Waylon Smithers bit his lip nervously, clutching the morning's financial newspaper in one unfeeling hand and balancing a breakfast tray on the other as he glanced in to the office. Mr. Burns was sitting at his desk dozing off, as he always was at the pre-coffee start of a weekday. Often, Smithers would indulge himself, allowing a minute or so to watch Burns' head droop to his chest and dreaming that he was the pillow of choice, but that was a luxury for good days. Today was definitely not a good day.

It was never pleasant to deliver bad news to Burns. There was no telling, at the very beginning of the morning, what sort of mood he would be in, or how well he would take it. Sometimes, he would dismiss the most dire of disasters with a flick of his hand, and others the slightest hiccup would result in a condescending fit of screaming and Smithers coming to what felt like the brink of losing his job.

This week... well, the sooner it could be condemned to the annals of history, the better. Burns had driven Smithers mercilessly, utterly dismissing his dedication except to snap at his imperfections. Smithers, stressed and unhappy, had in turn taken out his frustrations by being particularly harsh on plant employees, and he had heard rebellious muttering following him through the corridors as the week progressed.

He knew he should reign in his nitpicking, if only because it was foolish to hold the entire plant to the stringent standards he set for himself. They didn't love their jobs or their employer in the same way he did, and they didn't feel the Wrath of Burns in the same way he did either. Burns was waspish and liable to lash out at the nearest thing when displeased; unfortunately, the nearest thing was almost always Smithers.

Heh... he didn't often think this, but TGIF.

With every cruel remark Burns hurled at him, Smithers felt the noose of unemployment threaten his neck – and that was nothing compared to the personal hurt he felt at hearing the man he would give anything to please disparage him as easily as if he were campaigning for the hated Socialists. Smithers cared for little in life as much as he cared for Burns. Fearing the consequences, he tried his best to keep this fact hidden from his employer, and had somehow been largely successful. Yes, the rarity of praise made it sound all the sweeter, but, when some of his deepest desires swirled around the man touching his cheek and whispering honeyed words in his ear, hearing Burns' sharp tongue berate him was nothing short of torture.

By nature, Smithers was a romantic, passionate dreamer, but it was hard to maintain a fantasy based on hopeful idealism when the subject could be so unpredictably hostile.

Sometimes, Mr. Burns would enter a dark mood and linger there for days on end. Sometimes, as much as Smithers loved to spend every minute in Burns' company, it took all his self control to walk onwards into whatever humiliation he would be subject to. Sometimes, it felt as though Burns knew everything he was hiding, and tailored his words into perfect barbs designed to pierce where it hurt most. So far, this week had felt like one of those 'sometimes', and this morning was not shaping up to be much better.

Swallowing to steel his nerve, Smithers entered the office, his expression fixed in a conciliatory smile.

"Good morning, sir. Here's your breakfast! I've done you gull's egg omelette and waffles." He slid the tray beneath Burns' nose and unfolded the newspaper to the front page. Burns barely glanced at it.

"I wanted a baked portobello too. Where's the portobello, Smithers?" he asked irritably, picking up the fork and gingerly prodding one of the omelette slices as though testing it for explosives.

"Underneath the waffles, sir, so the juice will soften them up a little, just as you like it."

"Excellent." Burns started eating. "Mmph! You've outdone yourself this time, Smithers, this is wonderful!"

Smithers' smile became a little more genuine; compliments from Burns were uncommon, and not passed out lightly. If Burns was happy enough to appreciate his cooking, then perhaps he was in a good mood this morning...

"How are my stocks?" asked Burns through a mouthful of waffle. Smithers winced internally; it was the question he had been dreading.

"Well... not great, sir, there was a – a market wobble on the Nikkei and it's –"

Burns' eyes narrowed. "Oh, stop blithering. How much have I lost?"

"Um, I – well, it – at the last projection, sir, around twenty million was wiped from the va–"

Smithers ducked as a plateful of the town's most expensive omelette flew past his head, dripping hollandaise onto his jacket.

