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.
Author's Note:
This story has two titles: "The Consequence of Fission" or "Nuclear Decay." Both fit equally well, and in trying to decide which one, I thought back to "The Hobbit" or "There and Back Again."
I always swore I'd never do a subtitled piece.
I decided to do a subtitled piece anyway.
I've been doing a lot of 'nevers' lately.
It's not a sequel to "Unfolding," though it takes place relatively soon afterward. There will be the familiar cast of OCs from that story: Thaddeus Dimas, Antoine Radson, Preston Tucci, and new faces as well. I'd like to add this story's rated M for adult themes, though nothing more explicit than what I've already shared here. I'd rather err on the side of caution when choosing ratings.
~ Muse
Waylon Smithers sat down in front of his laptop in his room at Burns Manor. It was evening, the sun having just dropped behind the western edge of the estate. Memories of the past Spring and early Summer still seemed surreal, like some sort of dream. The early months had mostly slipped by without his attention. Summer lengthened, and August came to a close, bringing the faint whisper of autumn on the breeze. Through the lazy drone of night insects in the fruit trees on the grounds, there was that cautionary tang in the air, the scent of leaves getting ready to change from green to gold.
Smithers could never put his finger quite on what it was: that nondescript and sublime sensation that came even on the hottest days. Somewhere, in the distance, one of the peacocks called out into the still air. That haunting, primitive call… there was something Smithers liked about it. He found it soothing.
The peacocks were his; a little indulgence that Montgomery Burns had eventually given in to. You ask so little, Burns remarked over dinner, and this is your request? Peafowl? Absolutely not, Waylon. I can't have them running pell-mell about the grounds. Burns shook his head.
Smithers smiled inwardly. It seemed Burns could never say no to him for long. By mid-July, Smithers had his peacocks. It wasn't that he had even badgered Burns either. He'd only asked once or twice that he remembered.
He had been sitting in his office at the Springfield nuclear power plant when Burns stalked in and said brusquely, without preamble: Your peacocks anxiously await your attention at the manor. You'd best get home and tend to the sophistic brutes post-haste, before they make a complete mess of my gardens.
Ah, Monty Burns, always the one with the sweet words, Smithers laughed. At least now he knew how Burns' words were designed to keep his true feelings from showing. Smithers gave Burns a wink. I'll corral them immediately, sir, he replied as he packed up his bag.
Burns didn't return the wink, but his expression softened ever so slightly, eyes crinkling at their edges. See that you do, Waylon. Now, begone with you. He made a flipping gesture with his hand, and strode back to his office.
There was still a level of master-and-servant that they feigned at work. Smithers wasn't sure how much anyone at the plant believed the illusion these days, but neither he nor Burns had any interest in changing their public façades.
Smithers listened to the birds calling to one another in the savory night air. He stretched his arms above his head, hearing the satisfying series of cracks as he arched his back. Burns was around here somewhere, probably reading on the veranda with the hounds (and one small terrier, that seemed none-the-wiser to the hazards of sleeping under Burns' chair). Smithers got up, and padded over to the balcony. His room faced north, overlooking the back acres of the estate: the hedge maze, the gardens, the fields and rambles beyond. Beyond that, the forest lay, an inky shadow in the deepening twilight.
Sure enough, Burns was down there, pointed nose buried in a book. Of course he didn't have any light. Smithers shook his head, with loving pique. The man might have the eyes of hawk, but reading at night was sure to strain them.
Smithers grabbed his lighter off the table, and padded next door to Burns' bedroom. He lifted an oil lamp off Burns' nightstand, lit the wick, and carried it downstairs.
"You shouldn't read in the dark," he chided softly, coming up beside his beloved friend and companion. "You'll ruin your eyes."
Burns looked up.
"Bah, don't be such crepehanger, Waylon. Why, I could shoot the spots of an owl at a hundred yards under nothing but faint glow of the waning moon."
Smithers set the lamp on the table, and pulled up a chair. "That might be, Monty. But these days the spotted owl is endangered, I believe."
Burns snorted. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, and pulled the lamp closer. "There. I am now reading by your bedratted and unnecessary lamp. Is that good enough for you?"
Smithers leaned over and gave Burns a quick kiss on the cheek. "Absolutely."
Burns made a sound of annoyance, but didn't move away. "Don't get soft on me, Waylon."
Smithers stood up, pushing his chair in. "You don't need to worry about that, Monty," he replied with a smirk, and headed back upstairs to his room.
