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.

Cover art has been created and provided courtesy of Very H Moon, my wonderful friend who has read so many rough drafts, and given me honest opinions on my writing; and is a great artist as well. Thankyou, Very H Moon, for all you've done.

This story that takes place as part of a larger piece I starting working on last summer. After nearly six months, this winter I "killed my darlings" as they say, and broke a tale I'd called The Unfolding Of Waylon Smithers into many scattered ideas across several notebooks. What can I say? In writing, just because the author likes it doesn't make it "good." I am fortunate to have some fantastic beta-readers across the internet who are not afraid to tell me what they really think. I appreciate their candor. It's made all these pieces so much better

I am also fortunate enough that I don't get overly attached to my rough drafts. I'm not afraid to cut them apart, and rewrite them. Unfolding came apart into several little pieces that I fiddled with and fine-tuned.

One such piece grew up to be "Nuclear Attraction," the tale of Waylon Smithers Sr and his relationship with C. Montgomery Burns. I'm very proud of it.

Another became "Winter of My Heart," a one-shot that takes place sometime before the Simpsons episode "The Blunder Years," from Season 13.

Yet a third handful of scraps survived the purge! Resurrected from fragments, they now see the light of day. Here now, I present "The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers."

I hope you enjoy!

~ Muse

Charles Montgomery Burns drummed his fingers on his desk in tense irritation. It was difficult to get things done now that Waylon Smithers was gone. Training these weak-minded knuckle-draggers to do basic jobs like a simple lie to a Nuclear Regulator Commissioner? How hard was it really to fudge some paperwork and leave no trace? Smithers did it all the time.

Smithers' exile was for the best, Burns kept telling himself. Smithers needed to grow, to adapt. If there was ever a chance in hell that Smithers could one day inherit the Burns empire - and really, who else was there? His abysmal son, Larry? Hardly! - then Burns had to make sure Smithers could handle it.

Burns ground his teeth in frustration. He'd been left with no choice but to send Smithers packing. Smithers had grown too close to him. Burns knew Smithers was capable of accomplishing things on his own, but time after time the man fell back into his old subservient routine. If he can't even handle standing up to me, Burns mused, then how on earth can he stand up to anyone else?

He had to do something about the situation. Enter Thaddeus Dimas, of Plateau City. Thaddeus was the owner and proprietor of the Plateau City Nuclear Powerplant; and New York state seemed far enough away that Smithers wouldn't merely hop on the next train back.

Burns knew Thaddeus wouldn't try poaching Smithers for himself. The man was too independent for that. He was one of those pesky hands-on types who liked to know how to run every inch of his nuclear plant. Thaddeus was "blue-collar rich," as he put it: always wanting to know everything from maintenance to legalities.

Burns made a face. Getting one's hands dirty like that? No thank you!

Thaddeus and his freewheeling management was fine… somewhere else. Thaddeus' father, Lukas Dimas had been the first in his family to even go to college. Lukas and Burns met at Yale, and formed a lifelong friendship. Lukas graduated and went on to become an engineer. He eventually married, and had a whole litter of children.

They were a smart family. Burns appreciated their work ethic. He was surprised when Thaddeus decided to get into nuclear energy. (Lukas said it was partially Burns' influence.) Over the years Burns and Thaddeus had formed an amiable rivalry.

The last time Burns and Thaddeus met was at a convention in Chicago.

Tell me your secret, Monty, Thaddeus said laughing. Every time I see you, you look the same as the time before. Pray tell me, what's your trick for youth?

Burns gave a wry smirk. Staying single.

Ah Monty, I've heard of your exploits, Thaddeus teased.

Burns gave a toothy grin and shook his head. Tad, you haven't heard anything. Why, I'm the most eligible bachelor in five states, and I intend to keep it that way.

Immortality for celibacy? Not a choice I'd make, but hey, I'm not you! He grabbed Burns shoulder in a firm squeeze.

Burns delicately pried Thaddeus' thick fingers from his narrow arm. That's right, my good man, you're not. And let's keep it that way, eh?

