Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission. Cover art is (c) Gav-Imp, and used technically without permission, though hopefully she doesn't mind.

Ryan Smithers ate slowly, seated in the middle of an overly long dining table. At the foot of the table sat his father, Waylon Smithers. Opposite Waylon, at the head of the table, sat the aged patriarch of the household: Montgomery Burns.

Ryan found himself settling into the routine of Burns Manor, though summer had ended all too soon. As autumn rolled around, he found both his father and Burns pressuring him to make use of his time in more productive means. The topic of college was one that kept getting brought up, much to his chagrin.

"You could take some courses as Springfield Community College," Waylon suggested pleasantly. Ryan could easily catch the false innocence in his father's voice.

Here we go, Ryan sighed inwardly.

Burns had looked up from his newspaper and narrowed his eyes. "Community college? As if. If your son's to be living here full time, I expect a higher level of achievement than that."

("Our son," Waylon muttered under his breath.)

"Eh?" Burns asked, leaning forward, bearing his teeth. "Have something to say, Smithers?"

Waylon coughed and folded his napkin in his lap. "Our son, Monty. You heard me quite clearly the first time."

Ryan tried to sink lower in his seat. Perhaps if they forgot he was there he'd be able to make a quick exit before the squabbling began in earnest. He wondered if he could simply slide under the table.

Burns jabbed his fork in the direction of Waylon. "I'll not have any member of this house taking substandard courses taught by a murder of prosaic imbeciles."

"I went to Springfield Community College," Waylon snapped back.

"Yes, well, I suppose there is always the rare exception to any rule."

Ryan was mostly out of his seat, halfway to the floor. Just a little further…

"You there! Ryan!" Burns barked, turning his attention to Ryan. "How many sixes are in the word 'Yale'?"

Ryan straightened himself up. "You don't spell 'Yale' with a six," he replied, brow furrowing in confusion.

Burns sat back, as if that somehow settled things. "See, Smithers, he's already smarter than your other son."

Waylon shook his head, perplexed. "What other son?"

Burns tented his fingers and gave Waylon a calculating smile. "Why, Larry of course. If we are to be splitting hairs, or heirs as the case may be, you now lay equal claim to that cheerfully benignant buffoon and his rambunctious get."

Ryan felt like he was watching a tennis match. His gaze flicked from one end of the table to the other, and back again. "Larry spelled 'Yale' with a six?" He asked. No one noticed.

"So, Smithers," Burns continued, "congratulations. A father of two at your age. You must be so proud."

Waylon gave a snort. "You're parenting a teenager."

"Bah, how hard can that be? This one seems quite self-reliant."

"This one's still right here," Ryan interjected. Again, his words fell on deaf ears. He folded his arms across his chest and stuck out his lip in a definitive pout.

Waylon apparently noticed Ryan's frustration. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"You're doing it again. Talking about me like I'm not here. I'm not a child, and I'm not deaf either. I can hear you."

Burns and Waylon exchanged looks.

Ryan caught Burns' slight shrug.

Waylon got up and moved the middle of the table. He sat down across from a sulky Ryan. "Remember what I said, this is an adjustment for all of us. We've gone from a family of… well, none… to a family of four in a relatively short time. Even though Larry doesn't live here, your brother's still a part of this family."

"Brother," Ryan said, mulling the word over on his tongue. The idea was new and intriguing. "I have a brother."

"Of course, what else would Larry be?"

Ryan met his father's eyes. "I never thought of it that way before."

From the far end of the table came a loud cough. "Larry's your brother, boy. You best accept it."

Ryan looked down towards Burns. "Accept it? I'm happy about it! I like Larry. Maybe not his jokes, but I like him."

Burns nodded. "Good. You can play host when next he and his get are in town."

"His 'get?'"

"Children. Yes."

"He has kids?" Had Larry mentioned that in Chicago? If so, Ryan had forgotten.

"Patently," Burns replied. There was a pause. Burns and Waylon exchanged a furtive look before Burns spoke again. "There are two to speak of. A son and a daughter. The lad's the older of the two, as I recall."