"What!?" Disregarding the upended meal in front of him, Burns slammed his hands down on his desk, rising from his seat with shoulders hunched and spluttering indignantly. Though he was physically frail he still cut an imposing figure. Smithers drew away in fear.

"Don't hit me, sir!"

"Bah, you know well enough that I don't have the energy to take it out on you before elevenses!" However, one long finger hovered over the trapdoor button on the desk. Smithers noticed and swiftly stepped to the right.

"It's not a total loss, sir! There's a chance that the market will recover before this evening, and it looks like the FTSE Hundred is still –"

"I don't give a damn about your Footsie, Smithers! Next you'll be telling me that that upstart Roosevelt has won at the ballot and wiped billions off the value of child labour!"

"Um..."

"Ugh–tch–" Incandescent with rage, it was all Burns could do for a moment to sputter incoherent noises as he composed himself. "Smithers! I've lost my appetite. Take this," he indicated the half-finished breakfast tray, "and dispose of it, and then take yourself down to the hounds' kennel and let them savage you for a while."

"But–"

"Do as I say!"

With the softest of sighs, his heart in his throat and his stomach somewhere down by his knees, Smithers picked up the tray.

"Yes, sir."

oOo

The day had not improved.

By the time Smithers staggered up to his apartment door that evening, the moon was already high in the sky, half hidden behind a blanket of cloud. He was exhausted.

Quite often – most days, in fact – his work duties did not finish when the offices at the plant closed. Burns, feeble bordering on infirm, wanted assistance in almost all areas of his private life, and Smithers, desperate to spend as much time as possible with him, was all-too-willing to oblige.

Occasionally, Mr. Burns would decide he wanted to patronise one of Springfield's many upmarket eateries. Smithers enjoyed those nights, as Burns would book a table for two and, on a good day or when he was particularly pleased with Smithers' service, would even buy his meal for him. If the atmosphere was right, and with the help of a little champagne, Smithers could delude himself into pretending they were on a date. More than once, he had caught himself leaning across the table, lost in Burns' intense (if slightly confused) gaze, hoping to capture a kiss...

On the days like today when Burns did not wish to venture out, he had come to expect Smithers would prepare him a gourmet dinner. Smithers knew his cooking skills had improved exponentially through meeting Burns' demands, but it took so much energy to make a four-course meal that, by the time he got home, he barely had a chance to prepare anything worthwhile for himself and often ended up with a microwaveable canned soup or instant cup noodle. Besides, it was increasingly rare that Burns seemed to care for the dishes he poured his heart into making, and his enthusiasm to face the daily chore of feeding himself waned with each snide remark.

"What do you want," Burns had said that evening upon being presented with a stuffed partridge, clearly still seething about his financial pitfall, "a medal? Stop fishing for compliments, you mindless factotum, and get out of my sight before I really lose my temper!"

And so ended another working week.

Preparing himself a drink, Smithers checked his wristwatch. Hmm, ten thirty. Actually fairly early for him to get home on a dinner night, particularly for a Friday; generally, Burns seemed almost as reluctant to let him go for the weekend as he was to leave.

On the one hand, he was tired, but he wasn't sleepy. He was filled with an annoyingly frenetic well of nervous energy, and he knew that, if he dragged himself into his bed now, he would lay awake for hours brooding and over-thinking.

Running one hand through his greying hair, Waylon started up the Grinder app on his phone. He needed a quick release, without any emotional investment. He needed, just for one night, to not be Waylon Smithers, the man so hopelessly in love with Mr. Burns. At least his inability to hold down a stable relationship had left him free to seek no-commitment gratification whenever he pleased.

When it came to positions, Smithers was fairly flexible – in mind, at least, if not in body. He'd contentedly fill whichever role – or hole – was asked of him, but a slew of failed relationships and long-suffered fantasies had left him with a small yet definite preference for bottoming. He'd found the versatility useful for hook-ups.

