"I lie to myself all the time.

But I never believe me."

― S.E. Hinton, The Outsiders

Chapter Three

Lashing Out

The morning had slowly slipped into afternoon as Smithers tapped his toes impatiently upon the floor. He crossed one leg over the other, anxiously swapping them every few minutes. His eyes trailed along the white walls that seemed to stretch longer than the building itself, almost seeming endless. The scenery wasn't anything he would have chosen, and he had his doubts that a few cheerful aspects would kill; if anything, it would make some patients see the beauty beyond their illnesses.

The magazine he held grew stale after the fourth time of flipping through the pages. His eyes had grown to the size of the font, making his vision squirm when he glanced back up to reality. Setting the magazine on the table nearby, he stood and strolled over to the coffee machine on a table in the corner of the room. It seemed lonely and untouched as many people complained it was too strong or too gritty, but he didn't much care either way. He would drink it regardless of its taste; after all he was only using it as a way to cope with the wait.

Smithers poured the dark liquid into a Styrofoam cup, which wasn't even large enough to hold more than an ounce at the most – a shot glass of coffee, really. He tore open multiple packages of powdered creams and artificial sugars, knowing that no matter how much of each he used, the coffee would still displease his palate. The cup radiated the heat to his hands, scalding him at first but soon comforting him, as he picked it up and carried it out into the hallway.

He paced a few steps in one direction, then a few in the other. Guilt ate away at him just as the heat of the coffee ate the lining of his throat; he had told Burns the visit was routine, that it would be over within a few minutes – hours had passed since then. However, had Smithers not stretched the truth a bit, Burns would have fought him tooth-and-nail at the thought of spending an entire day cooped up in a room with someone he considered unqualified.

"Mr. Smithers?" The familiar voice of Dr. Hibbert rang out to the man pacing the halls. "We've got Burns calm enough for you to come back now. He put up a good fight, but we managed to reel him in – after the sedatives kicked in, that is."

The last bit was muttered in a rather playful whisper, but Smithers had heard it nonetheless. He wasn't particularly happy about the use of sedatives, however it was understandable as Burns was oftentimes stubborn as an ox. He had never made it easy for Waylon, and the odds were that he had made it that much more difficult for the doctors and nurses. In his mind, Smithers knew sedatives were quite possibly the only way to get Burns in a cooperative state of mind, even if only a slight one.

Dr. Hibbert guided him down the hall, patients groaning in other rooms on either side of them. Smithers glanced into a few of the rooms, assessing the care the patients seemed to be getting in order to determine if it was up to his high standards for his boss. Despite the pain they seemed to be in, the staff seemed to be swift and nurturing, easing the assistant's worries for a moment.

"Now," the doctor began with an unusually upbeat tone for such a depressing atmosphere, "you were explaining some of the symptoms over the phone; have any of those gotten worse, subsided, gone away completely?"

Smithers' mind had wandered, drifted into the rooms of other patients, and his thoughts were clearly elsewhere as it took Hibbert's snapping fingers to bring the assistant back to reality.

"Uh, huh?" Smithers questioned without a shred of intelligence behind it. He stared blankly at the doctor's befuddled face, which brought him back to Earth. "Oh, sorry, I…. I was thinking about something else. What did you say?"

"That's quite alright," Hibbert replied with a jolly chuckle and smile as the men turned around a corner that led down an almost identical hallway from the one before, "quite alright. I was just asking about the symptoms you described over the phone; has anything changed?"

Smithers fussed with his bowtie and fiddled with his glasses as he thought over the days. An awkward situation it was to think back to them as they were filled with things he'd rather forget – Mr. Burns' forgetfulness, the terrible headaches that had him in constant complaint, and the confusion that had made him forget who Smithers was at times. It was too much to bear, but something Smithers had to do in his search for answers and treatment for his boss.

"Well," he began, throat dry with tension, "aside from the headaches being more frequent, not much has really changed."

A sharp sigh released months' worth of pent up air from his lungs as his last response was uttered just above a whisper, "nothing's improved…."

Hibbert nodded and placed a kind, comforting hand to Smithers' shoulder, which twitched as the touch caught him off-guard and drug him out of his pity. The doctor stood at the door of Burns' room, the hand that wasn't planted on the other's shoulder rapped against the polished wood finish.

"Mr. Burns," he called with that upbeat tone that severely contrasted against the atmosphere, "you've got a visitor."

Burns' eyes were heavy, almost frightening to look at as they were hallowed. He was propped against an oversized pillow, seemingly disoriented and dazed as those cold eyes spied the two men in the doorway. His words came in a slurred string, but Smithers understood, "well, well, it is about time."

Smithers cursed within himself, hoping the sedatives had thrown off the elder's sense of time and space. He bit his tongue and dragged his teeth along his lower lip as he gained the nerve to enter the room, doctor in tow. His hands were a trembling mess when he finally reached the bed, the anxiety gnawing at his innards.

"Sm-i-i-i-thers-s-s," the slurred hiss from the ailing man came in a rather unpleased fashion, "could I have a word with you -," icy eyes traveled to Hibbert with burning suggestion, "alone?"

