Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons.

Sitting in his study later that day, Monty leaned back in his enormous wingback chair and tented his fingers, not in pleasure, but in growing irritation. He swiveled around to face the window and the sun glared harshly into his eyes, prompting him to jump up more quickly than he believed he was capable of doing.

"Bah!" he cried, and with a stupendous amount of effort managed to pull the purple velvet curtains shut. He then resumed his seat and surveyed the luxuriously upholstered, cavernous room, swathed in darkness and wondered in a rare, brief moment of clarity, exactly what he was doing here.

He massaged his temples gently and glanced at the large stack of paperwork on his desk. Damn EPA reports, most of it, he wagered, with the odd lawsuit or meaningless correspondence thrown in for variety. Blast it, this wasn't his job! He didn't know how to handle such menial tasks! If it were up to him, he would simply tell them all to go to the devil. Why should he waste his time on these irksome, letter-writing boobs? Whatever trouble he got himself into, his high-priced lawyers would be able to get him out of, anyway.

He got up and left the room, reflecting that while he periodically needed the rush (like an electric current) of reveling in the humiliation of a vanquished foe, sometimes for convenience sake, it was best to avoid a problem. And no one was better at tap-dancing around the truth with jug headed political officials or double-talking tiresome acquaintance than Waylon Smithers.

No! He would not let that man intrude upon his thoughts .

Mr. Burns sighed heavily as he made his way to the front door of his house and let himself out.

Monty wandered into Phineas Q. Butterfat's 5600 Flavors Ice cream Parlor.

A fat man in blue pants was arguing with the acne ridden teen behind the counter.

"What do you mean I can't get an ice cream cone with a scoop of every flavor on it?!"

In a shrill, squeaky voice the teen replied, "Well, sir, that particular ice-cream cone would reach heights of 467 feet. You can have 5600 separate cones, each with one of our delicious flavors."

"I won't be able to eat that while I drive!" the fat man whined.

Monty rolled his eyes and made his way up to the counter.

The bald tub of guts turned. "Oh, hiya Mr. B," he said. "How's it going? It's me, Homer Simpson? I work in your power plant?"

Monty searched his brain, not very thoroughly. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the man. "Oh yes," he replied absently, "Enjoying our Saturday, are we?"

But Homer Simpson was once again talking to the soda jerk.

"We have two flavors of the week," the latter was saying, "Pistachio and Butter Brickle."

Monty's entire body tensed. Butterbrickle was his favorite, and today being the first day he was wearing his new, strong dentures, luck was truly on his side…and pistachio, well, pistachio was Smithers' favorite. It struck him as a very strange coincidence. He stared unblinking into space for several seconds.

Homer Simpson interrupted his thoughts by telling the squeaky-voiced teen, "Ew! Those flavors suck! Together, they're even worse!"

Monty narrowed his eyes at this intolerable oaf. As he walked out of the shop without buying anything, he heard Homer Simpson say over his shoulder,

"I'll take one of each."

Burns realized that he was fonder of Smithers than he had a right to be. Really, it was quite unheard of for him to harbor any sort of goodwill toward an employee. He'd valued the irreproachable hard work of Smithers' father (a trait his son now so mirrored), had thought he was a good man. But it had genuinely surprised Monty when it dawned upon him that he actually liked Waylon Smithers, Jr. That he could likehis inferior. That he appreciated more than just his services, but that he appreciated him as a human being, too.

Of course, these unexpected feelings of warmth rarely revealed themselves through any action of Burns.It pained him, it did, to consider the course of action that must be taken. At first, it appeared possible to pretend that the whole thing never happened. But the morning that Burns had shown up at Smithers' apartment- the second he saw his assistant's face, Burns had been overcome by a sense of discomfort such as he had never felt. What if Smithers came back and that feeling never went away? And say it did. What was to stop Smithers from bringing the whole unfortunate situation up? A shrewd and intelligent man in most regards, Monty knew him to be unnecessarily sentimental. He was just enough of a fool to want to talk about it, now there was an opening. Hell, Monty was pretty sure (looking back; he had spent much of last night lying awake and looking back) that there had been times in the past when Smithers had been about to reveal the very thing that had gotten them into this mess.

He couldn't predict how it would go, what the aftermath would be, once he had fired him. The prospect didn't seem like a happy one. Smithers might sue him for wrongful termination, for discrimination. Burns' legal team might hit back with a sexual harassment charge.

But it couldn't be helped. Smithers' feelings were dangerous…

especially when they were requited.