Waylon Smithers had taken his time organizing his room when he moved in. It had been a gradual process initially fraught with mixed feelings. The packing and sorting had been an emotional process, more than he would've expected. Once, many years ago, his room had been belonged to his father. After his father's death, Burns, in one of his more desolate moods had the room sealed from the main hall, leaving only a secret passage from a small linen closet. Almost everything his father owned was just as it had been decades before.
Smithers had been in that room once, one strange night, when he'd still lived across town. He'd come to the manor to tuck Burns in bed, but the older man had been irritable and preoccupied. He'd showed Smithers the room, but then quickly changed topics, as if there was still too much for him to say.
Neither man ever spoke of the secret room again.
When Smithers left Burns and Springfield for a job out east, he never expected he'd come back to find a place for himself at the manor. Burns, apparently, had other plans. He'd opened the room up, and had it made ready, even going so far as to have Smithers' belongings brought over from his apartment.
Finally, Burns had asked, more begged, Smithers to come back.
Remarkably, Smithers said yes.
The rest, as they said, was history.
Smithers ran the fingertips of his left hand over the white gold band on his right ring finger. It was the ring Burns had given him. Burns wore its mate on his own right hand.
Consider this a promise, Burns explained after Smithers had settled in to life at the manor. Someday… his voice trailed off, and he looked away, eyes distant.
A promise? Smithers probed gently.
Damn it man, I'm not good at expressing myself, Burns snapped. Yes, a promise. That I shan't ever leave you, nor send you away. That someday, I'd like to… well, when the time's right, I would like to present you with a ring just for you… Burns coughed and wrung his hands. Bah! Look, Waylon, don't go anywhere, and I won't tolerate it if you try to propose to me. After all I've put you through, I demand nothing less than to be able to plight my troth to you forevermore. Burns had held up a warning finger. Don't you dare get any silly notion in your head to take the lead in that matter. And, when the time comes, I expect nothing less than a yes.
Smithers resisted the urge to say something teasing at that moment. His mind swam with witty remarks, from daring to flirty. Eventually, he decided on something safe. Monty, you know I'd never be able to say 'no' to you. He gave Burns a wink.
Burns blushed, and tried to hide it. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a remark about Smithers making the moment awkward. His eyes, however, gave him away. No amount of grumbling could hide the joy that sparkled behind those blue orbs. Burns took Smithers' hands in his, and gave a squeeze, before turning on his heel and wandering off.
Smithers watched him go. That man, that dear, capricious, and unfathomable man. Ah, could I love him more? Smithers thought warmly.
Apparently, Smithers realized, he could. Each day he felt his feelings deepen a bit more; not just deepen, but grow and evolve. The days he spent at the plant, he found he was able to concentrate in ways he hadn't for years. He no longer got the same nervous excitement whenever Burns walked by.
That sense of anticipation, and fear, had been replaced with satisfaction.
Smithers no longer hung on Burns' every word or gesture, hoping for a sign of affection. He didn't need to. He knew how Burns felt about him, the man had said so himself. And so, finally able to focus on his job one-hundred percent, Smithers felt peace at work he wasn't sure he'd ever known before.
After work, he and Burns would head home, sometimes in the same car, or sometimes driving separately. It didn't matter as much anymore. Smithers didn't feel rejected when Burns wanted to drive himself; and vice versa.
At night, after dinner and their evening acts had been completed, Smithers would occasionally slide into bed next to Burns, and they'd fall asleep in each others' arms. Some nights Smithers slept in his own room; and on those occasions, Burns would often join him there.
Smithers had always imagined the prospect of physical intimacy when he lived on his own. He was no stranger to amorous encounters. Especially those where very little time passed between the first meeting, and a night spent together.
It was different with Burns though; far different than he ever imagined. While he still found Burns' svelte form and aquiline features incredibly attractive, he was starting to realize there was so much more.
Perhaps it was true what Burns had accused him of: obsession, rather than love.
Well, true once upon a time that is. Smithers had never lived with someone he loved like this before. His encounters, fun, but ultimately frivolous, left him unprepared for the depth of quiet passion that came with the simple things: reading together in the study or on the veranda, drives to work in the morning, taking meals together.
Smithers hadn't realizes the deep satisfaction that could come when Burns curled up against his side at the end of a long day. Those moments, where there was nothing sexual, were at times the most intimate of all, Smithers realized. In those instants, Smithers found a connection had grown, far more intense than some mere earthly pleasure.
He remembered the first night he'd shared Burns' bed. They'd kissed, yes; and Burns traced his fingers across Smithers' bare chest in ways that left the younger man's skin sizzling with electricity. But they hadn't done more. Not yet, Burns said, as he pulled Smithers' head against his own naked chest, and ran his fingers through Smithers ash-grey hair. He traced the contours of Smithers' neck with his lips and whispered, I hope you understand.