"Oh!" Hibbert exclaimed with that infamous chuckle bursting from his every fiber. "Pardon me, gentlemen! I'll just be checking up on that nutcase – erm, patient - in the other room. Just call for a nurse if you need something."

The door swung shut at a torturing pace, so slow and calculated. The aloofness of Burns' voice and eyes sent shivers down his young ward's spine, making the other meek and timid (well, more than usual). Smithers shrank, his body falling limp in a chair that sat next to the bed's railing, and he felt a series of knots winding from throat to stomach. The ulcers from years of constant worry and grief began to fester as he clasped his hand over one of Burns' skeletal ones.

"Um, s-sir?"

Burns, despite the medicated fog looming over his mind, held a sadistic little smirk. The smirk was so casual, almost twistedly so, as he wrapped boney fingers around the forest-green fabric of Smithers' jacket. With all the strength that had vanished over the past months, Burns pulled the young lackey nose-to-nose, smirk transforming into a bitter scowl with clenched teeth behind stern lips.

"Five minutes, eh? In and out, eh?" Burns scoffed, his irritation evident by the sharpness in which he jeered. "Just what is going on here, Smithers? I was born, but I wasn't born yesterday – I know when I've been left out of the loop. Now, either you tell me what is taking so long or I walk out and never set foot in this place again!"

A weak chuckle, "ah, let's not get hasty, sir. Um," he stammered in a continual loss for an explanation, "would you like me to get you something from the cafeteria?"

"Stop beating around the bush, Waylon. I want answers, and unless you can find those in the cafeteria, I'd suggest you stay here… if you like your job, that is."

Smithers stumbled, standing from his chair and pacing the floor. His tongue pressed stiffly against the back of his teeth as if to bite back his own words. It seemed that whatever answers he did have wouldn't be satisfactory; therefore they seemed unnecessary to even mention. The words that he wanted to say would never come passed his throat, only linger there and suffocate him from within.

He shuffled over to a cart on the opposite side of the cramped room, upon which sat small paper cups and a pitcher of ice water. The water had a foul odor of chlorine, but Smithers poured the liquid into one of the cups regardless. He took the cup in a sweaty, shaky palm and carried it to the bedridden man, offering it with a sheepish grin, "water?"

With a swift slap, the cup was flung from Smithers' hands. Burns had crudely made his point as he swatted the helpless cup to the floor, water spilling from its top and puddling on the floor. Narrow, black eyes glared at the puddle with resentment.

The drugs had seemed to subside since Hibbert had taken his leave, and Smithers was left to wonder if the dazed and confused state of his boss was nothing but a smoke screen. Burns seemed perfectly capable of overcoming its effects now, able to feel his own distaste for the situation without the numbing of the medication. There didn't seem to be a fog any longer, nor did there seem to be a barrier between the elder's mind and body for he did whatever came to mind.

"I'm not thirsty," he grumbled as he glared at Smithers with the same resentment he had held for the water. He sighed, his expression softened as those large, pitiful eyes of his assistant made some dent in his heart, "Smithers…. I'm a big boy; I can handle whatever it is that's wrong with me."

"I'm not sure you can, sir," the meeker man breathed, grabbing a handful of napkins from the cart and kneeling on the floor to sop up the mess.

Once the water had been mopped away, Smithers regained his posture and stood at the bedside. The clouds that formed behind his glasses masked any emotions that were shooting through his veins like a horrific overdoes of heroin. His mouth opened, formed around silent words that just refused to expel themselves, which led to nothing but frustration for both parties.

"If I can be frank with you," he eventually began, "I'm not exactly sure myself. They sedated you to run a few tests –,"

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that part," an impatient response from the ill.

"Um…. R-right, well, the results haven't come back yet. So, for now, you're all caught up, sir."

Awkward minutes ticked away, the clock's hands doing nothing to wipe away the tension that polluted the air. The only thing that managed to clear the air was the sound of the door creaking open and Dr. Hibbert emerging from the other side.

"Ah! Good times," he finished a rather riveting story with another staff member outside before turning his attention back to the two men. He had a thick envelope tucked under his arm and a clipboard with a rather large stack of papers clipped to it. Just the sight of all those papers shot a fear, a feeling of hopelessness into Smithers' already erratic heart. "Mr. Smithers, could you come with me to discuss these results in private?"

Burns interjected, pressing a hand to his secretary's chest when the man stood to leave, pushing him back into his seat, "come now, there's no need to be so secretive. After all, it is my body and if something is wrong, I think I should be the first to know."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns," Hibbert said as he shook his head in rejection of the request, "it's hospital policy that we not discuss findings with the patient until we've talked with those involved."

"What kind of idiotic policy is that?"

"An idiotic policy that stands firm," the doctor laughed as he gestured for Smithers to follow him out of the room.

Smithers was hesitant, feeling his chest turn to stone against Burns' frail fingertips. Somehow that weak, old man managed to hold back a young, physically-fit man with nothing more than the tips of his fingers. Of course, Burns' wit had always overcome Smithers' muscle.

"Fine," Mr. Burns groaned in defeat as he placed his hand back on the bed, the invisible force granting Smithers to stand. "But I get a full report on my condition as soon as you two are done gossiping like old hens."

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."

― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss