Note: Sadly, I do not own The Simpsons.
There were times during the day when Waylon Smithers had nothing to do. His work was up-to-date, no one had to be fired and Mr. Burns wanted to be left alone.
It's going to be another lonely lunch. He thought as he opened a drawer in his desk to get his food. He pulled out a plain brown bag and set it in front of him. From it he retrieved a ham sandwich, an apple and a bottle of water.
A simple, unassuming assortment of food. He thought. Damn, Waylon, don't you take any chances anymore? He sighed quietly as he grabbed the sandwich and took a half-hearted bite. His mind trailed off as did his eyes, looking around the room until he gazed at the photo on his desk. It was the picture he wanted for so long and finally retrieved from his boss. It was Mr. Burns shaking Elvis' hand.
These free moments in his work schedule, though rare and lonely, had never been put to bad use.
Putting down his lunch for a second, Waylon leaned down until he reached the bottom drawer of his desk, the one with the lock. Taking out a small key, he opened the drawer and took out a stack of small papers, each one colored differently. Arranging them neatly on his desk, he took another bite, a small sip from his water bottle and then leafed through the pile.
Love letters. Every time Waylon was alone, he would write one to his beloved. Each one was practice, handled with the utmost care, delicately crafted to make sure that there would be no question about his feelings when his boss was finally sent one.
That is, if he ever got the courage to tell him.
Slightly in his dream world, he read each one, sighing with both love and sadness, guiltily thinking some far fetched fantasies. Unfortunately, he completely forgot to lock the door to the hallway.
"Mr. Smithers!" Waylon jolted in shock, causing the papers to go flying. "Mr. Smithers, you've got to come quick!"
Gabbing franticly at the letters, he looked up to see what idiot had barged straight into his office without permission.
Homer Simpson. He thought, angrily. Figures…
"What do you want, Simpson?" He quickly scooped up the papers and dumped them in the bottom drawer.
"Lenny and Carl are doing it again. They take all the donuts before I even get to the break room. And when I tell them to stop, they laugh and say that I need to loose the weight anyway."
Waylon looked at him incredulously. "You ran into my office, without knocking, during my lunchtime to tell me that?!" he yelled. "For God's sake, I'm not your mother, Simpson!"
Homer crossed his arms. "So you're not going to tell Carl and Lenny…"
"You better pray I don't tell Mr. Burns."
The intercom cut in.
"Smithers." Said a soft and sinister voice. "You seem to have given me a faulty knife. I can't cut into the roasted pheasant. Come in here at once and correct your error."
Right on cue. Thought Waylon. He pressed a button on the machine.
"I'll be right in, sir." He replied. Moving passed his desk to the conjoining door to Mr. Burns' office, he turned back to Homer.
"I hope that you have enough sense to not be here when I return." Waylon said in a tense voice. He opened the door and disappeared into the room beyond it.
Homer looked on for a second, seething. "Well, isn't that convenient." He began prancing about awkwardly.
"Oh, look at me. I'm Smithers, Mr. Burns' pet and I'll do anything he says. But noooooooo, I won't help poor Homer Simpson in his donut crisis, no matter how horrible it gets." He flailed his arms around comically to stress his point.
"Well, I'll show him!" Homer stomped over to the desk, obeying his dim and impulsive mind, thinking that he could get back at Waylon by destroying his lunch. Grabbing the sandwich, he was about to chuck it in the trash can when something pink caught his eye. He followed the color, looked slowly under the chair and spied a small, peach-tinted piece of paper. There was something written on it.
Smiling rather devilishly, he reached under and grabbed it, laughing a little.
Maybe it has some company secret written on it. He thought. Oohoo, watch out. Homer Simpson, spy in disguise, comin' to shut you down.
Straightening up, Homer read it slowly. But what it revealed weren't the secrets that he had in mind.
The doorknob to the boss's office turned and let the entrance open.
"Are you sure you won't need me, sir?"
"Yes. You've cut the pheasant well enough. You may go." Mr. Burns then promptly stuffed his face with the roasted bird.
I hate it when he doesn't need me. Waylon thought painfully. He was about to walk to his desk when he saw the familiar back of the idiot who burst into his office minutes before.
"Simpson!" Waylon startled the man and he quickly turned around. "Why do you consistently think that… you….. can……" His voice faded from his mouth until it was left dry and empty. The blood quickly drained from his face and his breath was caught in his throat. Waylon recognized the letter in Homer's hand.
The chubby man stared blankly at his supervisor. Then back at the letter.
"Y'know," Homer said, waving the paper around slightly. "This explains so much."