Smithers had let his own hands run across Burns' lean-boned frame, and nodded. For the first time, in all his years, he'd finally found a man worth waiting for. To be this close, he realized, was actually enough for now. I understand, Monty, he murmured, listening the long-lived heart beating so fast. Burns' heartbeat. There could be no sweeter lullaby in the world. Not even the eerily beautiful songs of his peacocks down by the forest.
I understand completely, he'd thought as he drifted off to sleep, cradled in Burns' arms. And I wouldn't want it any other way.
So thinking, Waylon Smithers rose and prepared for bed. Monty would be up eventually when it suited him. Smithers washed up and stripped down to his trunks. He threw a soft teeshirt on, and slid under the covers. Goodnight, Monty, he thought as he turned off the light.
Charles Montgomery Burns read by the light of the oil lamp for a bit longer after Smithers left, then checked his watch. It was about time. He cast a furtive glance up towards the back of the manor. No sign of Smithers anywhere, and his room was dark. Good, good.
Burns got up, stretched, and tucked the book under his arm. He had a phone call he was expecting on his private line. Very few people had that number. He had a secure line in his private study, a room where even his Smithers wasn't always welcome. It was where Burns carried out his most clandestine affairs.
He let himself in, locking the door behind him, and grabbed a glass flask off a shelf by the mantle. Reflectively, he poured himself a small snifter of brandy, and sat down at his desk, awaiting the call.
He didn't have to wait long. His consociate was always right on time. The phone rang, once, and Burns snatched it up before it had a chance to ring again. "Good evening, Thaddeus," he purred.
"Ah, Monty, good evening to you," came the reply; the voice bearing the faintest hint of a Grecian accent. "I trust this day finds you well?"
Burns nodded, not that the man on the other line could see. "It does," he replied carefully.
Thaddeus Dimas, a so-called 'atom baron' of Plateau City. Many years ago, he had worked out a lucrative arrangement with Montgomery Burns, in exchange for owing the Springfield magnate a few favors. Burns had called in one to have Dimas take Smithers under his wing for several weeks. It had been necessary, but not easy. Both Burns and Smithers had learned far more about themselves than either man had planned.
"I need to move some more," Dimas started, his voice with a hint of urgency.
"How many," Burns asked.
"Four assemblies."
Burns did some quick math in his head. "About three tons?"
"Five thousand, eight hundred pounds," confirmed Dimas.
"That's rather more than usual, isn't it?"
Dimas gave a nervous chuckle. "I've had a few assemblies that I'd been sitting on for a while, you know, until things settled down."
"Should I expect trouble?" Burns asked cautiously.
Dimas gave another half-laugh. "No, no. I've already taken care of the paperwork. I just need a place, you know."
Burns knew indeed. Alas, the only unfortunate thing with nuclear energy was the spent fuel rods left over. Fortunately, he'd bought himself several dozen acres, and mineral rights, in the alkali flats west of Springfield. There, he'd set up a tenuously approved ISFSI; an independent spent fuel storage installation.
His storage site, which he referred to as "AlkaliStark," had been licensed by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, by several inspectors Burns had paid handsomely. The name was something Burns coined upon first looking over the site. It's so barren, stark, he thought. And so, AlkaliStark was born. As long as no one looked to carefully, and he wasn't expecting anyone to, it was a perfect facility to dry-store the spent fuel assemblies. His below-ground site provided him a tidy source of income, and the promise of favors from a very select clientele.
Thaddeus Dimas, mister "by-the-book" himself was one of Burns' biggest clients. Thaddeus hated the prospect of over-crowding his cooling ponds. He viewed the risk to be too great, regardless of what the NRC had authorized. After the attacks in New York City, the idea of re-racking his spent fuel assemblies was simply unacceptable to him.
Dimas had learned about Burns' little repository from his father. Hat in hands, Thaddeus Dimas had approached the Master of the Atom, and asked for permission to use Burns' site.
At first, naturally, Burns denied such a thing even existed. The idea of me owning a private ISFSI? Burns asked, laughing. Banish the thought, boy!
Thaddeus had persisted, and finally Burns relented. Young Dimas knew too much. It was better for Burns to acquiesce than to risk Dimas revealing too much information to the wrong person. Burns knew the license to his storage installation was worth slightly less than the paper it was printed on.
Burns made sure to keep his repository a closely guarded secret, even from Smithers.
No; especially from Smithers. If anyone ever came after him in the dead of night, be it the Federal Government, eco-terrorists, or some foreign government, Smithers' genuine innocence of AlkaliStark might very well be the thing that saved him from a fate worse than death.