Unenthusiastically scanning the icons which popped up, Smithers selected a few likely-looking usernames and dropped quick greetings. He wasn't picky, not tonight. Names like hungtop129, thiccboiFUX, hardp0und, and SUCK_M4STER all stood out as probably not looking for anything serious. Within half a minute he was proven right; hardp0und had replied and his message cut straight to the point.

hiya stats 188 6ft top u

Hi. 175, 5'9" versatile.

lol u a twink u type like1

No. Then, as a follow-up, I suppose closer to an otter. Early forties.

older than ilike bt 175 u must b slim so nvm u ok 2 btotom wld like u ride my dick

I don't mind.

urs or mine

Can you come to mine? I've been drinking so I can't drive.

kk can get poppers or g if u want

G?

ghb its gd can get u some ull go for days makes u feel gd

No thank you. I'm not planning on a weekend bender. Just something quick, no strings.

u mind if i take ?

I'd rather you didn't. Is that going to be a problem?

kk np ill just bring lube then cu urs in 30mins then send ur addy

Yes. I'll wait on the corner under the street lamp. See you later.

oOo

Slowly, the world came in to focus. Someone was moaning, and there was music playing in the background. As pain coursed through his entire body, Smithers realised the fretful moaning was coming from him. The music... the music was coming from his radio alarm. Slowly, as consciousness continued to seep into him and the room eased in to vaguely recognisable shapes, he realised he was sprawled semi-naked over the sofa in his apartment. Moving slightly, his foot came into contact with an empty bottle, which chinked softly as it rolled onto the floor.

Ah... this must be the morning after the night before.

"Urgh." Levering himself awkwardly into a sitting position and trying to ignore the wave of sickness the movement caused, Waylon groped around for his glasses. The lenses were smeared with god-knows-what and, after wiping them absently on his unbuttoned shirt, he slid them back on and grimaced. Being able to see the mess in his living room hadn't helped at all. It didn't ease the pounding behind his eyes, and his mouth still tasted of semen and stale cigarettes.

What the hell had happened? Smithers could only make out faint snippets of memory after he had met his hook-up on the street corner and returned to the apartment with him. Most of the hazy flashes involved him vomiting, and dizziness, and pain, and a feeling of – a feeling of –

Waylon scrunched up his eyes, trying to remember. It only worsened the throbbing in his poor head.

He looked around, squinting blearily through the musty daylight streaming through the open slit of his curtains. He was alone. His date – if he could even be referred to as a date – was long gone.

Slowly, Smithers stood up with the vague intention of making himself some coffee and finding his trousers, but his legs wobbled beneath him as he took several unsteady steps forward. More of the room swam into focus. There was a blanket draped halfway off the sofa close to where his feet had been. It was stained with vomit and some blood spotting. Smithers felt a swell of uncertainty grip him. Vomit was expected, especially after a heavy night, but the specks of blood were more than a little concerning. Was that his?

With another quiet moan, Waylon sank to his knees and held his head in his hands. God, he hadn't had a hangover like this before. Every bone in his body ached. He hadn't been that drunk, had he? Yes, he'd had a knock of scotch or three to help facilitate a one night stand, but that was nothing he hadn't done before.

"G'morning to you listeners just sleeping off last night," the radio announcer was saying in a cheerful voice that, in that moment, Smithers despised. "For the rest of us, it's a glorious sunny Sunday lunchtime."

"Nn–what?" A sudden panic grasped Smithers through the nausea. He'd met hardp0und on Friday...

Where the hell had Saturday gone!?

A lump rose in his throat, which had already felt as though it was on fire. Smithers tried to swallow it down, but choked as white-hot pain seared through him. He fell to all fours as the bile rose. Sobbing for breath, Smithers heaved until long after there was nothing left to come up. Panting hoarsely, with tears streaming down his bloodless cheeks, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared blankly at the soiled carpet.

Calm down, he berated himself. Calm down. The DJ just made a mistake. It's still Saturday.

Fumbling some underwear on, Smithers staggered back to the sofa and tried to find his phone. There was another brief moment of panic as the thought that hardp0und may have stolen it flitted into his mind, but this was quickly dispelled as he saw the corner poking out from the pocket of his discarded trousers. Blinking his vision into focus, he checked the time with trembling hands.

