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Waylon stood under a cold shower in his hotel room until his skin turned pruny and he threatened to pass out from an empty stomach. He finally shut off the water and wrapped a towel around himself. He imagined the newspaper telling of his death, reporting that Waylon Smithers of Springfield had struck his head on the bathroom floor after collapsing, the result of having consumed nothing but some kahlua within the past 24 hours.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 1PM. He'd certainly slept late.

Originally, he'd planned a jaunt to New York to visit his mother's family and take in a Broadway show. In fact, as far as Mr. Burns knew, that's where he was. But after the events of Thursday night, Waylon has canceled those plans and hopped a plane to Hawaii. He just couldn't face his relatives like this.

He was at a resort. Not the Men's Resort he'd been to a few times. Going there and getting endlessly hit on did not sound appealing. If he was truly honest with himself, he had to admit that John was right. He had never been genuinely interested in anyone else but Mr. Burns. He had needs, of course, and tended to use sex as a sedative, to work out his frustrations. But on this trip, he wouldn't be letting anybody into his bed.

No, he was just at a nice, upscale resort.

Thus, he was entitled to a complimentary, continental breakfast, which he forfeited in lieu of a can of nuts from the mini fridge. It was about the hardest, most important act of self-preservation he'd commit these few days. He didn't know where he found the strength to accept the fact that he had to eat something and then on top of that to actually follow through. But that didn't mean that he would sit down and enjoy a meal.

He elected to venture out into the sunshine, which nearly blinded him the second he stepped out the door after having been so long in the dark. His ears were immediately assaulted by the sounds of happy people- infuriating, insipid happy people, laughing as they splashed in the pool, a body of water too-perfect shade of blue, or in a private cabana. Smiling and chatting cheerfully as they strolled along the gardens and verandas, often holding hands, because couples were the most common here. And they were nauseating to watch, with their glowing faces, long eye contact, stealing kisses here and there. (Plus one pair, making out rather heatedly in the hot tub, who would probably make you want to shout, "Get a room!" even if weren't feeling so intensely bitter).

He had made his way around to the front of the hotel when he found a pen lying on the sidewalk. For some reason, he stooped to pick it up. It was monogrammed, and when he read the initials, he nearly had a heart attack.

C.M.B.

Smithers stood there stupidly, rolling the pen over in his hand when a woman came out of the main lobby and noticed his disoriented state.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Looking up, dazed, he explained, "I found this pen."

"Mmhm." The woman took the pen from him and examined it. "Why, this is one of mine. C. M.B. Charla Mae Bradford. Thank you for finding it." She slipped it into her purse.

"Yours?" Smithers repeated, confused. He shook his head to clear it. Of course, his love didn't have a monopoly on those initials, but still the notion unsteadied him.

"Yes." The corners of her mouth turned upward in a bemused smirk. She gave a brief, tinkling little laugh.

"Why, you really don't recognize me, do you, Waylon?"

Smithers studied her critically. That laugh, the slight Southern drawl to her voice…what was her name again? Well, it had started with a 'C', that was for certain. Christina…Chelsea….

"Charla!" He suddenly said out loud, coloring a bit.

"Maggie's sister, that's right," she confirmed and then, to his astonishment, proceeded to hug him. "How are you?"

Smithers barely tolerated this demonstration of cordial familiarity (although he felt too drained to resist) and slunk out of her grasp as soon as it loosened. His eyes rooted to the ground, he muttered, "I'd hardly think you'd be happy to see me."

Charla shrugged. "I may be the plain sister, but I'm also the kind one."

Waylon didn't know how to respond to this. Looking back up at her again, he wanted to contradict the comment about her appearance but found he couldn't in honesty do it. And he lacked both the energy and the motivation to tell a cheerful falsehood just to bolster her self esteem.

Then for a second he felt compelled to…do what? Defend his ex wife? Charla had stated that she was the kind one, implying that Maggie wasn't so sweet. Which wasn't precisely true. She could be a spitfire, but they hadn't parted on the best of terms, to say the least logically Maggie'd ceased being kind to him.

Waylon frowned and asked, "Bradford? That wasn't your name before. It wasn't Maggie's maiden name."

Charla smiled tightly. "I got married." She flipped her hair. "And divorced. That's why I'm here. It was just finalized two days ago and, well, this isn't so much of a celebratory trip as some time to get away and…think about things."

"Are you sorry it ended?" Smithers inquired rather abruptly, startling himself. He was immediately appalled at his own audacity. He really wasn't the prying type, normally. He definitely didn't want people prying into his life.

Luckily, Charla didn't act offended. She appeared to consider for a moment, then answered calmly, "I'm sorry it went wrong. I'm not sorry it ended. I'd…we'd both been…waiting for it to end for awhile. Our relationship stopped being a positive thing in our lives and became more of a burden."

They had started walking as they talked and Smithers hadn't even been aware of it. Before he knew it, they were on the other side of the resort, behind the hotel and beside the pool again. Charla dropped into one of the lounge chairs and motioned for him to do the same. He did, and promptly indicated to one of the servers to bring him a cocktail.

Charla watched him drink it greedily as she stretched her legs out contentedly in front of her.

She said suddenly, "I don't know why it should surprise you that I'm friendly to you. I mean, yes, you broke my baby sister's heart, but it wasn't exactly your fault. You probably should have gotten it all sorted out before you married Maggie, but you can't help it if you like guts."

Smithers dropped his empty glass and stared at the shattered fragments on the concrete as he started to laugh. A silent laugh, his shoulders shaking. As an attendant made her way over to sweep up the broken glass, he turned back to his companion with absolutely zero resentment. He didn't care about her abruptly revealing his sexual preference. He was far away from home, after all, and didn't know anyone here, wasn't likely to see them again. But even if he was back in Springfield, he had a good feeling it still wouldn't have mattered. He knew it was probably the worst-kept secret in town, and since the one person who wasn't supposed to know now knew…judgment from anyone else was insignificant. If he received condemnation from the one whose approval he always sought, who he loved with every fiber of his being, he didn't have a life there, anyway.

"It was a very complicated situation, Charla. I'd appreciate it if we could not talk about it."

So that was the reason Maggie had given for their split. It wasn't the whole reason. Smithers knew very well whom she blamed for the disintegration of their marriage. That time in his life was like a blur now, but the issue wasn't him wanting to be with other men. It was his obsession with one specific man, and besides never liking him to begin with, Maggie blamed Mr. Burns for being able to trigger this power over her husband that she had never been able to.

Charla merely nodded at his request and grabbed a fruit kabob off a rotating tray. "So how have you been? Are you here on vacation?"

Waylon scoffed. "Vacation? Well, yes, technically."

She arched an eyebrow. "No offense, but you don't look like you're having a lot of fun."

"I'm not."

"You look downright awful!"

"Thank you!" he said tersely, eyes darting around for any server carrying alcohol.

"Why are you trying to get drunk?"

"I'm trying to stay drunk," he corrected her.

She laid a hand gently on his arm. "Do you need some help?"

"Probably. But not from you. I only drink when going through a crisis."

Her green eyes widened. They were wide by nature, but they grew even rounder. Not like Maggie. Hers were the same color, but she had had cat eyes.

"A crisis? Oh, good heavens, what kind of a crisis?"

"I'm waiting to find that out. Biding my time. Stuck in limbo."