Burns wasn't entirely sure sometimes that his AlkaliStark installation wasn't some sort of secret death wish, but that was a question he tried not to ponder too often; lest it keep him up at night.
Dimas wanted to make use of Alkali for a few more fuel rod assemblies? Burns had the space. They'd done this before. Dimas would fly in with several thousand pounds of casked assemblies tucked neatly into the belly of a 737 aircraft. They'd unload at the Springfield airport, then move everything by truck to AlkaliStark.
How do you manage to pull this off?, Dimas had asked him one night as the casks were unloaded and moved into storage.
Burns gave Dimas a wicked grin, eyes glinting dangerously. If you live long enough, eventually everyone owes you a favor… sooner or later. Dimas had cracked his knuckles, and said nothing. He watched as the last of the casks were wheeled underground, and sealed in concrete silos.
"So," Burns purred into the phone, "when were you thinking of coming out this way?"
"I'm hoping for a date next week," Dimas replied optimistically.
Burns checked his calendar. "That would work for me." He paused and drummed his fingers on the top of his desk. "Are you bringing anyone with you?"
"Only my personal assistant," replied Dimas. "He'll be anxious if I don't bring him along. I don't need him suspecting anything."
"No one else?" Burns asked.
"Not a one," replied Dimas.
"You are not going, and that's final!" Thaddeus Dimas bellowed at the blue-haired man standing in front of his desk. Antoine Radson, his personal helicopter pilot had somehow gotten wind that he and his personal assistant were traveling to Springfield. Dressed as informally as ever, a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts, with a pair of tennis shoes to complete the ensemble, he'd come bounding into Dimas' office, eager to be included.
Dimas had not been amused. This was supposed to be a covert trip to North Tacoma. How on earth did Antoine even find out about it?
"Aww, come on," begged Antoine. "Springfield is where Waylon lives! I haven't seen the guy in forever." He pointed over to the thin, brown haired man that stood just off Dimas' left shoulder. "He's going!"
Dimas loomed towards Antoine, broad shoulders squared, massive hands splayed across the top of his oak desk. "Of course my personal assistant is going. Explain to me why I would need a helicopter pilot when I am taking a jet."
Antoine raised his hands, palms up. "You wouldn't need a pilot, but an extra set of hands might come in handy."
"For what, exactly?" demanded Dimas.
"Stuff," replied Antoine shrugging. "Things."
Dimas made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a growl. "I'm not paying for your ticket, Radson."
Antoine tilted his head, expression optimistic. "I can buy my own, sir. No problems there."
Dimas slammed his hands on the desk twice, in sheer frustration, then pushed himself up to his full height. "Fine," he relented. "You can come. But you'd better be prepared to work. This isn't some pleasure trip."
Antoine beamed, tan face lighting up. "Absolutely, sir," he agreed. "I'll give you one-hundred and ten percent. Whatever you need." He nodded his head deferentially. With that, he backed out of Dimas' office, bobbing his head as he went.
Dimas sighed, dropping his substantial bulk into his chair. He motioned his personal assistant over to him. "What am I going to do with that man, Preston?" he asked, shaking his head.
Preston Tucci pushed his glasses further up on his nose and raised his chin. "I don't know why we keep him around, Mister Dimas. The man is positively inelegant." Preston glanced at his boss. "If I may be so bold, sir, I think at times you are overly indulgent towards him."
Dimas raised a bushy eyebrow at Preston.
"Antoine may be unorthodox, but I trust him completely. He's been with me for years, and he's a blessedly fine pilot." Dimas spun his chair to face Preston fully. "Do you think it's easy to find a man of his caliber willing to work solely for one venture?" Dimas laughed dryly.
Preston pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"He's a certified instructor, Preston. I have to pay a pretty penny to keep him exclusively mine. And he's worth every cent. So don't question my decisions on what I allow, or don't allow, my employees to get away with. Is that understood?"
Preston lowered his head. "Yes, sir."
Dimas smiled. "There's a good lad. Now, make ready those travel plans; and tell the missus I'm going out of town for a few days."
Preston whipped out his stylus and jotted down some notes on his tablet. "Shall I send her any note, sir? An apology for the sudden departure, perhaps?"
Dimas dropped his chin into his palm and drummed his sausage-like fingers along his jaw. "Flowers," he replied after a moment. "Send her roses, and a note from me saying I've been called away unexpectedly."
"Roses, yes sir," Preston nodded, adding a few more instructions to his list. "Any particular color?"