12:37pm. Sunday.

Well. Shit.

Clamping his hand over his mouth to try and stop himself retching again, Smithers stared at his phone's screen until it flicked off as though trying to change the display by sheer force of will. No, no, no...! He'd lost an entire day – how could he have lost an entire day?

Buried under a mudslide of anxiety, it was all he could do to crouch on the floor with his head in his hands, groaning. This made no sense. Nothing made sense. Oh God, his head was whirling. Where was the proof Saturday existed? Why was he missing over thirty hours of his life? How was that even possible?

It took several minutes for him to push himself to his feet and stagger haphazardly towards the bathroom, staring straight ahead and barely seeing anything at all.

oOo

An hour later, Smithers was sitting at his dining table nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. After a hot shower to rinse away the smell of guilt and a long gargle of mouthwash to get rid of the last dregs of whatever he had put in his mouth, he was beginning to feel a little less like a soiled dishcloth. After pulling on his boxers and shirtsleeves and running a comb through his tousled hair, he'd washed his face again in the hopes the cold water would stop his eyes from stinging so much, but it had only been a partial success. Although he desperately needed to, he hadn't yet shaved; in his current state he didn't trust himself with anything sharp. With the way he felt, he was liable to slit his own throat even with a safety razor, and he already had too many bloodstains to clean up without taking that risk.

It had been another unpleasant surprise to find the scratch marks on his chest and the faint fingerprint bruising around his neck and collarbone - he hadn't felt them and wouldn't have noticed them at all if he hadn't caught sight of himself in the mirror. It seemed at least someone had had a good time. The thought caused Smithers some measure of grim humour.

Standing in the shower, with the hot water running over his body, some of the myriad of aches had dissolved. He finally felt human again, though his head still hurt, and he couldn't yet face the thought of eating anything.

Somehow, he'd managed to find the coordination to check his cupboards and make sure that none of his belongings were missing, but it seemed that hardp0und had only been interested in sex. It was a little blessing.

Waylon sighed miserably and sipped his coffee. No matter what mental gymnastics he did to try and deny it, there was only one possible conclusion: he'd been drugged. Hardp0und had drugged him and done... whatever he had done, and had left.

The 'whatever he had done' was more than a little bothersome, if only because he couldn't remember it at all, but Smithers was angrier about the drugging. He'd made a point of refusing narcotics, and would have easily called the whole thing off if hardp0und had insisted. The concept of chemsex was not alien to Smithers and he had no problems with other people doing whatever made them happy in the privacy of their own bedrooms, but it was not something he had any interest in himself, nor would ever care to partake in. At least he had a vague idea of the night's events from the pattern of bruises on his thighs, for what cold comfort that was.

With all the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution, Waylon dragged his gaze around his apartment and cringed, gripping his mug tighter. It would take hours to clean up the mess, and that was without the persistent aches in muscles he had forgotten existed. At least most of it seemed to be various belongings which had been knocked out of place. One of his sofa-side reading lamps had shattered and the shade was torn, but it had been cheap and was easily replaced.

More irritating, and certainly more upsetting, was the staggering number of stains. While no stranger to bodily fluids, Smithers thankfully was not often confronted with such an obscene amount. Most of the stains were vomit, some were probably semen, and a couple – the most worrying, in fact – were definitely blood. With a soft groan, Smithers massaged his forehead briefly. Vomit and semen were one thing, and he was far from squeamish, but he much preferred blood to remain inside the body.

The vomit was almost certainly his; he doubted that hardp0und had become blackout intoxicated, and the few memories he could find of the evening almost all seemed to involve some sort of re-acquaintance with his dinner. The semen – who cared? That was the least concerning aspect of all this.

