I can't really say I intend to make a name for myself on this site, I'm just blowing off some repressed shipper steam with this. There is not much Krabappel/Skinner appreciation on these interwebz, what the hell is the matter with you guys? Quality shippin', right there. Also, my headcannon is that Smithers and Edna are bros. Well, it's more of a pipe dream really. Is it me, or do they just not have any friends at all? I like to think they'd get along, seeing how their desires and experiences parallel. Anyhoodle, here's the first chapter of something that, in all likelihood, will never be finished. Enjoy.

"This is going nowhere really. I haven't had a real date in months, and my most recent ended when I caught him stealing and eating birth control pills out of my purse. I think he was trying to kill himself, but I can't be sure exactly. All I know is that they hauled him back up to the funny farm where he belongs." Edna took a sip of her drink and glanced down at the floor, letting the sordid reality that was her love life sink in. After a brief moment of silence- aside from the usual background bar chatter- she looked back up at her conversational partner. "Gad, you're the only person I can talk to these days." She rested her cheek in her palm and propped her elbow up on the table.

Waylon uttered a small sound that carried no particular meaning other than "I hear you, and I sympathize." His eyes settled on the corner of the room, and he swirled his somewhat femme-y looking cocktail around in his glass. From the sourly tired look on his face, it was evident that he was consumed by both of their troubles.

In a town full of functional alcoholics, Edna wasn't sure what was more depressing: the fact that she could only manage to connect with one of them, or the fact that she was surprised when she discovered that there was another soul in Springfield who she could actually relate to.

All too reserved, Waylon's romantic exploits were easily as fruitless as her own, likely more so. He was gay, and he existed with one foot perpetually out of the closet, only poking his head out occasionally to see if his employer was looking, but of course he never was. He was also a binge drinker, only delving into supreme drunkenness when he was truly inconsolable. At any other given moment, he was generally controlled and responsible with his alcohol consumption. One could always tell when he was about to go off, not just by his behavior, but by his poison of choice. He never drank hard liquor unless he really wanted to get hammered; his casual drinks were almost always frilly queer drinks. Edna, on the other hand, had decided long ago to be drunk as often as possible, though she was taking her sweet time at the moment. She'd made a vow of decency this evening, for her friend's sake.

It was Thursday night. They always met for drinks on Thursday nights. It was a time they reserved together to clear the air and get their troubles out of their systems. They'd talk about their ex-spouses, work, previous boyfriends, poor choices, and all too often Mr. Burns as well. These regular meetings were gloomy, but they were also refreshing, and they kept that sort of lugubrious subject matter from seeping into their conversations outside of Moe's tavern. Why they met on Thursday nights specifically, and how they fell into such a narrow scope of conversational topics was anyone's guess. It just sort of fell into place that way.

The rest of the evening went as it usually would. Drinks were sipped and grievances were aired, for sanity's sake.

"Heating bills... could barely pay this month..." "She keeps calling the house but I just don't know what to say." "...found yet another tack on my desk chair this morning, but you wouldn't need Scotland Yard to figure out who..." "...but Mr. Burns wasn't having any of that, you know how headstrong he can be..." and so on. However, the end of the night eventually reared it nasty little head, and the more-or-less sober pair decided to call it quits.

"I really have to get back to it. Mr. Burns is working late tonight, so I have to drive back to the office and take him home," he said, glancing down at his wristwatch and tugging his jacket on.

"Yeah, I have some work ahead of me too. Those papers won't grade themselves."

Krabappel's tone was a little more strained than Waylon's. He practically skipped to work every day; Edna's career was more akin to a test of endurance than a personal passion.

Smithers looked up and adjusted his glasses as he spoke. "Do you need a lift? I pass your building on the way back to the plant; I might as well see you off."

Edna shrugged. "Might as well." She was a little tipsy anyways; walking home alone could be hazardous.

The drive was short lived and silent, save for some inaudible mumbles emitting from Waylon's radio. The volume was nearly muted.

After a few short minutes of navigation, the car came to a clean halt directly in front of Edna's apartment complex.

"Thanks for the ride. Same time same next week?" She closed the car door and peeked in through the unrolled car window, smiling for the first time all night. This was a welcome change, and it brightened her friend's mood a little.

"Actually, I'll be out of town for most of next week. I'm accompanying Mr. Burns on a business trip to Hong Kong. I'm free Monday though. Why don't we break up the routine and do something not quite so, ah..." he paused, searching briefly for the right turn of phrase, "...suicide-inspiring."

That particular sentence cap was one of those 'I'm-only-half-kidding' deals. Edna's sense of humor may have been rubbing off on him a bit.

She quirked her eyebrow slightly and folded her arms across the spot where the window had recently been rolled in. "Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

The man's smile grew ever so slightly, and he started to talk with his hands. "I'm glad you asked. There's an art gallery opening in Shelbyville; it looks pretty promising. Pet Photography Through the Ages."

An art show! Mrs. Krabbapel hadn't had a chance to enjoy something so intellectually stimulating as fine arts in ages, and while the usual nights of drinking herself silly or following Smithers into off-beat gay discotheques was always a fun pass-time, this offer was a much-welcome change.

She rose to her full height and offered a shrug and a little simper. "Well, it would be nice to shake things up a little. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I left town, even for a night."

Waylon beamed. With Mr. Burns's constant stream of demands always dogging his heels, he rarely got to go on outings of his own choosing.

"Pick you up at six?"

"Sounds fine to me."

"Great! See you then," he exclaimed, failing to contain his enthusiasm. It was heartening to see him bounce back from their morose evening so quickly.

