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.

Warnings: none

Author's Notes:

This story takes place in the rather fluid timeline of the Simpsons somewhere before "The Blunder Years", where Waylon Smithers learns what ultimately happened to his father. It obviously happens sometime after my fanfic "Nuclear Attraction," but I don't personally think you need to read that piece to get this tale. I've always had a particular interest in the thoughts and motivations of the characters. This is a one-shot, yes; and it can fit in wherever you like it.

~Muse

Waylon Smithers was as familiar with Burns Manor as he was with his own home, or so he liked to believe.

He spent most of his time at the manor, tending to various matters and to the needs of his aging boss, Montgomery Burns. Burns' true age was somewhat of a mystery, even to Smithers. Oh, Smithers had a rough idea that the man had close to a century under his belt, but for the most part Burns didn't show his age often. Perhaps he wasn't as strong as he might've been once, and occasionally he was prone to impulsive notions, but considering how most would fare at that age, he was in remarkably good condition.

Also a mystery to Smithers was how old one of Burns' favorite guard dogs, a savage fellow by the name of Crippler, was. Burns claimed Crippler was "at least sixteen," but Smithers seemed to remember that same dog being around when he started working for Burns. That had been over two decades ago.

Crippler had been around back then.

Smithers still had the scars on his calf as a reminder.

Though somewhat frail, Crippler was still as ill-tempered as ever. He also hated Smithers. Come to think of it, most of the Dobermans Burns casually referred to as "the hounds" hated him. They'd been set upon him more than a few times. Despite the fact that he often fed them, the dogs didn't tolerate his presence at all. He could barely even get leashes on them without risking a few fingers, and forget petting them unless he wanted to get a hand bit.

Burns, on the other hand, could do whatever he wanted with them. For holidays, Burns took particular delight in dressing them up in little costumes: antlers and bells for Christmas, rabbit ears for Easter. One year he'd even had them wear little Uncle Sam hats and beards for Independence Day.

Smithers smiled inwardly. Burns might have his eccentricities to be sure; but there was no one else Smithers would rather work for.

It was evening, and he was doing the final walk-through of the manor. Part of his jobs included making sure everything was in order, getting Mister Burns to bed, then heading home himself.

There, he'd tend to his own dog, a plucky little terrier named Hercules, who was every bit as friendly as the hounds were mean. Some days, when he knew he'd be at the manor for a while, Smithers would bring Hercules with him, and let the pup relax in the kennels.

Everything appeared to be as it should be.

He drew the curtains at the end of the residential hall. The last room was the master bedroom, Burn's room: an opulent, Victorian affair that catered to its owner's expensive tastes. Smithers went in and made sure the covers were turned down. It was a bit cold that evening. An additional blanket on the bed would be prudent. He didn't want Mister Burns to catch a chill.

The next door down the hall from master bedroom was a storage closet with some cleaning supplies and linens. It was located quite a distance away, but Smithers never gave it much thought. Everything in the manor was spaced out.

Smithers selected a cozy fleece blanket from a shelf, draped it over Burns' bed, and went to find his boss.

Burns was downstairs in his private study. He would often retreat there when he didn't feel like being bothered. Smithers tiptoed up to the closed door and knocked gently. There was no answer. After a minute, he turned the knob and slipped in.

At first, he thought his greatest fear had come true: his cherished Mister Burns had died! The man lay sprawled back in his massive, claw-footed chair beside the fireplace. His mouth was open slightly, head at an odd angle, and a book he had been reading lay carelessly on the floor beside him.

Mister Burns!, Smithers almost shrieked, fearing the worst. All that came out was a frightened squeak. At the noise, Burns gave a slight snore, shifted position, and resumed sleeping. Smithers took a moment to calm his racing heart before entering closer.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a dull glow around the room. Smithers stooped down to pick up the book and put it back on the table.

The peculiar texture of the pages caught him by surprise. They were slick, like plastic, and slightly crinkly. He crouched by the fire, holding the book so he could see.

It was an old photo album.

Smithers paused in bewilderment. He didn't know Burns to be the sort to keep pictures. Although he rarely looked through Burns' private possessions, the curiosity was overwhelming. He teased a bit of life out of the fire with a poker, and settled down, photo album held in the meager light.

