Ryan curled up under the blankets of the massive bed in his room, watching the stars out the window. He couldn't sleep. It felt so strange to be here. His conversation with his father had answered some questions, and raised others.

After almost an hour of fitful thrashing, Ryan gave up on the idea of sleep for the time being. His body was exhausted, but his mind simply would not stop replaying the day's events over and over. Ryan glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was only nine at night, it felt so much later.

Frustrated, he slipped on his tee-shirt and jeans. Might as well go exploring, he reasoned.

He glanced up and down the empty hall, then headed down towards the staircase. He wasn't sure where his father had gotten off to, and didn't really care at the moment. Ryan figured he'd poke about the mansion, and hopefully not get too lost in the process.

Ryan trailed his fingertips along the well-oiled wood paneling in the main hall, some dark and elaborately carved wood that had been polished to a mirror-like sheen over the decades. The manor was laid out in three main portions. There was the central hall, marked by the entry way and massive dome. To the east and west were two wings. The east wing, on the second level, was what Ryan assumed was the residential wing. His room was at the furthest southeast corner of the manor.

Nearly all the halls were decorated with amazing works of art: sculptures, paintings, even antique weaponry hung proudly on display. Ryan reached his finger up, touching the leading edge of a curved sabre, and promptly jerked his hand away. Still sharp. He watched a tiny drop of red form along the cut in his fingertip. He put his finger in his mouth, and decided not to touch anything else.

Portraits of Burns' ancestors filled the spaces, as well as the occasional coat of arms or family crest.

The manor almost felt like a museum. The upper levels seemed to be nothing but displays, and endless rooms. There was a music room, multiple studies here and there. A main library, sitting rooms… rooms he wasn't even sure what they were supposed to be for. Ryan tried to keep count. After fifty, he forgot his place, and gave up the task.

One level, almost directly above the residential wing, featured artwork of men who must've been Burns' ancestors. Various scenes of men somewhat resembling Montgomery Burns displayed them in the middle of various patriotic or heroic acts. He passed a set of dark green curtains that hung between two sculptures and paused.

A chill ran down his spine.

He felt as if he were not alone.

Ryan whirled suddenly, looking behind him. For a second, he could've sworn he felt someone watching him. The hallway was empty, save for the artwork and green curtains beside him.

There was something unsettling about that gallery. Something Ryan couldn't quite put his finger on, but it made the hair rise on the back of his neck nonetheless. With an involuntary shudder, Ryan quickly turned and made his way back from where he'd come.

A flight of stairs led down to the lower floors. Ryan quickly trotted down, then halted so abruptly he almost fell.

His father's voice echoed up from the landing below.

Ryan craned his body over the banister and peered down.

On the next floor down, his father paced back and forth, a cell phone held in front of him. "You found it where?" Waylon asked, voice pitched with worry.

A tinny voice replied through the phone's speaker. Ryan couldn't make out the words.

Waylon set the phone on the banister next to him and put his hands on the railing. "Are you sure?"

The voice made some unintelligible reply. Waylon nodded to himself. "Okay, good; fine. I'll be down there as soon as I can. No one so much as removes the chocks from the wheels. No flight plans, no nothing." He listened to a protest over the speaker. "I don't care what he says. He's not taking the jet anywhere until I can get down there and personally sort this out."

Another pause, more protests.

"I don't care what you think he might do to you if you refuse. Worry about what I will do if I come down there and I find he's already flown off again!"

The person at the other end of the line was shouting now. Ryan could hear him almost clearly. His father cut the man off. "You forget who I am. Waylon Joseph Smithers… and a Burns. I do have authority. Don't question it. Ground the jet, and if he has any problems with that, you can send him to deal with me personally. Understood?"

The voice replied it was understood.

"Good," Waylon replied.

He hung up and shoved the phone in his pocket.

Ryan watched silently as his father folded his arms over the banister and looked down to the tiled floor below. "Why, Monty?" Waylon asked softly. "Mortrouge, of all places." Waylon lapsed into silence.

Ryan turned stealthily to leave, but his father's voice stopped him. "I know you're up there, Ryan."

Sighing and dropping his shoulders theatrically, not that Waylon could probably see, Ryan made his way back to the railing. "I wasn't spying. How did you know I was up here?"

Waylon gestured to his phone. "I saw your reflection in the screen."

"Oh." Ryan draped himself over the banister and let his arms dangle. "Well then…"

"We're leaving on a road trip tomorrow," Waylon explained, looking up.

Ryan swung his arms. "Awww, what? I just got done with a road trip. I don't want to go anywhere."

Waylon leaned his back against the railing behind him and folded his arms, looking up at Ryan. "So, do you want to stay here at the manor? Or are you going to continue with your trip to Santa Monica?"

Ryan shifted his weight. Honestly, neither sounded appealing. The idea of being in this big, empty house alone? No thank you. Likewise, the idea of setting out on his trip didn't hold much appeal at the moment either. He didn't feel like being alone again just yet. He'd been alone too much lately. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone, especially not this guy he'd just met. Ryan draped his body over the railing. "I guess I'll go," he said, hoping he'd masked the clinginess in his voice. "Where are we going, anyhow?"

"Mortrouge," replied Waylon. "That's in Louisiana, outside of New Orleans," he added, catching Ryan's perplexed look.

"We're flying?" Ryan asked.

Waylon shook his head. "Driving." Waylon pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Ryan thought he gesture looked terribly similar to his own motions. He ran a hand through his black hair. He did not want to have anything in common with his father. "Driving? To Louisiana? That's like two thousand miles almost! It'll take us four days just to drive there."

Waylon's face was unreadable. "I intend to make it in three."

Ryan snorted. "That's not possible."

He watched his father shrug. "It's doable. I've done long drives before."

Ryan sat down on the carpeted floor and stuck his legs between the gaps of the railing, kicking the air. "But why the big rush?"

Waylon shook his head. "Montrouge… it's a long story. Monty remarked the other day that time's the ultimate monster. He commented that one can never go back to a time, only a place. I was going to ask him for a clarification, but he threw his book on the floor and told me he needed to get away to a place before any of this happened." Waylon held up his hands. "I didn't know what he was referring to. But now I do."

Ryan kicked the air aimlessly. "What do you mean?"

Waylon reached up, gently grabbing Ryan's swinging ankle, stopping the restless motion of his legs. The gesture was soft, kindly; and Ryan found it oddly reassuring.

"That's a long story," Waylon replied. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss it on the road." He passed under Ryan's legs. "Try to get some sleep, Ryan," he called up as he disappeared down the hall. "It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

Yeah, sleep. Like that'll happen, Ryan thought sullenly. He stood up, and realized he missed his father's hand on his ankle. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him in a familial way. Not since his mom got sick. When she'd been well, Ryan would often swallow his pride and curl up on the couch next to his mother. She'd stroke his black hair, so much like hers, and remark that no matter how old he got, he'd always be her son… and she'd always love him.

Ryan hadn't realized how much he missed her touch until Waylon's hand let go.

I'm not going to ask him for a hug, Ryan thought stiffly. I'm a grown man, I'm too old for that. Attempting mightily to convince himself of this fact, despite the feelings in his heart, Ryan made his way back to his chamber. He changed into his sleepwear, and slid between the soft sheets.

Somehow, though he would've never expected it, sleep found him. Silently he fell into the dreamless rest of the exhausted.