Burns' Sense of Snow

A ferocious squall set in, whipping the side of Mr. Burns' limousine with an icy blow of air, sending the rear wheels skidding momentarily before Smithers turned the steering wheel in the same direction to counter the motion. "Good Lord, the weather is getting worse by the minute!" He slowed down as a blustery wind flung a sudden onslaught of sleet against the windshield. "Don't worry, sir. I'll get you home safe and sound."

"Yeesh. Don't be so dramatic, Smithers. The way you're carrying on, you'd think this was the storm of the century."

A few minutes later, they arrived at Burns Manor, and Smithers led Mr. Burns to his door, holding his coat over Burns' head to keep his cheeks from being burned by the chill and holding him by his shoulders to keep him from being swept off his feet. Once inside, Smithers replaced his coat, poured him a glass of champagne, and drew him a warm bath. Once Mr. Burns disrobed and submersed himself in the water, Smithers turned on the TV in front of him.

"This is Kent Brockman of Channel 6 News, reporting live outside in the midst of what our meteorologists are calling the storm of the century. Expect rolling blackouts, frozen pipelines, slick, icy streets, and the dissolution of civilization as we know it." Smithers gave him a look of "didn't I tell you so?"

"Oh, those newsmen are always full of flimflam and folderol!"

"It does look pretty serious, sir. I'd better light some candles. You know, in case the power goes out." He proceeded to light a row of candles around the tub, then dipped a sponge into the water and tenderly scrubbed his scalp, a pleasant smile emerging on Smithers' face as he watched the water slide down the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks, dotting his face with little spheres of water glistening and flickering from the candlelight. Mr. Burns' scowl transformed into a smile as Smithers slid the sponge down the back of his head, wetting his hair. Smithers' gentle touch scarcely failed to soothe him, the sensation of warm water sluicing down his head warming the cockles of his heart.

As Smithers began rubbing shampoo in, Mr. Burns tilted his head back a bit, closed his eyes, and said, "There's nothing quite as pleasing as a warm bath on a cold night, eh, Smithers?"

"I couldn't agree more." He squeezed the sponge over his head and rinsed the shampoo out, then cupped water in his hands and splashed it against his head, running his fingers through Burns' hair between scoops of bathwater. When he had finished, he fetched a towel and slung it over his shoulder, then returned and held out his arms to take Burns' hands in his. He helped lift him up and out of the bathtub, then dabbed the towel on his chest and shoulders and rubbed it around his head before finally tying it around his waist. "Feel better, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Smithers."

Smithers beamed at the compliment and retrieved his robe with alacrity, then held it open and let Mr. Burns step into it. He began extinguishing the candle flames one by one with a snuffer. As he did so, he said, "Would you like to go to bed now?"

"No, I think I'll stay up a while longer." He shivered. "What a cruel travesty of nature! No matter how delightfully warm a bath is, once you step out of it, you're almost instantly colder than when you went in."

"You have a profound, observational wit. Go sit by the fireplace; I'll be there soon with a nice, warm quilt and hot cocoa." Mr. Burns left and Smithers finished putting out the candles.

He rejoined Mr. Burns where he sat on a burgundy velvet-draped sofa and greeted him with a thick quilt and a cup of hot chocolate with a handful of miniature marshmallows floating on the surface, merging into an amorphous mass as they melted. He set the handle of the mug in Burns' fingers and draped the quilt over his lap.

"Smithers! What are these glutinous berry-bearing plants strewn across the brickmoulds?"

"That's the mistletoe, sir. One tradition is for the two people caught under it to pluck the berries one by one, kissing each other once for each berry plucked."

"What a silly tradition."

"I think it's whimsical."

Mr. Burns took a sip and smiled as the warmth spread through him. In a meek, pleading voice, he called, "Smithers...?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want more marshmallows."

"Certainly. How many more do you want?"

"Four."

"No problem." He left for the kitchen and came back with eight miniature marshmallows. He plopped four into Burns' cocoa.

"I've changed my mind. I want one more."