Most of the pictures looked like there were from around the 1950s, maybe the 1960s. It was hard to tell for certain. Here were some photos of Burns Manor. There, pictures the nuclear plant in various stages of construction. A few shots of various automobiles in Mister Burns' extensive collection. It wasn't anything particularly interesting to Smithers, and he was debating putting the book up, until one photo caught his eye.

It was two men, standing side by side, arms around each other's shoulders. The men were leaning against each other smiling. Smithers immediately recognized a much younger Mister Burns… and his father.

He turned the page.

There were more pictures of Burns and his father on the following pages. One of his father looking very proud, seated atop a dark colored horse. The next photo was of Burns, posed on a grey mare. Burns was dressed in a formal equestrian outfit. His father merely wore dungarees and a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up.

In one picture was a tall man, in an impeccably sharp suit, staring expressionless at the camera. He had pale blue eyes, and white-blond hair. Smithers recognized him as the butler he met a long time ago.

There were more candid shots of his father; and more of Burns. Occasionally the stern-faced butler was in some of them. In one photo, his father appeared to be teasing the butler, trying to get the man to laugh.

As Smithers slowly made his way through the album, he noticed a change in tone. The focus moved away from cars and landscapes, and centered on the two men. Especially photos of them together.

Here was a photo of Burns and his father sitting down to dinner on the veranda. The pair again, by the Springfield Dam, laughing at some unseen joke. One taken at the manor, a formal shot: each man standing next to a horse and holding the leashes of several hounds...

There were several just of his father.

Waylon Smithers Sr. at a desk, working on a project. Waylon Smithers Sr. out by the gardens.

One that especially caught Smithers eye was of his father looking away from the camera, surveying the power plant from Inspiration Point, hands clasped behind his back. He stood next to one of Burns' classic cars, and wore a Victorian style outfit. It almost looked like one of those 'family heirloom' style photos that would be hung above a mantle.

Smithers reached the final page. He flipped it carefully, and clutched a hand over his mouth.

There was a portrait, family-style, of his father and Mister Burns. They were standing arm-in-arm before a massive marble fireplace Smithers didn't recognize, though he knew it was taken at Burns Manor. Held between the two men, wrapped in a white cloth, was a baby.

Smithers traced the image of the babe with his finger. That's me, he thought in stunned amazement. I was here, at the Manor. Mister Burns knew all about this, and he never even told me!

Smithers clasped both hands over his mouth, and rocked back on his heels. The weight of this new knowledge came crashing down on him. Everything he thought he knew about how he and Burns had met was thrown out the window.

The album slipped from his hands and landed with a loud slam on the hardwood.

Burns woke with a start. Apparently he'd been having a bad dream. His eyes opened in shock and fear. "Get back, fiend," Burn flailed, trying to scrabble away. He looked wildly about, as if expecting an attacker.

Smithers rushed towards him. "Mister Burns, it's me! Smithers!"

Burns shook his head. "You? Ah, well I suppose I should be thankful for that small mercy," he snapped. His eyes fell to the photo album in Smithers' hand. "Where the devil did you get that?" he barked sharply.

Smithers hung his head. "I found it on the floor. You must've fallen asleep looking at it, sir."

Burns scoffed. "And I'm sure you couldn't resist the temptation, eh? Just wanted to see a little peek into something that didn't concern you. Your insufferable nosiness; very disappointing." He held out a hand, made a beckoning gesture with his fingers. "Give it here, Smithers."

Obedient and chastised, Smithers passed the photo album over, keeping his eyes downcast.

Burns snatched it from his assistant's hand, regarded it briefly, then sized Smithers up. There was no small amount of hostility in his eyes. "What gives you the right to paw through my personal belongings like some animal?"

Smithers hung his head, waiting for Burns to order him out.

That command never came.

After several moments of waiting, he raised his eyes.

Burns' face was dimly lit by the fire. Smithers couldn't make out his expression. All he could tell was Burns was watching him intently, fingers tented. Burns appeared to have regained full composure. "How long have we known each other, Smithers?" he asked carefully.

"I guess I've known you all my life, sir," Smithers replied.

"Indeed. But if you weren't aware of it, that hardly counts as knowing." He gestured to an ottoman. "Sit. Tell me your story, then perhaps I shall tell you mine."

"Sir, you already know everything there is to know about me."

"That wasn't a request, Smithers. Now start talking."

So the younger man did just that.

