THEN

Burns and Smithers strolled under the moonlight, taking a route Burns had followed last month for his fox hunt. Occasionally Burns pointed out some architectural feature on his manor, or drew attention to other buildings that made up his estate.

"The stables, and, across from them the kennels."

Smithers regarded the buildings. "Did the guard dogs ever arrive?"

Burns nodded. "About two weeks ago."

"Do they bite?" he asked with a playful grin.

Burns grinned. "The bitey-est! I've already named one of them Crippler. Oh, he'll be quite the man-stopper, that one! You should see the bloodlust in his eyes!"

Though it was no longer early spring, the damp air had an unpleasant chill to it. Smithers rubbed his hands together, cupped them, then breathed into them to warm them. "You know, Monty," he said as they walked, "sometimes you make me nervous."

"Oh?"

"The things you say, the way you say it, can have an unsettling effect on people."

Burns took off his leather gloves. "So I've been told."

"You know they say you've done some pretty horrible things to people."

"Do they now," remarked Burns indifferently, bundling his gloves into one hand.

"Well, there was that time you failed your entire class on a whim-"

"No whim. Their constant back-chatter and note-passing irritated me."

Smithers gazed across the silver landscape, feeling the wind blow slightly. It was coming in from the north, almost wintery despite the month. Though his body still felt warm from the wine, and his duster blocked most the draft, he shivered. Smithers briskly tucked his hands in his pockets. The smooth, cool leather pockets were no warmer than the air. "They say you've done worse than fail students."

Burns moved closer. "They do like to talk, don't they," he remarked, looking towards the distant hills. He handed his gloves over to Smithers.

Before he fully realized it, Smithers had taken Burns' gloves, and slipped them over his hands. They were a tight fit, scaled to Burns delicate features, but they were lined… and warm from Burns' hands.

"Oh, make no mistake about it, Smithers, I am not a good man; to some I am simply 'misfortune.' To others, I'm sure I am their 'devil.' I can live with that. Fear and respect are so closely intertwined. If I am not given one, I'll gladly ensure I get the other."

This didn't seem like a remark that warranted a response. So they walked, each lost in thought. It wasn't long before they reached the ends of the manicured lawns. The area behind, while still maintained, had a wilder feel to it. A great forest yawned before them, the grass was left longer like a meadow. To the east a bright expanse shown as if glowing in the moonlight.

Smithers wiped his glasses, and squinted towards the field. "Jonquils?" he asked in surprise. He started off to inspect the sight.

"Eh?" started Burns, surprised, but he moved to follow.

"It is! I didn't know you had jonquils. I love jonquils!"

Burns tried to appear nonchalant. "Oh, the daffodils. They, eh… they were planted last fall."

Smithers was picking up his pace. "You know, my mother used to have these growing in her garden. Every spring they'd pop up, and bloom for weeks it seemed. We used to pick great bouquets of them, my mother and I, and bring them inside. Even my brothers would get in on it. It was one of those things, silly really, but it still brings me back." He stopped at the edge of the daffodil field, crouched down, took a deep sniff, and exhaled slowly. "Mmmm, I missed that smell."

THEN

Burns chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully, watching Smithers. To think a bunch of insignificant yellow flowers under the moon could excite him so? Perhaps it was the wine still loosening up his brain.

Or, perhaps, he thought as he worried his nail, he's simply not afraid to let me see him happy.

That was a strange concept for Burns. Showing simple joy. Other emotions he had no problem displaying, especially the delight at a victory or the thrill of crushing an adversary. This was different. There was no boastfulness to it. No chest-pounding or demands for attention.

Well then, Monty, he admonished himself, you've not been particularly boastful this evening either. Giving him your gloves? Seriously, what are you thinking! He shook his head, arguing with himself. Bunkum and balderdash! I did it without thinking! It just seemed like the right thing. Like Smithers and his daffodils there, just something natural to do.

Burns growled softly in his throat.

Natural. Since when was giving natural? Or having a coat made specifically for another? And why on earth was he enjoying watching Smithers' happiness? Burns narrowed his eyes down to slits, and drew a small pen knife from within his coat.