Ryan's face broke into a smile as realization dawned. "I'm an uncle!"

"Naturally. That is what they call it when one's brother has offspring."

Ryan beamed. "That's pretty awesome, actually."

"How so?"

Ryan jabbed a thumb towards Waylon. "In a few short weeks I went from having no one to having a father and a brother, and now I find out I'm an uncle too."

Burns regarded Ryan thoughtfully. "And to what relation do you regard me?"

Ryan rubbed his fingers over his forehead, massaging a spot just above his eyebrows. "My dad's husband, I suppose."

Burns straightened in his chair, expression darkening slightly.

"Truly?" Burns asked softly. "That's it then? I welcome you into my home, feed you, clothe you, and yet I am nothing more than a second to you? Your father's husband, not an equal?" Burns stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Waylon put an arm protectively around Ryan's shoulder. The young man didn't shrug it off. "Easy, Monty," Waylon chided.

"No, no," Burns replied, twirling a hand. "The boy's quite right. What am I to him?" He gestured to Ryan. "I've not exactly made myself approachable or open to you; and don't think that will change. It is what I am, and I've been this way far too long to change. But understand this as well, Ryan. You are the son of my beloved Waylon there. Such is the nature of this connubial bond. All he possesses belongs to me. That means I too must yield my own. Mine is his, his is mine; and that includes you.

Burns stood up, and pushed his chair against the table. He held onto the back and leaned forward. "Regardless of what you think of me, boy, you are my heir. One of two; perhaps not equal in caliber, but still equal in role. I'll not tolerate it to have you think anything less of yourself."

Burns had strolled around the long table, and come to stand across from Waylon and Ryan. He clasped his hands regally behind his back. "You have a proud and distinguished bloodline, on both the side of your sire, and under the mantle of my name. The look in your eye, and the confidence of your bearing. You are mine, and I expect you to live up to such standards."

With that, Burns turned on his heel and strode out of the dining hall.

Ryan watched him go. "What was that about?"

Waylon squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "He's a hard man to get to know. But he's fond of you. He's claimed you." Waylon gave a dry laugh. "I waited over twenty years for that honor."

Ryan shrugged himself free of his father's encircling arm. "I'm not something he can own."

Waylon held up his hands in protest. "I don't mean it that way, and neither does he. I mean you're family, Ryan. He cares about you, in his own reserved way, and that's something you should take to heart."

"Why?"

"Because as emotionally detached as he seems, when he cares about someone he means it."

Ryan poked at the remains of his cooling breakfast. "Clearly when he doesn't have a sword he makes do with his words to keep people at a safe distance."

Waylon nodded. "Exactly. And that's why I'm trying to tell you this, Ryan. I don't want you to think he doesn't. Would it kill you to think of him as your father?"

Ryan slid his chair back and stood up. "To be honest, Dad, it's been hard enough getting to know one father. Don't push me on this, okay. You both talk, and talk and talk. What to do about me, what do for me… I get that you both care, but it can be too much. How about you both let me do me, and I'll ask for your help, either of you, when I need it, okay?"

"Ryan, wait!"

Ryan was halfway to the door. "I get that we're a family. I get it and I'm happy about it. But you can't force things. I've got you pushing us all together, I've got him being, well, him! And in the meantime, you guys both forget to ask me what I want."

Waylon was on his feet, following Ryan. "Please, come back. What do you want?"

"Time. Okay? And to get to know you and Monty; and Larry. I just learned the other day that my grandfather designed the nuclear plant. That's something neither of you told me. I want to know about him too. I've got a whole lot of family I never knew about, and it's don't get me wrong because I think it's great, but I just need time. You've said it yourself, you've had over twenty years to get comfortable with all this. I haven't. Give me time, Dad, okay?"

With that, Ryan hurried out of the dining room, darted up the stairs to his own bedroom at the end of the hall. He tossed himself down on his bed and dragged his well-worn copy of The Glass Menagerie out from under his pillow.