Smithers recounted his childhood. When he was young, his mother had been institutionalized. He spoke of how, when he was very little, he used to live with his aunt Charlotte, her husband Alex, and their two children: Robert and Caroline. Robert was older than him, Caroline younger. He got along very well with Caroline. Robert could be a bully. They fought like brothers, though Robert always won.

When his mother was finally released, Smithers continued, he remembered going to visit her. He'd stay for the day, sometimes overnight.

One day, his aunt and uncle brought him to his mother's house, and told him he was going to live with her. He cried at first. He was scared. He didn't know his mother, and she didn't know him. He wanted to stay with the family he knew. He clung to Charlotte's leg and wailed tearfully.

His uncle, Alex, spoke quietly to him. Remember, Waylon, your mother loves you very much. This is going to be hard for everyone to get used to at first, but she is your mother, Waylon. Give it a day, Alex coaxed. Then, give it two days. It will get easier; I promise.

Wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve, little Waylon Smithers put on the bravest face he could muster, and slowly walked across the threshold of his mother's familiar-but-not single story house.

Smithers told Burns of what they already both knew, his childhood, his less-than-supportive stepfather, and his mother who had a tendency to drink too much at times. Smithers told him about biking across town when he was young. He would tell his parents he was going to play with Robbie, but in truth it was Caroline he wanted to see. They were very close in age, and he had always found it easier to relate to her world.

Dresses, dolls, the more delicate things.

While Robbie and his friends were busy throwing a baseball around, or getting into mud fights, Smithers would play with Caroline's collection of Malibu Stacy dolls. My dad won't let me play with these, he told her. He says dolls are for girls. He wants me to play with GI Manly.

Aren't those just boy dolls, asked Caroline.

Yeah, replied Smithers, but he wants me to play war. I like dressing them up. He doesn't like that.

Caroline nodded. That made perfect sense.

Smithers recounted the one time he came home after Caroline had painted his nails. His step father just about blew a gasket.

What the hell is this, boy? he demanded, grabbing the child's wrists roughly.

Smithers struggled. Ow, you're hurting me!

His step father only tightened his grasp. Boy, you're only hurting yourself. What the hell did you do to your hands?

Smithers continued to struggle. I didn't do it, Caroline did it!

Are they your hands, boy?

Yes!

Then you let it happen!

He dragged Smithers roughly down into the garage. Somewhere in here we'll find something to take that crap off your nails. He shoved young Smithers into a chair. You sit here and don't move, he ordered. He began angrily pawing through shelves of solvents and chemicals he kept for working on the car.

Acetone, he growled, this oughta do the trick. He poured the stinking liquid into a rag, and started scrubbing Smithers' hands with it.

His harsh, abrasive technique was not pleasant at all. Smithers tried his best to sit still. He watched, his feelings a mixture of shame, fear, and anger. It wasn't fair. His step-father could do whatever he wanted. His mother just let it happen. He resented them both for that.

While his step-father scrubbed his hands, Smithers tried to let his mind wander and imagine what his real dad must be like. Smithers might've been nearly ten years old, but he still held out hope that someday his father might return. Maybe, when that day came, he could move in with his father. Surely there was someone out there who would rescue him, he thought quietly.

Smithers paused in his narrative. Some parts were hard to discuss.

Burn gestured to a lamp on the mantle. "Light that. It's getting darker in here."

To Smithers, the darkness seemed much the same as before, but he obliged. He carefully lifted the tapered glass chimney off the lamp, struck a match, and touched it to the wide wick. A demure orange flame sprung to life. Smithers replaced the glass chimney.

Burns nodded. "Better, Smithers; now continue."

"But Sir, you already know the story," Smithers started to protest. Smithers didn't enjoy recalling certain moments from his past. The pain, even decades old, was still raw enough for him. He'd never fully desensitized himself to the ghosts of the past.

"I don't care what you think I know, Smithers," Burns snapped. "I want to hear what you think you know."

Smithers sighed, and continued. Far be it for him to refuse a direct instruction from Mister Burns. He put his hands between his knees, and bowed his head.

"I always kept thinking my father would come back," Smithers said slowly. "I know now that's impossible, but you know how, when you're a child, things 'impossible' things seem real."

Burns didn't reply.

Head down, Smithers didn't notice his boss's face tighten as if in pain.

Smithers continued. "After my mother married my stepfather, I tried to spend as much time as I could out of the house. I went…"

"-You came to the manor," Burns interjected.

Smithers continued to stare at the floor. "I came to the manor, yes."

Burns shook his head. "I didn't know why. Some odd instinct, I guess." He lapsed into silence.

"No instinct," Smithers admitted. "My mother talked about you."

"Oh?" asked Burns with a calculated interest.

"Before my mother was… gone to bed… sometimes she'd she talk about you."

Burns cracked his knuckles.

"She didn't drink often," Smithers admitted, "but when she did, she tended to lose control. My stepfather used to refer to it as being 'gone to bed' when she'd have too much, and pass out on the couch. Before she married him though, sometimes she'd talk to me before she fell asleep." Smithers paused, remembering.

"She'd talk about my father, about how he left, and how no one ever heard from him again, or even his car. She'd swear that you had something to do with it, that you chased him away, or knew where he went." Smithers clenched his hands together tightly. "You can't hear things like that, as a child, and not feel something. I don't know if it was anger or curiosity, or a mixture of the two, but I had to know more about this 'old monster of Mammon' that she talked about."

They both remembered the day when young Waylon Smithers had parked his bike outside the wrought iron gate of Burns' estate one evening, and wriggled his thin frame between the bars. Burns' manservant at the time, an aging German fellow named Johan, had found the boy sneaking by the south terrace.

Johan had been doing a final patrol of the main grounds, around the manor when he heard noise in the brush. Moving with a stealth that belied his long-limbed frame, he snuck up behind Smithers. Initially, Johan had planned to subdue the intruder. Upon realizing it was a mere child, his actions were tempered, just barely.

Smithers didn't felt hands on his collar and didn't have time to scream before an arm was wrapped over his mouth. He struggled, in vain, against the wiry steward. Ruhig sein, Johan hissed in his native German, through tightly clenched teeth. Be quiet. Smithers whimpered. Johan repeated the order in English, giving Smithers a shake for emphasis.

Smithers, no stranger to the wrath of a larger man, went limp. It was the only defense he knew.

Johan half carried, half-dragged the child to the side entrance, by the servants' quarters. He unlocked the door, and threw Smithers bodily inside. Smithers landed hard on his elbows, and skidded on the black and white tile of a modest kitchen; the servants' kitchen.

Smithers rolled onto his back and looked up.

Johan loomed over him, ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair framed by the overhead lights. What do you think you're doing here, boy? he asked in fluent, if slightly accented English. Smithers tried to scuttle, crab-like backward, but Johan snatched him by the ankle and hauled him back. Nein, you are not going anywhere. Speak, before I throw you out and set the hounds on you; or worse, bring you before Herr Burns himself.

Johan was an intimidating figure to many grown men. To a young boy he was terrifying.

I just wanted to see… Smithers began, starting to sniffle.

See what?

Smithers' voice shook. He tried to control it, and lost. I… to see… Mister Burns, he wailed plaintively. His hands slipped, and he fell onto his back. He curled in a ball and sobbed, most undignified.

Johan was at a loss.

He never had any dealing with children, nor any interest in such things. His methods of handling problems were a combination of hard work, silence, and intimidation. Clearly, that was not the preferred choice in these situations.

Now he had a child bawling on his kitchen floor.

He strode over and grabbed Smithers by his shirt collar. Feet! Johan barked roughly, hauling the youth to a standing position. Undignified whelp, stop crying, he growled softly. Herr Burns will see you when he decides it. You shall stay till then. For now, boy, who are you and why are you here?

Smithers wiped his face on his sleeve, and made several hiccupping gulps. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. He bit his lower lip and tried to regain composure. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on words.

Johan pulled a chair over from the table, flipped it backward, and sat down. He folded his arms over the back of the chair and stared piercingly at Smithers. If he was trying to appear casual, it wasn't working.

Smithers wiped his face again, this time with the other sleeve, and tried to stand up straight. It was hard. His stomach was in a knot, and his elbows still hurt from landing on the hard linoleum. My name is Waylon Smithers. I live in West Springfield. I just wanted to see Mister Burns. He sniffed back another tear. My mom talks about him sometimes. She's always mad when she does. He owns the nuclear power plant. I don't know why.

Johan's face was expressionless. Why he owns it?

Smithers shook his head.

No. Why she hates him.