Through his entire exchange with Thaddeus, he'd made a point of ignoring Smithers. It would never do to have people start gossiping behind his back. Smithers, of course, hadn't understood. His feelings were hurt. Later that night, he'd asked Burns why he hadn't been introduced at the convention.

Burns put on his most indignant face. Smithers, he said with a faint sneer, I don't introduce my furniture to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who enters my office, do I?

No, sir.

So if I don't introduce people to my desk, what on earth makes you think I'd introduce you? Why, Burns continued, what would I even introduce you as? Pitiable boot-licker?

Smithers had looked so crest-fallen at that point Burns forced himself to turn away. He couldn't bear the pained look in those eyes.

Burns shook his head, snapping himself back to the present. Ah, what indeed could he introduce Smithers as? Assistant? Friend? The piece that completes me? He shook his head. None of those were quite right. He'd told Thaddeus that Smithers was merely one of his many assistants. Let the man believe what he wanted to.

Burns wondered how Smithers was doing in Plateau City. He'd been expecting a phone call, a letter, something that indicated Smithers was missing him. Finally, he broke down and called Thaddeus himself. How's Waylon doing on his training? Is everything going okay? He tried to keep any hint of concern from showing in his voice.

Oh, he's a sharp one, Thaddeus replied. I can see why you want him to learn. I think there's some rivalry between him and Preston, but they'll sort it out.

Who's Preston?

Oh, Thaddeus replied cheerfully through the line, he's this year's model when it comes to my personal assistants: an eager-beaver from Brown. Not a Yalie, but a good kid nonetheless.

Burns scowled, glad Thaddeus couldn't see his expression. I see, he replied carefully. Well, my good man, I intend to stay informed with Smithers' progress. And if he's failing to do so, I expect a full report from you.

Thaddeus' gave his familiar laugh. Burns found it quite grating. Or what, Monty? He's a grown man and he can make his own decisions!Another chortle. What would you intend to do about it.

Tad, he is my employee, and I'll do whatever I have to. The conversation was at an end. Burns hung up the phone and tented his fingers. What would I do? he thought stoically. For Smithers? I'll do whatever it takes.

Why had he even considered sending Smithers away in the first place? Well, it had all started last week with a very unpleasant dream.

It was a repeat of the event forty years ago that claimed the life of Waylon Smithers Sr, except this time, there was no one to stop the reactor from melting down. Burns tried to run, but the fires quickly overtook him. He felt his skin blister and catch fire. He tried to cry for help, but the superheated air rushed into his lungs, burning him from the inside out. He choked as his skin bubbled and cracked. The pain felt all too real…

In his dream, he died.

The next thing he was aware of was lying on a stainless steel mortician's table. There were lamps overhead, and wires connected to every part of him. He tried to scream, but the ventilator hose down his throat prohibited it. He tried to sit up, but found his body unable to move. Even dead, there were straps tying down his arms and legs.

There were voices in the shadows around him. He recognized them as the voices of Waylon Smithers, both Jr. and Sr, talking quietly.

I thought he'd pull through, the younger Smithers said quietly.

Smithers Sr. replied, but Burns couldn't catch it.

I loved him, said Smithers Jr. I always thought love would be enough.

So did I, replied Smithers Sr. It's time to say goodbye, son.

The faces of the two Smithers appeared in Burns field of vision.

Goodbye, Monty, said Smithers Sr, face devoid of emotion.

Goodbye, Mister Burns, Smithers Jr, intoned; tears began to fill his eyes.

Burns watched in horror as the two Smithers, in unison, reached for the switch on the ventilator. I'm still alive, he tried to scream. I'm right here!

He heard the whisper of the Smithers Sr.'s voice. If it were heaven… it's a reflection of a heaven… just a reflection.

He won't be there, replied Smithers Jr. He'll never come. It's too late.

There was a click, a whir, then the air flowing into Burns' lungs stopped. He felt himself drowning under the weight of his own flesh. He was still screaming into his own head as the men pulled a white sheet up over his face.