Ryan flipped the book open and buried his nose in the pages. It didn't so much mater where he started, he knew the entire play by heart. On the inside cover, under the main title the phrase Nobody, even the rain, has such small hands, was printed in delicate letters.

Tennessee Williams was himself well-read. That single line was a quote from E. E. Cummings, or e e cummings, if one were to think of it that way.

Ryan rolled on his back and held the book above him, reading. Finding solace in the familiar words.

Ryan had hardly made it more than a few pages in when there came a knock at his door. Sighing dramatically, he sat up.

"What?" he called out.

"Can I come in?" his father's voice replied through the closed door.

"I'm changing," Ryan yelled back. A white lie, but he didn't feel like getting drawn into a long conversation at the moment.

"Okay. Monty and I are heading to work. Think about what we said, about college. He doesn't want you loafing about the house indefinitely, and I agree. If you're not going to college, you need to get a job."

Ryan groaned loudly.

Waylon heard it. "You're an adult, we expect you to act like one. College or work, those are your choices, Ryan."

Ryan tossed the book down on the bed, annoyed. "Fine, fine. I'll think it over, okay?"

"Fair enough," replied Waylon.

Ryan listened as his father turned, heard Waylon's footsteps vanish down the hall.

Work, or college… or work. Hadn't he been through enough already? Didn't he deserve a year off or something? At least a break. A week after they'd all gotten back to Springfield after a trip to Santa Monica, California and his parents had started in with the old "go to college, get a job" spiel.

Parents… did he really just think of Monty and Waylon as his parents?

Ryan shook his head as if to clear it and ran a hand through his black hair. No, he didn't mean it that way. Those two were his dad, and his dad's husband. They weren't his parents… right?

Ryan heard the sound of a car leaving the garage, and coasting down the drive to the front gates. He listened as it turned onto Mammon Drive, and accelerated towards the plant. The same routine every day. His dad and Monty left for work around eight thirty in the morning. They wouldn't be home till sometime after five.

Ordinarily, Ryan would take his motorcycle and head into Springfield proper. He'd go to the mall, or simply cruise around familiarizing himself with the land. He never had a set destination in mind, but it felt good to get out of the house. Once his parents left (there was that word again, damn! They were not his parents!) the mansion seemed painfully empty.

A quick glance out the window dispelled any notion of a day out. The sky was dark, clouds swollen and pregnant with the threat of storms. Far better to stay in, do a bit of 'snooping,' as he called it.

Though Ryan had explored Burns Manor, he felt he'd barely scratched the surface of the place. It seemed every time he set foot outside his room he found some new hall, or room, or something he'd never seen before.

Yesterday, he discovered the home theatre. He spent the day eating popcorn and watching horror movies on a screen almost large enough to be a cinema. Even in the theatre, there had been a recessed shelf with several rows of books on famous actors, actresses, the art of film…

That was one thing that stood out in Ryan's eyes: the books. Burns had a fondness for the written word, apparently. In addition to the various shelves and nooks around the manor, the house boasted a huge library with a domed ceiling and a floor that had been polished to a mirror shine. Burns had explained, with more than a little pride, that every book had been carefully placed according to its subject matter.

Here, natural history, Burns had explained gesturing grandly. There, arts and humanities. Look there: poets of the ages. Real poetry, mind you. Oh, you might find some freeform dross in there from time to time, but I daresay the bulk of the matter is carefully metered, as it ought be.

Freeform dross. What a word choice. Could Monty ever say anything simply? It appeared not.

Ryan glanced at The Glass Menagerie, sitting on his down comforter. He quickly gathered the book, and slid it back under his pillow. It was one of the last things he had to remind him of his mother. She'd given it to him years ago, when he was still a child.

Ryan sat up and slid his feet into the pair of house loafers he kept by his bed. Ordinarily, Ryan preferred to walk around in socks, but he'd quickly learned that trying to navigate the smooth floors of Burns Manor in socks was a dangerous and slippery prospect. Loafers were the safer choice.