Johan pursed his lips and regarded Smithers from head to toe, sizing the boy up. Smithers felt himself being dissected by the man's stony gaze. It was as if Johan was looking through him, slicing away layers of his defenses and exposing his very soul. It was a most unpleasant sensation. Smithers looked away, but he didn't feel any less exposed.

It was all a very overwhelming experience for a shy, eight year old boy. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible.

After what seemed like forever, Johan stood. He flipped the chair around so the seat faced Smithers. Stay, he commanded, pointing to the chair. You will wait here until I return. Set one foot outside, and the dogs will tear you to shreds. You are lucky I was outside, that I found you first. Johan crossed the humble kitchen, and grabbed a black suit coat off a hook by a door that lead deeper into the guts of Burns Manor. I will inform Herr Burns of your presence. He pointed at the chair. Do not move from that spot.

After what seemed like an eternity, Johan returned. Herr Burns will see you now. He ran a washcloth under some cold water and passed it to Smithers. Wash your face. Make yourself presentable.

He remembered following Johan into the great hall. There, he had been made to stand while Burns slowly descended the floating staircase, dressed every inch the aristocrat that he was. Burns had inspected him, poked and prodded from every angle. Burns had grabbed him by the chin and looked into the boy's eyes. Smithers remembered quite clearly how he felt his body quiver as if electricity were running through it.

Burns cracked his knuckles. "I wasn't sure I heard him right when Johan told me you were here. I remember his exact words: 'young Master Smithers is here.'" Burns shook his head. "He was always quite skilled at the art of understatement. That's something you, Smithers, could take a cue from."

Smithers nodded. "Yes sir." He paused, remembering the meeting. "After Johan's 'pep-talk,' I thought you would throw me to the hounds yourself, sir," Smithers admitted.

"Perhaps the thought crossed my mind," Burns replied flippantly.

A long silence passed between them.

Minutes ticked by. The quiet became oppressive. Smithers shifted uncomfortably.

Smithers looked into the fire. "The first thing you said to me was 'does your mother know you're out at this hour?' Out of all the things you could've asked, and that was it." He gave a weak chuckle.

Burns didn't reply.

Smithers looked up. Burns apparently had fallen asleep again. His head was back, eyes closed.

"Sir," Smithers started, tentatively.

Burns opened an eye a crack. "Blast, Smithers. Are you still here?"

"Uhm, where else would I be, sir?"

Burns snorted. "Where else indeed." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the edge of his chair. "I suppose the rest, as they say, is history. I have no need to listen further to your exhausting narrative. I'm not sure why I even entertained it."

Smithers sighed. ("I was hoping you liked the sound of my voice,") he muttered under his breath.

Burns shook his head as if to clear it. "How long have we known each other, Smithers?"

Smithers shifted uncomfortably. "Up until half an hour ago, I thought it was thirty years, off-and-on. Not well, of course, sir. It would take me a lifetime to truly know you," he added obsequiously.

"Stow the flattery, and answer the question," Burns snapped sharply.

"I suppose now, it appears you've known me all my life."

"Exactly. Since before, technically." Burns shifted his slight frame in his chair. It was his turn to talk for a bit.

"Your mother always despised me, I'm sure you can recall," Burns began. "Did she ever tell you why?"

Smithers shrugged. "Not really, sir."

"She blamed me for your father's disappearance. Oh, rightly so. I was the last person to see your father alive." Burns paused, noting Smithers' horrified expression. "Oh good lord, man! No, I did not have your father killed. What sort of devil do you think I am? I merely, eh, was the last person to… see your father off… as it were." Burns sighed. "He was a good man, your father. He did more for Springfield than you'll ever know. He left, ah, somewhat of an unsung legacy.

(I suppose it's been enough years… perhaps, Burns thought to himself.)

Burns stood, reaching a hand out for Smithers. "Upstairs," he began, "there is something I want to show you."

He felt the familiar sensation of Smithers' arm around him as they walked. He leaned against the younger man for support, and tried not to think about anything. Smithers was truly a blend of his parents. He had his father's looks, but taller and a bit thinner. His eyes were darker than his father's as well. A warm earthen color; in contrast to his father's hazel, or his mother's dark brown.

Smithers might have inherited his father's intelligence, but he definitely hadn't inherited the man's confidence. That much was certain. Smithers was a timid creature, subservient and codependent as hell. Honestly, as tiresome as it could be at times, Smithers' weak nature suited Burns quite nicely. It made it easier to ignore Smithers' heartsick glances; made it easier for Burns not to think of Smithers' father.