Burns awoke, this time screaming aloud. He greedily sucked air into his lungs, threw the blankets off. He hauled himself up and sat, rubbing his temples. He hadn't had a dream like that in a long time. He could barely remember the details, only the mood. He felt shaken, and physically ill; a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. He went to his bathroom and dry-heaved into the sink.

It was Monday morning, technically. He gave up on the idea of sleep for the rest of the night, and sadly hauled himself up. Time to call in a favor. He had hoped this day would never come, but now it seemed unavoidable. The visions haunted him.

As the day wore on, they eroded his ability to find any measure of peace. He started dreading Smithers' presence.

That dream threw the prospect of Burns' mortality into stark relief, and he found he couldn't move on. It seemed like every day Smithers spent near him was another day wasted for his assistant.

Waylon Smithers, Jr. woke early, but not from the result of bad dreams. He kept a busy schedule. He got up, took care of his dog then headed to the gym to get in a workout before going starting the day.

After showering, he dressed in his work clothes and headed to Burns Manor. He was expecting to get his boss roused and fed. Surprisingly, Burns was already awake, and in a very taciturn mood. Burns shoo'd him away, and resisted his help at every step; even going so far as to insist that he drive himself to work that morning.

Smithers expressed his reluctance, but Burns insisted, and threatened to set the hounds on him if he didn't leave. Sighing, Smithers got back into his car, and drove to the plant.

He sat in his modest office at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant and sorted through several stacks of letters and notices. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission and OSHA had sent over a litany of problems that needed to be corrected. One notice included the phrase: "plant appears to not have been upgraded since 1978." Another classified the nuclear plant as an "imminent liability." Somewhere in the pile was a document that stated their insurance would be cancelled unless everything was fixed.

Burns being moody, administrative disasters…

Why did everything always come down on his head at once?

Smithers sighed, and considered lighting a cigarette from the pack he kept hidden in his desk. He rarely smoked, but some days the stress could get to him. He had to keep them hidden. Periodically, Burns would go through his desk. Whenever he found cigarettes, he threw them out and proceeded to give Smithers a lecture about the evils of tobacco. Why Burns even cared, Smithers had no idea.

Mister Burns was not the easiest man to work for. Though it was arguably a labor of love, at least on Smithers' end, the onslaught of duties could be never ending. Sometimes, secretly, he wished that Mister Burns would allow him to hire his own assistant.

He brought up that idea once. Burns had quickly shot it down. How else could I ever expect anything to be done right if you weren't doing it, Smithers! Burns snorted. I suggest you put such foolishness out of your head this instant. I'd sooner replace you than have two sets of hands messing in my affairs.

Burns knew how to make words hurt. He wielded them like a razor-edged blade.

Lately, it had been harder for Smithers to stay excited about his job. It was only reasonable, he figured. Burns had been particularly hostile all weekend, banishing him from the Manor and insisting on being left alone. Burns often got ill-tempered around the middle of March. This spring, Burns seemed to be even more callous than usual.

By the time March rolled around, he barely spoke to Smithers, save for the occasional order. Smithers' attempts at cheering the man up were met with hostility, ranging from subtle to downright overt.

Smithers wasn't sure why. Regardless, morning was the icing on the cake.

Smithers sighed and got himself another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long day.

As much love as he felt towards his boss, he never could quite understand the man. Much as he tried to get inside Burns' head, the man would block him. Occasionally, he'd see - or imagined he'd seen - the hint of something more lurking behind the man's eyes.

There were times Burns seemed almost tender towards him. Then almost immediately after such incidents, Burns would turn around and lash out with a cutting remark, specifically designed to wound.

Smithers had to admit after so many years of knowing Burns, then developing unrequited adoration for the man, that he was finally starting to lose hope. He had read the books on relationships, everything from coping with unreturned feelings to the art of seduction. He'd alternated trying to move past his feelings, and trying to express them. It was a vicious cycle, and it was wearing him down.

This simple truth of the matter was after nearly twenty years, he, Waylon Joseph Smithers, had grown tired of trying. Here he was, plodding away through a mountain of paperwork, and for what? A brief moment with Mister Burns before the man decided to put him down again?