THEN

Smithers, still feeling slightly light-headed from earlier found himself enraptured by the ethereal sight before him: the daffodils bobbing and swaying in the breeze, beneath the pale moonlight. It was like some sort of scene out of fairytale.

He cupped one of the blooms in his gloved hands, caressing the petals gently. The pollen fell on his fingertips, like gold dust.

A shadow moved over him, eclipsing the light.

He looked up, startled, to see the dark form of C. Montgomery Burns threatening above him. There was a sharp flash in the moonlight, the blade of a knife in Burns' hand.

Smithers uttered a small shriek and started to fall sideways out of the way.

THEN

Burns hastily reached out and grabbed Smithers' arm with his free hand, stabilizing the man's tumble. "Good lord, Smithers, what in blazes is that about?" he demanded, befuddled. He slapped the knife, hilt first, into Smithers' palm.

"Go find yourself the most perfect blooms," he ordered, "pick them, and we'll put them in a vase at the manor."

Smithers was still staring at him, mouth gaping like a fish.

"Well, get on with it, Waylon… Smithers. We haven't got all night-" Smithers rose to his feet.

"-But take your time," Burns finished. Then he added as an afterthought: "And enjoy it."

THEN

The two men walked back across the lawns to the manor. Smithers carried a full bouquet of daffodils. "Did I truly frighten you that badly?" Burns asked, perplexed.

"Well, it gave me quite a start to see you standing over me with a knife; so, yes," he admitted.

Burns made a face. "You wouldn't want to pick them with your oafish hands. Why, you'd crush those delicate stems! They'd scarcely last a day once you got them home if you gathered them like that."

Smithers chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

"We'll have Johan put those in a vase for you, then some cognac by the fire to settle your nerves. I can't have jittery as a hog on ice. I need you cool, calm, collected. Like me."

A bit of Smithers' typical sass had reappeared. "Calm… like you, Monty?"

Burns gave a laugh. "Perhaps it doesn't seem calm to you, Smithers. But at least I know who I am and what I want. Then I merely act accordingly." He tilted his head and looked sidelong into Smithers' face. "We are all slaves to our natures, my good man. We all have demons. I simply don't see any need to keep mine hidden away. I claim to be, at the marrow of my bones, a cold-hearted business man. It's done me well so far."

They made their way indoors, where Johan was waiting. Without speaking, he took their coats, Burns' beret, and Smithers' daffodils in one sweeping motion.

Smithers followed Burns to the same sitting room they'd been in earlier. A roaring fire had been lit, and the chairs pulled closer to the hearth. Burns lifted a glass flask down from a shelf, blew the dust from two glasses, turned the upright, and poured a tiny bit of caramel-colored liquid into each one.

"I opened this shortly before you arrived," Burns explained as he handed Smithers the glass. Cognac Vieux, eighteen-eleven. Ah, bottled even before my time, though I've been told it was an amazing year for the harvest. Long, hot summer and a warm, dry autumn."

He sat across from Smithers, swirled the brandy to let it air, then took a sip.

Smithers emulated his host, took a tentative sniff, and a small sip. The liquid was felt warm and smooth in his mouth, with a distinctive, almost fruitlike taste. There was a sweetness, but something else he couldn't pin down. He'd never had cognac before, but decided he immediately liked it. "I'm not sure how to describe it."

Burns smiled. "The term rancio is used, but it's as difficult to define as the taste."

Smithers took another small sip, feeling the euphoric feeling return as the liquid entered his blood. "They say," he began slowly, looking through the glass at the fire, "that the more you try to describe something, the more you take away from it."

"Oh?" asked Burns.

"That descriptions and labels always fall short for truly capturing the essence of something. That once you start trying to pin a concept down in words, you'll lose the true nature of what it actually is." He leaned forward, chin resting in one hand, glass held out in front of him.

Burns eyed him up and down. "Are you a nuclear engineer or a philosopher?"

Smithers rolled his head towards Burns, feeling the world roll slightly with him. "Tonight? Tonight, Monty, I think I'm a little of both." He drained his glass, and held it out for a refill.