There were so many times Burns could see the similarities. He felt it safer to deliberately focus on the differences, and remind himself of all the ways Smithers Jr. was not like his father. It helped Burns keep a level of detachment, kept him from acknowledging feelings he might rather hide.

Ah, but the similarities existed nonetheless.

Like his father, Smithers couldn't hold his liquor. He rarely drank, but like his mother when he did he usually drank far too much, sometimes staying in the bottle for days on end. Such episodes made Burns' stomach draw in a knot whenever he thought about it. The idea of the lad sprawled on the floor surrounded by bottles and cigarette butts made him uncomfortable on many levels. He hated to see Smithers brought low by anything other than what he subjected the man to. Even then, he didn't want to man to truly suffer. In his own way, he wanted to encourage the lad, build him up. Burns sighed inwardly. It was complicated.

Smithers, like his mother, possessed a gift for music. Burns liked that. He remembered teaching Smithers as a boy how to play the piano. The lad certainly caught on faster than his poor father ever could've. One of Burns' favorite memories was when the lad was a young teenager. They sat together on the bench of the grand piano in the ball room, playing the most wonderful duet, a piece by a composer from Johan's homeland. He was worried it might be too much for the boy, Franz Schubert's Fantasie in F Minor. Apparently, it wasn't. Smithers' deft fingers moved along the keyboard with the ease of a natural musician.

He remembered Smithers' face after the final note had faded into silence. The smile, the pride, the light in the boy's eyes.

Burns remembered teaching the boy to dance. Music, dancing, culture… All those things a young man ought know. He certainly wasn't getting any culture from his step-father. Ah, some days he truly missed the waltzes he and Smithers would practice in the great room.

And as for the rapport with his mother? She and Burns had hammered out a polite relationship after many years, but it was never pleasant.

There was that one time he showed up to her house, uninvited. There was something he hoped to find, a piece of Smithers Sr.'s work. He found the front door unlocked, Roberta passed out on the couch and young Waylon playing with his quietly dolls. The lad couldn't have been more than four. Burns always wondered if Smithers remembered that.

That visit was before Smithers' mother, Roberta, had remarried, of course. Once Smithers' stepfather was in the picture, Burns recalled how the man had thrown anything he didn't approve of in the trash. Johan, quiet and on reconnaissance for his master, had witnessed a few episodes. When he relayed the messages, Burns felt a surge of rage in his chest. He'd almost had the man killed for tossing the boy's dolls in the garbage.

Uninvited once again, Burns stormed to the Smithers household and demanded to know who the hell this man thought he was, why he thought he could do whatever he wanted to the boy's possessions. He wasn't the lad's real father, after all.

Roberta had met Burns at the door. Time had clearly not softened their feelings towards one another. Nor had she grown any more afraid of him. She was bold as ever, as if somehow knowing she was safe from his rage and influence. All he could do was roar and threaten. She scoffed and blocked every step of the way. It was only the third time he'd seen her in so many years. The animosity was still fresh. Burns shivered slightly, remembering how venomous some of their exchanges had been.

Smithers must've felt him shudder. Smithers' arm tightened protectively around him.

Burns resisted the urge to shove Smithers away. The young man was the whole reason he'd eventually learned to play civil with Roberta. It would do no good to take out his frustrations on Smithers.

Burns knew the man would not be dissuaded for long anyhow. Smithers' gestures where the product of some endless font of hope. It was both flattering and nauseating.

Burns walked, assisted by Smithers, to the residential wing of the manor. He slowly made his way towards his bedchamber, then paused by the hall closet. Should he? Was this really the right time? He felt dizzy, and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

Smithers held him tighter than he would've liked. Everything about Smithers caused such conflict within his very being. Sometimes, space was the only thing that helpled.

"Is everything alright, sir? Do you need me to carry you the rest of the way?"

Burns straightened up. "Smithers, I am not some feeble infant that you need to fret over every for each step." He shook his head. "No, we're here. There is something I need to show you." He gestured to the door beside them.

"The linen closet?" Smithers asked, bemused.

"No, Smithers, don't be daft." Burns pulled open the door. "Get in there." He gestured to the small space. "On the wall to your left, you'll find a small lever."

"This one, sir?"

"It's the only one in there," Burns remarked in annoyance.

