time he thought about doing so, he found himself looking at the desperate doe-like eyes, shimmering with such beauty that it made Mr. Burns melt inside. And so, he sighed irritatedly, sat up, and stalked over to where Smithers was.
"Yes, Smithers, what is it? Don't waste my time, boy, I have a busy schedule!" he demanded, hands on his hips.
"Sir, I was wondering...could you - could you help me unbutton this?" the younger man asked, his cheeks glowing a rosy red hue. Mr. Burns's own mouth went dry, his jaw snapping up and down like that of an alligator's. When he stopped trying to catch flies, he kneeled next to the couch and shyly took a button in his shaky, wrinkled hand before slipping it out of its hole. He ended up unbuttoning the whole shirt, his face resembling a ruby with every button removed and accidental contact his fingers made with Smithers's warm chest. Of course, he thought completely straight thoughts the whole time...in a pig's eye.
Smithers was just as bashful, staring up at the old man with his lips parted in admiration. His crush was just a few inches away from his face. He wanted to say thank you, but just couldn't find the words. And besides, the old man was already back at his desk. He waited a while before asking his boss to peel him some grapes. To which Mr. Burns replied, "Dry up." Smithers moped.
"Oh. Okay. I'll just sit here and be sick, then. Don't mind me," he sighed pathetically. Mr. Burns looked at him in pure worry.
"Um...Smithers? Should I peel you some grapes?"
"No, no...you've got better stuff to do. Everybody has better stuff to do than to help poor, miserly old Smithers." Monty frowned.
"Dammit, Smithers, I'm peeling those grapes! You see if I don't!" Mr. Burns came back with perfectly peeled grapes. Smithers also requested that he feed them to him, causing him to say, "Yes, Your Majesty." And yet, it was kind of adorable how Smithers lifted his head towards the grape stalks like a baby bird and munched them so eagerly. By and by, the days dragged on torturously.
He got so sick of fluffing the pillows, filling glasses of lemonade, replacing tissues, massaging, ironing socks, baking cookies, reading stories, and even tucking him in so that he could sleep. This went on for several days. The requests got more and more insane. Yesterday's crazy command was to shout out the formula for cylinders while doing jumping-jacks. The day before that, he had to sing "Home On The Range" and wear a teddy-bear suit. But today...today was ridiculous.
"Now, sir, I want you to twirl like a ballerina and sing, 'I'm loopy, I'm loopy,'!" Mr. Burns raised an eyebrow of skepticism, but did it anyways.
"I don't see how this helps with your illness," he confessed, while dancing. Smithers giggled at that.
"It doesn't, sir. It's just funny," he said, now laughing like a hyena. Mr. Burns's frustration from that week finally exploded.
"Waylon Smithers!" he shouted. He began to storm back to his desk when Smithers said,
"One more thing."
"What...do...you...want?!" he shrieked. Smithers blushed deeply, suddenly finding his shirt collar very interesting.
"Sir, I...kiss me." Mr. Burns could've sworn his cheeks were on fire. He turned into a blithering idiot for a half-second.
"W-W-What?" Smithers looked at him with stubborn expectancy.
"You heard me," he whimpered, pouting out his lower lip. Mr. Burns got angry and stomped up and down.
"No, no, NO! I won't do it! You can't make me and that's final!" he shouted. Smithers reacted immediately.
"Oh, God! My throat! It burns so badly! Ohhhhhhh," he moaned, clutching at his throat and grabbing at the air to add emphasis. Mr. Burns looked in panic, beads of sweat going down his forehead.
"Okay, okay! I'll kiss you! Are you happy now?!" he demanded. Smithers sat up and smiled triumphantly.
"Pucker up, sir," he whispered seductively. Mr. Burns found that he couldn't resist any longer. His hazel-honey eyes glistened like a lantern in the moonlight, his soft, plush pink lips were parted once again, and his cheeks were painted a pinkish-red, sort of like a doll. And so, he leaned his head forward, gently took Waylon's face in his, and brushed his lips against his in the softest of motions. The younger man was clearly surprised that he made the first move, then relaxed, closed his eyes, and locked his arms around his neck. Homer left, feeling wildly uncomfortable.
If the kiss were an ocean, they would've drowned in it the moment their lips met. It was magical, tender, beautiful, meaningful...it was everything you could imagine a kiss to be like. Neither man could help but think how soft each other's lips were...or how they moved together so choreographically...or how their hearts fluttered uncontrollably like the wings of a hummingbird. When they finally pulled apart, making a pleasant smacking noise with their lips, Smithers spoke up once again.
"Sir, I have something to tell you,"
"Well, yes, what is it?"
"I was only pretending to be sick so that you would kiss me."
"Oh. ...Wait, WHAT?!" Monty screamed. So much for the romantic moment. Waylon chuckled nervously.
"Yeah, I, uh...held a lightbulb up to my face to heat it up. Also I used the 'mustard trick' to throw up, messed up my hair, and wore red eye-contacts."
"SMITHERS!" Mr. Burns shouted, smoke coming out of his ears. Waylon gulped.
"Uh-oh." The old man began to chase him around the desk perseverantly.
"You damned basturd! I'm gonna grind your bread to make my bones!" Smithers laughed and snorted.
"Admit it, sir! You liked it!"
"I'll admit that in my grave, you hoodlum! You're going to Hell for that little stunt you pulled!"
"Don't worry. I'll save you a seat in my lap," he replied with a wink. And though Mr. Burns would never admit it, he liked this slightly evil, manipulative side of Smithers. It was refreshing, compared to his normal behavior. He would most ESPECIALLY never admit that reversing the dynamics of their friendship or relationship or whatever-they-had was something he wished would happen more often. If it meant getting a kiss from Smithers, he would gladly have quit his job. After all, anything for his dear Waylon.