"Of course," he said, dropping one more in. "I always bring extras in case you want more or I drop some." He put one in his mouth. "Want one?" he said, holding one out between his thumb and index finger in front of Burns' lips. Mr. Burns opened his mouth, and Smithers popped it inside, watching as he closed his eyes in pleasure as he chewed. "Do you want another?"

"Oh, no. I'm quite content. You finish them."

He smiled and put the last one into his own mouth, relishing in the simple pleasure of sharing marshmallows with the man of his dreams. "Are you starting to warm up, sir?"

"Yes, albeit slowly."

"Here," he said, removing his coat and draping it around Burns' chest, tucking it around his waist. "Is that better?"

"A little."

Smithers could see he was still shivering. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Hold me, Smithers."

"It'll be my pleasure." He stretched one arm around his shoulders and brought the other to his chest, inhaling deeply as he took comfort in the sluggardly, irregular beats of his heart, cherishing each one more than the last. He stroked circles around his chest, ostensibly to warm him up. "I don't want you catching a chest cold," he said, guiltily rushing to explain his actions. "The last time you were hospitalized with pneumonia, I was so worried, I couldn't sleep for a week."

"You have always had such a solicitous spirit."

"Why, thank you, sir."

"Oh, that long car ride has my lumbago acting up again. Smithers, I need you and your magic fingers to give me a rubdown."

"Yes, sir! I'll be back in a jiffy with the massage table."

"No, don't bother," he said, grabbing Smithers' wrist as he stood. "Just do me here."

"Anything you say."

Mr. Burns turned so his back faced Smithers, who began by rubbing his shoulders. "Enough dawdling and get to the main event!" He pushed aside Smithers' jacket and opened his robe, letting it fall down to his waist. Smithers brought the quilt up to cover the front of his chest and shoulders, then rubbed progressively lower down his back, eliciting moans of pleasure. "Oh, Smithers, you never cease to amaze me. How did you get to be so good at this?"

"I once worked at a massage parlor." He continued to rub lower, his face flushing as he kneaded the skin and muscle just below his ribcage. He stopped lowering his hands just above the hips, trepidatious that he might lose himself in his passion and go too far.

"Don't be shy," he said, his tone scolding. Smithers lowered his hands again to just above the buttocks. "Oh, wait. I know the reason you're being so hesitant."

"You do?"

"Yes. I should be lying down for this."

"Do you want me to get the massage table, sir, because I really think -"

"No, I'll just lie down here," he said, lying on his stomach as Smithers got up to make room for him on the sofa. "Get up on top of me." Smithers stopped breathing as his eyes glazed over, stupefied. "For leverage, you dunderhead." His clarifying response only intensified Smithers' panic. Did Mr. Burns realize he wanted something else? Was he testing him, waiting for him to slip and fire him the instant he revealed his true desire?

"Of course. Good thinking." He climbed back onto the sofa and straddled Mr. Burns' hips, then commenced the deep massage of his lower back and buttocks. "Mmm..." he moaned unconsciously, then, upon noticing Burns' head turned up and back to face him with a suspicious glint in his eye, added, "that was great hot cocoa!" Placated by his excuse, he rested his head back down onto the cushion.

"What would I do without you, Smithers?" he said in a dreamy, far-off voice.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"My dear, dear, Smithers... Smithers, that feels...excellent." As Mr. Burns moaned into the pillow, Smithers reached the threshold of bursting. "Oh, Smithers...I love you."

"And I love you, sir!" He felt Mr. Burns become rigid in his hands. "I mean...I'm really glad you're enjoying my massage. I love making you happy."

"Yes... That will be sufficient for tonight." He sat up, and Smithers moved his hands away. Even with his abrupt withdrawal, the evening was shaping up to be one of his best in recent memory. He guided Burns' arms into the sleeves of his robe and pulled the quilt over them both.

"I've always loved this quilt of yours," said Smithers. "So many squares depicting your family's illustrious history. And the craftsmanship on it is outstanding."

"Yes, well my relatives hired the best seamstresses of the day to make them."

"It's so great you have your family's history all laid out like this. So many memories, so many stories that could've been lost forever."

"You're a sentimental man, aren't you, Smithers?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"I do. Tell me, what drives a man like you to like a man like me?"