The blood flecks... well, there wasn't much he could do about that, past launder the stains out and try not to think too much about it. If it was his blood, as he suspected, then he had bled, and more fool him for his lack of caution. He would just have to be careful for the next few days, and keep an eye on things. Smithers was reluctant to seek medical help; there were too many embarrassing questions that could be asked and he had no particular desire to try and explain himself. He certainly wasn't going to speak to the police. Their reputation amongst Springfield's gay community was better than it could be, but still not as good as it should be, and Smithers had no desire to inflict hours of Chief Wiggum's insensitive questioning upon himself.

Besides, what was there to report? Hell, he'd consented to the sex (probably), though it hadn't played out quite how he'd intended. All he could report as a crime was a drugging he wasn't even certain had happened, and he'd have a hell of a time proving that when Springfield's 'finest' almost certainly couldn't administer a toxicology test to save their jobs. Running one hand through his hair distractedly, Waylon sipped at his coffee again. It had gone cold.

Ugh. All he could hope for was that he'd at least had the best damn orgasm of his life. Hardp0und owed him that much, at least.

For the while, though, now that his headache was finally starting to recede, it was probably time to think about making a start of cleaning up. He had his normal weekend chores to remember as well – now that he was a day down, it was only a matter of hours before he needed to get ready for work in the morning, and he was still feeling sluggish and drowsy. Perhaps if he started a laundry cycle now...

There was a buzzing vibration from the table. With a heavy hand, Smithers grabbed his phone and checked it, thinking it might be Mr. Burns requiring his attention and, for once, desperately hoping it was not. His throat constricted unpleasantly as he saw the notification.

It was a short message from hardp0und: thx cutie cu soon

As Smithers stared at it, the icon flashed briefly to indicate a new message was being typed, and his phone vibrated again as it was received. Hardp0und had sent a photograph, and the sight of it caused the bottom to drop out of Smithers' stomach altogether.

It was a shaky picture of his own face, clearly taken on a phone camera. Waylon grimaced, sickened. It wasn't the penis in his mouth which bothered him most, nor the hand tangled in his hair, nor even the fact that he had no memory at all of this photo being taken. It was his pale, lolling, bloodless face and unfocused, half-closed eyes with glasses askew. He looked dead.

Smithers shuddered. How could anyone get off having sex with someone who looked – and acted – like a corpse? For all his constant questioning of his own sexual tastes, at least Mr. Burns was alive.

His fingers danced across the phone's screen as he typed.

I told you no chems. What the hell did you do to me?

For several dragging minutes, Smithers watched the 'typing' icon flickering as hardp0und composed his reply. Then, without warning, the chat disappeared entirely.

Heh. Looked like he'd been blocked.

Sliding the phone across the table in disgust, Smithers massaged his temples with one hand. His other reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging on his chair, guiltily gripping the familiar contours of the cigarette box. Waylon had quit smoking fourteen times, and picked the habit up fifteen. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried or how many patches he used or how many months he went without the slightest craving, in times of stress his hands always reached for a cigarette. Normally, of course, 'times of stress' meant 'going against Mr. Burns' wishes,' but there was nothing normal about this weekend.

With clumsy, shaking hands, he drew one of the cigarettes into his mouth and patted down his pocket for a lighter, but, with his peripheral awareness still at worst-hangover-ever levels of impairment, he caught his elbow on the edge of the table. The carton, with its lid still open, was jolted from his loose grip, and a near-full box of smokes scattered onto the floor.

Glaring at the spilled cigarettes bad-temperedly, Smithers clenched the filter between his teeth until the pressure caused his head to hurt. For a moment, he hovered at the brink of slamming his fist down into the table out of sheer rage, but the fury subsided as quickly as it had come and, burned-out, he collapsed forward with his head in his hands, letting out a soft whimper of frustration.

He should have expected everything to go like this. It was a fitting end to a terrible week and, like Mr. Burns always implied, he only had himself to blame.

Raising his head from his hands at last, Waylon stared at his mug of cold coffee. His head felt the thought before it formed and screamed at him to stop, the ache pulsing through his temples, but he grit his teeth stubbornly.

To hell with this. He needed something stronger to drink.