"I've found it, sir."

Burns slid in behind Smithers, shutting the door. He tried not to breathe in too deeply, lest he get distracted by Smithers' scent. Another unfortunate similarity between the man and Burns' former lover: they had the same warm scent to their skin. Burns tightened his jaw. Anger could make a good barrier for nostalgia.

"Well hurry up and pull it. We haven't got all night."

Smithers pulled the lever as instructed, then gave a yelp of surprise. The wall, complete with shelves, swung inward away from him, opening into a black hole. "A secret passage!" he exclaimed.

"Perceptive as always, Smithers," Burns muttered tensely, shoving the younger man forward.

Smithers walked blindly, his hands in front of him. He was intimately aware of Burns directly behind him. The narrow passage made a sharp turn, then seemed to go on for about twenty feet before ending abruptly. Smithers was glad he had his hands out, or he would've slammed into the rough wall.

Burns shoved him out of the way, and leaned on the side of wall to their right. It hinged outward. "Move," Burns ordered.

Smithers did just that.

He felt cloth around him. It felt like he was at the back of a substantial closet. He pushed his way through the hanging clothes till he reached the end at a door. Groping blindly, his hand touched the curved metal of a doorknob. He turned it, and pulled the door open.

Smithers found himself in a large room. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes were pulled over the windows. It was no brighter than the closeted passage.

Burns shoved his way past Smithers and heaved the drapes aside. Starlight shone in from the north-facing windows. He paused, folded his hands behind his back, and stared out over the back grounds of the estate.

"There's a light switch by the door," he said softly.

Smithers flipped the switch, illuminating the room.

Smithers blinked in surprise, and wiped his face. The space they'd entered was almost as large as Burns' master bedroom, and practically as ornate.

The closet through which they came through was on the side of beautiful marble fireplace. Two high-backed wing chairs and a polar bear rug sat by the hearth. There was a massive four-post bed by the far wall. The floor was hardwood, covered with an oriental rug of muted autumn tones. There was a drawing table in the corner, several tubes with rolled paper in them stood beside it.

On the far side of the fireplace from him were shelves full of books. The door to the washroom was open, and as he stepped more to the middle of the room Smithers could see it was as stately a bath (nearly) as Burns' own private room.

A small grand piano sat by the window, Liberace-style candelabra atop it. The windows could be opened, French style, onto a balcony that appeared to extend from the bedroom to the bath.

There was a door in the wall that would've lead to the main hall. Clearly it had been sealed. There was a trim along the interior; and Smithers knew for a fact no such door existed on the hall side. By the door was a coat rack, on which hung a beige overcoat, a lab coat, and a grey scarf.

Everything, including the coats, was covered in an ample layer of dust.

Smithers walked quietly, his feet causing small motes to swirl into the air. He paused by a small table between the wing chairs. Several dusty sheets of note paper were set there, two books, and a sharpened pencil… as if the occupant had expected to be back shortly. Smithers lifted up one of the books and blew the dust from the cover. The Works of William Faulkner. There was a ribbon bookmark between the pages. Without opening it, Smithers set the book down.

"What is this place, sir?"

Burns didn't turn, didn't look at Smithers. He continued to look out the window, unmoving. "This used to be your father's room."

Smithers' breath caught in his throat. "My... father? My father lived here?"

Burns nodded. "For a time, yes. I invited him to do so," he replied cryptically.

Smithers looked around the room, seeing it with new eyes. His father? Living here at Burns Manor? Smithers felt an unexpected surge of jealousy towards a man he never knew. Deep down, well, not even that deeply, Smithers had always hoped Burns would invite him to move in. They spent all their time together anyhow. It would've made sense. He couldn't help but be envious. His father had his own room, while he was forced to sleep downstairs on one of the couches during the nights he stayed over.

Burns welcomed his father in.

Burns was quick to send him away.

How could a man such was Waylon Jr. not feel jealous?

Shaking his head at the perceived unfairness of it all, Smithers padded over to the drawing table, and unrolled one of the prints. It was an early draft of the layout for the Nuclear Plant, inked by hand. His father's signature, small and neat, was written in the corner.

Smithers placed his hand over his father's name. Waylon J. Smithers. There was no "Sr" at the end. Clearly this had been drawn before he was born. He felt the slight indentations in the paper where the pen had pressed. It was the closest to his father he'd ever been. He let his hand rest over his father's signature a moment.