After a few standard goodbyes, Edna retired to her apartment, and Smithers drove off, mood uplifted considerably.

His jovial disposition faded quickly, however, when he entered Mr. Burns's office.

"Smithers!" he barked, pounding his fist down on the desk. "You're fifteen minutes late! What is the meaning of this delay?"

Waylon passed through the doorway and into the expansive and ever-hollow office, humbled by his boss's anger. The only source of light came from the overhead fixture in the hallway behind him and the desk lamp at Burn's side.

"I'm sorry sir, I had to-"

The decrepit mogul rose sharply from his chair and slapped his palms down on the counter top with force. "I don't want your tatty excuses! You've got a lot of nerve Smithers, barging into my office so late! I ought to dock your pay for this shortcoming."

"I'm sorry sir," he repeated. "I'll budget my time more carefully in the future." 'And possibly drink less.' He felt that he owed it to the other motorists out on the road to wait in the bar until his buzz wore off. This was the main reason for his tardiness.

"Hmmm, and perhaps next time you should spend more time keeping tabs on your watch and less time lollygagging with that- that- flapper!"

"Hu?" Smithers was confused momentarily before realizing just was his boss was getting at. "Oh, you mean Mrs. Krabappel." He didn't bother with reminding his boss that flappers had gone out of style over sixty years ago.

"Yes, that coquette you've been cavorting about with," he stepped out from behind his desk as he spoke, wagging his finger with emphasis. "Mark me Smithers, that woman is trouble. I wouldn't invest my emotions too seriously in that one."

Waylon rolled his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh. "She's not a coquette sir, and we're not dating. Edna is my friend."

"Poppycock! Have you seen her skirt? Why, you can very nearly see her knees! Imagine!"

His assistant sighed and shook his head. No matter how lovely Smithers may have deemed his employer to be, his world-view was dauntingly antiquated, to say the very least. In fact, he received fervent complaints from angry feminists and other varying sorts social activists daily, and despite his own personal affiliation with the majority of those causes, Waylon shredded every one.

"Sir, that style of dress is perfectly acceptable in this day and age."

Mr. Burns grit his teeth together harshly. "Oh, I'm sure," he said in the most sarcastic tone he could manage. "What else are women wearing these days? Trousers? Do they wander freely in the streets without petticoats?"

Waylon would have laughed at his employer's stupefying obliviousness if it wasn't so disconcerting.

"But sir-"

"Pipe down!" he interrupted again. "I've had just about enough of your smart mouth Smithers. Bring me home immediately." He waved his hand dismissively and started towards the door. His assistant followed him obediently. "Yes sir."

Mr. Burns was silent for the entire drive home, and that meant that Smithers was silent as well. When dealing with Mr. Burns, one never spoke unless spoken to. That is, if the speakers knew what was good for them. Waylon really didn't mind. He was perfectly happy to follow whatever needless guidelines his boss insisted that he live by. There were a lot of Burns-isms, in fact, which he could easily overlook that would make any other living human consider both homicide and suicide simultaneously.

Smithers was at his beck and call 24/7, willing to lie to the authorities, stretch safety regulations, indirectly assist in murder, take down any legal team that tried to win its way into Monty's money, and even contradict a rather large percentage of his own core values in order to keep Mr. Burns happy.

His therapist seemed keen on the idea that he had a case of Stockholm syndrome, but he'd decided to ignore his doctor's constant urging for treatment. He didn't want to believe that the incredible passion he felt for his boss was caused by mental illness, psychological torture, emotional conditioning, or anything other than... well, he wasn't really sure what it was that kept him coming back to Burns's side so faithfully.

Was it the older man's winning personality?

Well, not exactly.

His affectionate attitude towards his fellow man?

That would be a big 'n-o.'

Boyish charm?

Ha! No.

Charismatic composure?

Not quite.

Dashing good looks?

Hmm. That had to be it.

Smithers looked up at his beloved C. Montgomery in the rear-view mirror.

His finely shaped spindle of a nose protruded from his angular face and curved to the pointed tip, it's jarring length only accentuating the size of his glowing bald head. His eye sockets cradled two beady peepers like two stoic infants in two fleshy bassinets, and a slight overbite peeped past his delicately thin upper lip. His rounded shoulders were perpetually arched and he- well... that wasn't it either.

Even Smithers had to admit that he really wasn't exactly Mr. Handsome. Come to think of it, the man had virtually zero positive traits. There was no explanation for why Waylon should feel this way about such a person. Maybe it was all the years of caring for him, tending to his every whim. Maybe it was because he'd seen a side of Mr. Burns that no one else could ever see. He saw him through times of despair and worry, happiness and anger, prosperity and bankruptcy, sickness and health...

At times, he felt as though they were married. Maybe that was it: a strong, almost spiritual bond bulked up over many years of spending their days side by side. They were emotionally conjoined on a deeper level, perhaps they were even soul mates.

...Or maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Perhaps they shared no such connection, and he had only been fooling himself for some twenty-five years now.

Even after he had returned his employer to the manor and prepared him for bed, the now somewhat distraught Waylon Smithers continued to ponder, but the only good answer he could really come up with to answer his self-addressed query was "just because." Being a man who's first instinct was always to rely on logic, he found these results frustrating. In spite of the contradiction, however, he had also become a sentimental man over the years, and he had promised himself long ago that he would never look into his doctor's diagnosis. He had been in love with Mr. Burns for over twenty years, and something as trivial as mental illness was a terrible reason to stop loving him, or so he had decided.