Smithers had to admit his life might have gotten a little too focused on Burns over the years. It probably wasn't healthy.

Nor was smoking.

Nor drinking to solve his problems.

Smithers took his glasses off and put his head in his hands. He muttered a brief prayer, wondering if God even heard him. Please Lord, make this all work out, somehow.

Burns' voice interrupted his quiet appeal.

"Sleeping on the job, Smithers? Why it's only nine AM. Perhaps I should just fire you and replace you with one of those trained monkeys from the mail room."

Smithers raised his head and looked at Burns. He was tired, so tired, of everything.

"Perhaps you should, sir," he replied, defeated. He turned his back to his boss, and returned to the endless heap of notices on his desk.

Burns blinked in surprise. Normally, such a threat elicited a frantic response from Smithers. One of those simpering please don't! I need you spiels that were both disgusting and flattering at the same time.

Not today.

Smithers seemed distracted, bored even… then Smithers had turned away from him! That's not how things were supposed to work between them. C. M. Burns was the only one allowed to do the shunning!

Burns walked back to his desk in stunned silence. What was going on with Smithers lately? Burns thought they had an understanding. There were certain ways things had be between two men like them. He sat down and tapped his fingers on his desk pensively.

"Smithers," he bellowed, "get in here!"

"Coming, sir," came the reply from Smithers' adjacent office. The man emerged, and made his way over. Burns noticed he was moving without the usual spring to his step.

"Sit down," Burns instructed.

Smithers flopped into a chair across from Burns and sat lethargically.

"What is going on with you? You've been distracted and aloof, and downright not yourself."

Smithers straightened his back. "I'm fine, sir."

Burns tented his fingers. "This is a definition of 'fine' I'm unfamiliar with."

"Alright, then I'm not fine," Smithers replied back, a hint of irritation in his voice.

"I can see that."

"Mister Burns, is there a point to this? I'm already behind and it's not even eleven yet. I need to get back to my paperwork."

Burns tapped his fingertips together. "Such attitude, Smithers," he snapped. "It's uncharacteristic of you, and quite frankly it is notappreciated. You're here to do a job, and one job only."

("-Actually it's about 2,800 little jobs," muttered Smithers.)

Burns continued. "If I can't trust you to do it, then what good are you to me?"

Smithers sank back down into the chair. "I suppose then I'm nothing to you."

"Bah, there you go, being melodramatic again. I don't have a need for theatrics, but I think I know what the problem is. It's working here, isn't it?" Burns gestured to the office. "You've been here for nearly twenty years, and yet you're still in the same role today as you were when you started! I daresay that ball and chain could start to chaff anyone's ankle after so long a spell."

Smithers said nothing, merely stared dully.

Burns winced inwardly. He had been hoping for some sort of response. Time to pull out the big guns.

"I have a solution for both of us. You see, Smithers, I appreciate the self-made man. You're too complacent here. It's my own fault. I've made things too easy for you, let you stay soft. Fortunately, I've been thinking about things like this lately. The other night, Smithers, I realized how fragile and fleeting life is. I'm not going to be around forever. I need someone to take care of the old girl when I'm gone."

"You mean the nuclear plant, sir?"

"Of course I do. What other 'girl' do you think I'd be talking about? No, Smithers, I've arranged your transfer and taken care of everything. You should count your blessings. I had to pull a lot of strings to get Thaddeus to take you on as his Chief of Plant Operations. You'll be leaving tomorrow."

Thaddeus Dimas. He ran a nuclear generating station out in New York State, in a Springfield-sized town known as Plateau City. It was so-named for its location, along the palisades of the Hudson River.

"Leaving, sir?" Smithers voice rose an octave.

Burns winced at the shrill tone. "Yes. Frankly you've been a bit of a 'Debbie-Downer' lately, and I had a backup plan in case you got on my nerves."

"You're sending me away!?"

"Yes. You'll be flying out to a town between New York City and Albany. You'll be working for an old friend of mine."

