Friday

He wondered if he had really always known it would turn out this way.

Ironically, he'd planned on telling him himself. And maybe, possibly he actually would've gone through with it this time-the day after, the night IT happened. But IT happened, and now there was no need to tell him because he already knew. He knew enough, anyway. And for Smithers, it was all over.

He hadn't brought it on himself, as it wasn't his intention for it to happen like this. Just like he hadn't meant to fall in love with Burns to begin with, exactly the wrong person. You couldn't help who you fell in love with, though. At least, that's what Smithers told himself. Sometimes he wondered if there had somehow been a way to guard his heart. Especially since he had long accepted that this was the forever type of love, the type you never got over.

Anyway, since it was an accident and he'd never gotten to speak the words, he didn't even have the relief of getting anything off his shoulders. Or rather, it had dropped from his shoulders onto his heart, crushing it. He knew that, most likely, when he came back from vacation on Tuesday, he'd be coming back to be fired. Then he didn't know what he'd do. He wouldn't wasn't to live…

The immense weight on his heart pinned him to his hotel room bed and he felt sick to his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and try as he might to keep the visions from coming, he saw the scene once again as it was

Thursday Night:

Mr. Burns had stayed late at the plant and consequently so had Smithers, his ride home. It was one of those rare times Smithers was in his own office, not in his favorite place, beside Burns. He was on E-bay, in a desperate bidding war for the Limited Edition Dessert Storm Malibu Stacey when who should come strolling in but his one-time fling, John.

"Well, hello Sunshine, how's it hanging?" He paused, then added slyly, "Not that I don't know." He approached Waylon's desk and started idly stringing together some stray paperclips.

Waylon paled. "John," he seethed, "How'd you get in here?" He didn't wait for a reply; it really wasn't surprising considering the inept security personnel. "Never mind." He leaned a little forward and sniffed at John's jacket. "Are you drunk?" he asked in disgust.

"Says the man who's seven and a half Cosmos prompted our hookup. Seriously, I never see you around anymore. Stuart, that gossip, said he saw you at One Night Stan's and that you might have went home with some guy named Grady…"

Oh, no no no, not here! Smithers silently begged. He pulled himself upright in his chair. "Do you have a point? Get out!" he snapped. He rose from his seat to escort John out.

"Humph! Now that's a pretty way to talk to me, Waylon…"

"I'll frickin' recite prose poetry to you if it'll get you to leave!" he hissed, darting an anxious glance at the closed door leading into Mr. Burns' office.

"…as for why I'm here, Grady happens to be a former…friend, "he sneered, "as well. Very recently former. I'd like to patch things up there, so be a doll and keep away from him, will you?"

Waylon took a swig of coffee from the mug on his desk and immediately wished that he hadn't. It was ice cold. "Aren't you being a tad possessive?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "When we were together, you were always possessive. I could never for the life of me figure out why. You obviously weren't too invested in the relationship. You won't let anyone be possessive of you."

All Smithers cared about was ending this conversation quickly. Never could the repercussions of having a crazy (albeit from alcohol) ex show up at work be so great. He shuddered.

"Well, you'll be happy to know I have no interest in Grady…"

"Just as I was saying!" John cried jubilantly, slapping his palm down on the desktop, "You're never interested. Your whole life revolves around…"

He made a grab for the picture next to Burns on Waylon's computer. Waylon tried to stop him, but he was too slow.

John cradled the photo mockingly to his chest. "Oh, he's quite a looker, Waylon, and nicer I'll bet, than Santa Clauss."

Waylon reached out for the picture, and entreated, his voice low and plaintive, "John, please…"

He just managed to clumsily retrieve it, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it. It hit the carpeted floor and the back came off. Smithers bent to pick it up and as he turned around and stood…

He saw Mr. Burns.

Oh…my…God…

Burns did not make eye contact with Smithers. Instead, he turned contemptuously to John. "He is evidently an acquaintance of yours, Smithers, but I will not have this miserable cur in my power plant after hours," he gave John the once-over, "or ever." He held up a hand and waggled bony fingers at him. "Away with you! Return to the gutter to beg passersby to supply you with the means to buy more discount liquore."

Silently, Smithers laid a hand on John's shoulder and guided him out without incident, his heart pounding so dreadfully in his ears it sounded like the roar of the ocean.

Afterward, he found his boss already in his limo, not even waiting for smithers to open the door for him. Smithers slid behind the steering wheel, wracking his brain for some sort of explanation.

"We were just…" his voice came out as a whisper and he didn't go on.

Mr. Burns rolled the little window between the driver's compartment and the back of the limousine. And smithers couldn't help thinking in his quiet agony it was a metaphor for how he was now separated from him forever.

Upon arriving at the mansion, Smithers followed Burns upstairs, neither one speaking. Outside the bedroom, Burns spun neatly on his heel to face his assistant and stated concisely,

"I'm perfectly capable of performing my bedtime rituals myself. You may go home now."

Waylon inclined his head. "Yes, sir." There was so much more he wanted to say, despite his discomfort, but it wouldn't be tonight. It had been a shock to his system and before he could formulate the words, Mr. Burns slammed the bedroom door in his face.

Waylon morosely made his way down stairs and somehow drove himself safely home, where he got pretty plastered.