"What's there not to like?"

"I often do things you consider 'wrong'. You're a decent, agreeable fellow who could enjoy an active social life with his peers. Most young men want nothing to do with cantankerous old codgers such as myself."

"That's what I love about you, though. You're vivacious, you have a sparkling wit, and you're quaintly charming. Sure, we have our disagreements...but that doesn't mean I don't like you."

"Still. When we attend social functions, you always stay by my side instead of mingling with the crowd."

"Well, I'm not exactly of the same standing as the crowds you run in."

"That didn't stop Ellen Quayle from pursuing you."

"Oh, her. She wasn't...my type."

"She was gorgeous, though! I love those pouty lips, that sizzle in her step! I envied you."

"There's really nothing to envy, sir. I don't get much action with the ladies."

"It's no wonder when you're so picky. Tell me, then, what is your type?"

"My type? Hm...yes, um, my type. My type is...svelte. Distinguished. Lively. Witty. Powerful, with a wicked streak." He sighed a lovelorn sigh. "I need more champagne, do you want more champagne?" he said, getting up.

"No, I'm satisfied." When Smithers sat down beside him again, champagne in hand, Mr. Burns said, "I know why you don't pursue women."

Smithers choked on his champagne. "You do?"

"You are too reserved. It's as though you're trying desperately to hide something from everyone around you."

"What gave you that idea, sir?"

"I've carried secrets for decades, and many I will yet carry to my grave, but still, I never carried my cards so closely to my chest as you do. What does a man as decent as you have to hide? What are you carrying, Waylon?" The lights went out and all that illuminated their faces was the flickering firelight.

"Oh, dear. The storm must have taken out a power line. I'll go get the backup generators running."

"I shall accompany you so I don't get lonesome in the dark. Here. Carry this torch for me." He lit a torch from the fireplace and handed it to him.

"Yes, sir." As they traversed the cavernous mansion, a window blew open and blew out the torchlight.

"Take my hand and guide me, Smithers."

"Gladly, sir." They walked hand in hand to the generator, where Smithers used the light of his phone to see the mechanism and set it in motion. The lights switched back on and they headed back through the halls.

"Let's freshen our drinks. Come to the bar with me, Smithers."

"Yes, sir." He followed Mr. Burns to the bar, where he poured more champagne for Burns and himself.

Swishing the champagne contemplatively in his glass, he said, "Are you lonely, Smithers?"

"No, sir. How could I be lonely when I spend so much of my life with you?"

"Living with someone can be lonelier than living entirely alone."

"Well, I'm not lonely."

"Is that why you've chosen celibacy?"

"Um...what?"

"I'm not a fool, Smithers. It hasn't escaped my notice that I'm having more sex than you despite being sixty years your senior."

"Oh, right, right. All that sex I'm, uh, not having. What makes you think it's by choice?"

"You haven't been with a woman since your wife left you. I've never seen you pursue a woman, and you've rebuffed the advances of a number of attractive women, so it's clearly not because you can't get a woman."

"Well, you see...the reason I don't look for a girlfriend, it's..."

"Your heart is promised to another."

"No, I - it's...oh, what the hell. I'm sick of pretending, and I'm sure you're sick of listening to my flimsy excuses. You're right, Mr. Burns. I am hopelessly in love."

"You don't need to pretend with me anymore."

"You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that. Monty, I love -"

"I know. You still love your wife." No! Smithers screamed in his head. No! I love you. Tell him, Waylon, tell him now. You won't have a better opportunity.

"Oh, right. Yes, that's it." He took a sip and let the silence hang palpably in the air for a handful of seconds before issuing a conflicted grunt. "No, Mr. Burns. That's not it."

"You aren't fooling me. Yours is the face of a man struggling with an unrequited love. That's why you've sunk yourself into your work so much, isn't it?"

"Actually, that is exactly right. I'm in love with my work. You could say I'm married to my job. Or at least, I'd like to be." He set his glass, now emptied of its liquor, down on the table. "Mr. Burns, I'd like to give you your Christmas gift."

"Now? Christmas isn't for another week."

"I know but...the time feels right. Follow me to the auditorium."