Burns still hadn't moved from his spot by the window.

Smithers rolled the print up, and slipped it back into its case.

"Sir, how long did my father live here," he asked carefully.

Burns appeared to be counting on his fingers. "Several months, the better part of a year. Almost a year. Something like that."

"Why!?"

Burns glared over his shoulder. "You ask a lot of questions, Smithers," he said with a tired irritation. His eyes had an oddly dull look in the artificial light.

Smithers folded his arms across his chest and squared his feet. "I believe you owe me some answers," he said impassively.

That stance, that tone! For a brief moment, Burns saw the man he loved decades ago standing before him, not the younger assistant he knew. For a brief second, Smithers Jr. was the spirting image of his father! Burns felt momentarily weak in the knees.

Then the moment passed.

No, Burns thought sadly, turning his back to the younger man and fingering a small box he'd slipped into his pocket after stepping from the closet. It's not time yet.

He sighed heavily and walked over to the obstinate younger Smithers. "You father was saving money so he could buy a nice house for your mother and the family he hoped to have. He already worked here more than he spent time at home. We both agreed this would be the most sensible arrangement."

Perhaps it wasn't exactly the truth, but it was close enough.

Burns drew the heavy curtains over the window, and turned to leave.

Smithers appeared to buy Burns' explanation, but he wasn't done asking questions quite yet.

"Why did you seal the room, sir?" Smithers asked, falling into step behind his boss.

Burns dragged a finger over his lips pensively, lost in thought. "I suppose for the same reason your mother insisted on keeping that bedraggled messenger bag your father always toted about."

"Oh?"

Burns nodded. "Sometimes, Smithers, people cling to a hope that can never be fulfilled. A past nostalgia, or sometimes a dream of a future." He paused and stared into Smithers' brown eyes. "People have an amazing ability to convince themselves to believe in something that can never be."

The words hit Smithers in the way Burns intended, but the outcome made him wince. The look that flashed through Smithers' eyes as he spoke tore his heart. He knew the man's hopes, dreams and fears. How many times before had he most deliberately ripped away reasons for Smithers to hope of anything beyond a purely working relationship? Oh, more than he could count in a lifetime, he was sure.

He'd chosen his words carefully. Far better Smithers Jr. think he, Monty Burns, was not talking about himself.

Yet every time he crushed Smithers, he felt the reproachful eyes of Waylon Sr. burn into his soul from beyond. His dear friend, his partner, his lover: a man who sought above all else to spare those around him from unnecessary pain. Waylon Sr. would never approve of Burns' cat-and-mouse game. Especially since Burns knew what he truly felt towards the young man in front of him.

Sure, Waylon Sr. may not have been a perfect man, by any stretch, but who was? Not he, C. Montgomery Burns; no. Nor Smithers Jr. With just a few words, a whisper, a touch or an innuendo, he could give Smithers Jr. hope, or tear it all away. Why did he keep doing this? Why did he torture the younger man so?

The greatest lie? A master of misdirection?

He ran his right hand discretely over his hip pocket, as if checking to make sure the small box was still there. It was, nestled against the outside of his boney thigh.

Fear.

It was always about fear.

Roberta Smithers had been right when she called him a coward.

My old and broken heart, he thought, looking sadly into Smithers Jr.'s eyes. A cold winter night that never thaws. Unbidden, he remembered the daffodils that Waylon Sr. used to take such delight in. Perhaps, Burns thought mournfully, someday, spring would come…

He put a hand on Smithers' shoulder.

Sometimes, before a thaw, there needed to be some truth thrown in. He could only cause Smithers so much pain before it tore him up as well. He gave Smithers' shoulder a squeeze. "Or," he began slowly, carefully, "sometimes we convince ourselves of something that cannot be quite yet," he added, giving a barely perceptible nod.

Hand still on Smithers' shoulder, he guided the younger man towards the closet. He felt Smithers relax against his touch. Half an hour ago, he was helping me walk, now here I am shepherding him. Burns paused to flip the lights to the room off as he stepped into the dark closet path. The last thing he did, before he left the forgotten room, was to discretely set the small box back on the mantle. Something to be set aside for another time.

Some day, old friend, he thought quietly as he shut the door on the past, I'll fix this. I'll do right by your son. I promise.

Alas for both of them, that time would not be tonight.