"What about my apartment?"

"I'll have my lawyers terminate your lease."

"What about my dog?"

"Take the animal with you, or it can stay in the kennels at the manor. I don't care."

Smithers threw his hands in the air. "I can't believe you've been planning to get rid of me, just like that! I'm not some stock you can buy or sell at your convenience."

Burns narrowed his eyes. "Oh, can't I? Because right now, I'm feeling positively bearish on 'Smithers Inc,'" he replied sardonically.

Smithers gave a plaintive sound and jumped to his feet. He began pacing frantically, running his hands through his spikey grey hair. "How could you?"

"I made phone calls-"

"No!" Smithers wailed. "I mean, how could you do this to me?"

Burns pursed his lips. He couldn't be honest with Smithers. He couldn't say: because I'm too close to you. He definitely couldn't say: because I love you. Such things would only make Smithers cling to him more. He needed to break the bond between them quickly and harshly. He'd send Smithers to Plateau City, have Thaddeus teach him. Then, maybe someday, he could ask Smithers to come home.

"I can do this to you because I own you," he replied with all the indifference he could muster. "You're a resource, a tool. A microscopic cog. While you are necessary to the future of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, and quite possibly my entire legacy…" he paused, considering Smithers' expression carefully. Time for the final blow. "In words you so doggedly avow, you presuppose one simple truth: you are not important to me."

Smithers buried his face in his hands and sunk to his knees. "Why?" he moaned softly. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I need-" Burns started, then hastily bit down. He'd almost said the truth. "Because sometimes one needs to take calculated risks to get ahead. You say you wonder why I don't give you the title of Vice-President? Well, your loyal doting is all very flattering, but how can I respect that? I need a man I can respect to leave at the helm when I die!"

"You don't respect me."

"No; and I'm giving you a chance to change that. Go out in the big world. Make something of yourself. You've never even lived outside of Springfield, for god's sake! You had such potential, and you're wasting it on your fatuous obsession with me!"

Burns drew himself up to his full height, theatrically. "I never asked for your lamentable affections, boy! It disgusts me. I asked you to do a job, and you're failing at it. Here's your chance to redeem yourself. Take it… or clean out your desk."

Please, Burns prayed silently, frantically, please don't say you'll quit. Please go, and come back a stronger man! I need you, but you have to be able to be my equal. It's all I wanted from you. Why can't you ever see that? He clenched his jaw and scowled, lest his face reveal his desperation.

Smithers knelt on the floor, stunned. He wasn't sure he could stand if he wanted to. His legs felt like they were made of jelly. His heart was in his stomach. Mister Burns hated him! After everything he'd done for Burns, the man was repulsed by him.

Smithers felt as if someone had cut his stomach open and was slowly eviscerating him. Why? WHY? He screamed inside his own head.

Why was he never good enough? Why hadn't his aunt and uncle wanted to keep him? Why had his stepfather mocked him? Why did everyone he tried to impress wind up regarding him as a sniveling nobody? He wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to throw up.

Burns wasn't saying anything, or even making a move towards him. Utter indifference. Burns was impassively standing behind his desk, probably debating between whether to call security, or just release the hounds.

Smithers felt crushed. He gasped for air like a man sinking in quicksand.

He should give up, he thought. He should tell Burns off, quit and pack up his things. But then what? He'd go home to his apartment, and wake up several days later when the whiskey ran out. Beyond that, what would he do? All his skills revolved around his obsequious relationship with his boss.

Perhaps traveling halfway across the country could give him the fresh start he needed. Maybe, just maybe, he could come back as the man Mister Burns wanted him to be. Or, perhaps he could remake himself into the man he wanted to be.

"Fine," Smithers mumbled thickly. "I'll do it."

"Do what," Burns asked ominously.

"I'll go to the Plateau City plant."

Burns steepled his fingers. "Excellent. Go home, get packed. I'll tell Thaddeus you'll be flying out first thing tomorrow morning. Oh, he'll be very excited to have you, I'm sure."

("At least somebody is," Smithers muttered beneath his breath.)