Dimas shrugged. "Pick something sympathetic. Other than that, I don't have an opinion. Oh, and best make it two dozen this time. She's still mad over that last trip I took to Florida."
"Two dozen. Understood, sir."
Preston scurried off to place the order.
Preston Tucci had to admit his boss, Thaddeus Dimas seemed rather nervous as the three of them took the limo to Albany International Airport. Preston was also perplexed as to why they were flying out of Albany instead of the much closer LaGuardia airport in New York City. It seemed like a peculiar choice.
Dimas kept glancing periodically out the window at the tractor trailers that seemed to surround them on the interstate.
Preston assumed his boss was probably uncomfortable by the way they almost intentionally appeared to box their limo in. Preston shook his head and made a face. Those teamsters had no sense or respect, riding as close to a passenger car as they were. Why, it was as if those trucks were travelling with them.
Antoine, on the other hand, looked completely at ease. He was wearing a pair of broken-in blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and playing some handheld video game console. He tapped his tennis shoes on the floor absentmindedly. Preston shook his head and looked out the window, but moments later his eyes were back on Antoine. It was that blue hair, that was it; and that was all.
Antoine had taken the liberty of dying his hair, beard, even eyebrows blue some time ago, and decided to keep them that way. Usually he wore his hair down, but today he'd pinned it back in a bun. Preston scoffed. Man-buns. What an absurd style. He'd be glad when that trend died out.
Preston had no idea the man was a certified fight instructor. That had surprised him. Preston wondered what else he didn't know about Antoine. He'd never even bothered to read Antoine's file in Human Resources. Preston realized he really knew nothing about Antoine beyond the setting of work.
As they drove, Preston found himself wondering what exactly Antoine was like once he left for the day. Sure, Preston had often joined Antoine and their fellow coworkers for dinner at a nearby bar after work, but that was still a work-like atmosphere. Despite the playful teasing, everyone still wore the demeanors they carried at the plant.
Did Antoine go home at night to a quiet little apartment? Did he have a spacious house? Preston found himself wondering if Antoine had a special someone on the side. He'd never heard Antoine talk about anyone. When they'd all go out together after work, Antoine was known for checking out the girls, but Preston had never seen Antoine actually talk to any of them. He'd sit at the table, and joke with the rest of the gang, then head out alone when the evening wound down.
Preston shook his head, and pulled out his tablet to make sure the flowers had been delivered to Mister Dimas' wife. He remembered the order very clearly, except he went with three dozen long-stemmed roses in various shades ranging from yellow to pink instead of the two dozen Dimas requested. He'd also taken the liberty of adding a 'personalized' note from Dimas. My dearest Evita, I'm sorry that I shall not be with you during this day that celebrates our marriage. I know these roses are can't make up for my absence, but rest assured, my dearest, I shall make it up to you when I return. All my love, T.
Preston glanced surreptitiously over at his boss.
It wasn't the first time Preston had sent Evita Dimas roses at her husband's request, to make up for one of his absences. It probably wouldn't be the last. Preston wondered, as he told the florist what to write in the card, at what point Evita Dimas would no longer be able to forgive.
Thaddeus Dimas leaned back in his first class seat, glad to finally be on the plane. He watched casually out the window and was finally able to relax a bit. Several flat-back cargo trucks pulled under the belly of the plane. There was a faint thump as they docked. The plane swayed slightly. He watched as his precious reactive cargo was loaded without fanfare.
It was ironic, he mused, that in these days of heightened security, it was easier to fly with his 'cargo' than it was to ship it overland. In the old days, trains or semi-trailers did the job quite nicely. These days, every tollbooth had a video camera; each passenger had a cell-phone that could record strange things on the road. No, he thought quietly, it was far better to travel by air. Quicker too. The less time on the road, the less chance of anything getting discovered.
Dimas removed his headphones and clucked his tongue. "Preston!"
Preston looked up, bright and attentive as always.
"Make sure we have transportation arrangements when we arrive in Springfield. I'm sure you do, but I want nothing less than a limousine. A large SUV would be ideal. I trust you can find such a thing?"
Preston's keen eyes twinkled. "Absolutely, Mister Dimas. I've already got reservations." He paused, a faint shadow passing behind his eyes. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
Dimas leaned back and shook his head. "No, no." He gestured to the empty seat across the aisle. "But you can go sit over in that side for a spell. I want to put my laptop here," he explained, indicating the seat Preston was currently in.
Preston's eyes flicked from over to Antoine, then back. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Yes, sir." He grabbed his belongings, and vacated his seat, dropping in next to Antoine.
"Good man," said Dimas with a laugh. He tossed his laptop case up on the seat, put his headphones on, and closed his eyes.