Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons.
Author's Note: Just in case anyone was confused, I used the name Maggie for Smithers' ex-wife because that's what Harleenquinn called her in her wonderful stories. So no, my fanfic doesn't take place in the future, or in some weird parallel universe where Smithers was married to Maggie Simpson.
Sunday
Monty Burns woke up wondering how he was going to face another day. He didn't have anything to look forward to that was going to keep him distracted. It was only a Sunday morning. He was for sure not going to sit in some phony baloney church. He'd put in an appearance every once in a blue moon, say on Christmas, not that he found it did his soul any good. And not that he cared. Even if that Heaven that idiot reverend preached about did exist, if all those nitwits who attended regularly were going to be granted admission he wanted nowhere near it.
He nestled deeper into his soft pillows. Only the weak rejoiced in the weekend, he thought to himself. A businessman like himself saw it for what it truly was- two days to be senselessly unproductive .To be cheated. And those buffoons in his employ were cheating themselves, too. For if they were obliged to labor seven days a week, doubtlessly they would acquire a taste for it. They'd learn a valuable lesson about the importance of hard work in a Capitalist society.
Any self-respecting, nose-to-the-grindstone businessman was unable derive any semblance of work from the weekend. They didn't have any friends to spend them with, anyway. Friends were a waste of time and effort.
Except Monty did have a friend. Smithers was his friend, his dear friend who found things for them to do together on the weekends. Pointless, highly inefficient examples of diversion. Dragging him to picnics in the park, or to smoky nightclubs featuring some starving jazz musician performer. To the mall, where Monty could invest a pittance of his bottomless fortune in a little retail therapy. Or to some terrible play downtown no one should ever induce their friend into going to.
Monty remembered last weekend well. There had been a benefit auction in Shelbyville. He had shown up not to raise money for that putrid hellhole's Children's Hospital. (That detestable city's children must likewise be detestable) He'd gone to hobnob with other influential figures and perhaps pick up a few additions for his already extensive art collection.
There had been a ball following it, and as Monty was trapped in conversation with some interminable windbag he happened to look across the room. His eyes fell on Smithers, clad nattily in a tuxedo. He felt his blood begin to boil. How dare he leave his side for one minute and go enjoy himself?! Why wasn't he coming over and rescuing him from this wearisome encounter?
Next, he was marveling at how well Smithers was fitting in here. Of course, he was a well educated young man and his manners were nothing short of impeccable. But it was the ease with which he shed that demeanor of servitude, the ease with which he was holding his own with men of his boss's social station, not his own. Monty felt something mighty akin to pride as he watched Smithers' companions laugh at some witticism he had just delivered.
And then he found himself admiring the set of Smithers' jacket across his shoulders. Not bad, not bad at all. He wondered what he did to keep them so toned. It was unfortunate Smithers never had an excuse to use the decontamination showers at the plant. What with the security cameras in there, Monty's get a chance to see what else was in tip-top shape.
His cheeks grew hot and his stomach churned. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself for having such thoughts, for letting this strange attraction to his assistant surface again. He forced his attention back to the puck fisted blowhard, who was talking some nonsense about opening a chain of restaurants catering to the pets of the rich and famous.
Even now, the memory was enough to cause him to blush profusely and to peer anxiously about his bedchamber, as if watched by eyes that knew where his mind had been and were most disapproving.
Of course, no one was observing him. That was the height of absurdity. He was alone. As he'd ever been.
Subsequent to him summoning sufficient vigor to haul his old bones out of bed and ready himself for the day ahead- a day which he had no plans for- he sat at the head of the large table in the dining room and picked at his bowl of rapidly-turning-soggy bran flakes. After this robust breakfast, an idea struck him to make health the theme of the day. He would get some exercise by exploring his own mansion. There were certain sections of it, after all, that he hadn't been to in eons. But as he went upstairs and began to wander, much to his chagrin, his mind followed suit.
Well, he wasn't in love with Waylon Smithers, that was a definite! He couldn't give a damn less about that bespeckled lickspittle, in fact. He didn't feel even the platonic sort of love for him…did he? Perchance. Or close enough. But it was inconsequential. It must be put to the side, because once the poor sap came back from vacation Monty was going to fire him and then never see him again. He already wasn't thinking about him. Which was a relief, because if you can't stop thinking about somebody, you're probably in love with them. And Monty wasn't even remotely attracted to Smithers. No, he had never, ever admired him in a physical way…oh, wait.
At length, he found it very easy to shift his focus to himself. To the countless artistic renderings of his magnificent person. He amused himself with such activities as making a mental list of his favorites. Although none could come close to accurately reflecting the power and supremacy of the illustrious Charles Montgomery Burns in the flesh.
He made it a good distance. Not to any of uncharted halls and chambers of his spacious and foreboding manor. He traveled all the way to his entertainment room unaided, and then stooped outside the door, determined that should he venture any further, he would have to stop for food and water.
He settled himself into the plush armchair before the television and lifting the remote, stabbed at the power button. The TV flicked on, displaying a Spanish-language soap opera starring that daft galoot in the bumblebee costume. Apparently, some genius had decided that he could cross over from comedy (or what passed for comedy these days) to the dramatic. He was clearly mistaken, but in spite of the program being utter drivel and not understanding a word of it, Monty sat there and watched the whole thing, almost as if in a trance.
The credits were rolling when the phone rang. A telemarketer. Monty expertly dueled out what-for to him, giving the man the harshest berating of his life for presuming that Montgomery Burns was interested in a new vacuum cleaner. Consarn it, there ought to be a list for people like him, a sort of list of people who could not be called…
He ambled back into the entertainment room to resume his absorption by the boob tube. This time that delightfully violent cartoon cat and mouse were on, and he gleefully watched and laughed uproariously at the psychotic, gratuitous slaughter fest antics. The show inspired Burns to head into his study with a devious agenda. A conniving leer overspreading his face, he withdrew from his desk drawer the latest employee evaluations. Oh, yes, tomorrow would be a good day. A good, productive day. To eliminate the useless chaff from the more utilitarian wheat, he would dismiss the three employees with the worst evaluations- Carl Carlson, Lenny Leonard, and Homer Simpson.
By this time it was seven in the evening and already time to go to bed. It occurred to him that he had not thought of Smithers for several hours and he gloried in his victory.
He did not know that when he reached that hazy, pre-dream state just before he was ushered into sleep, he spoke that name aloud. A soft whisper, an entreaty. Not for a glass of water, or his bear Bobo. For the bearer of that name, pure and simple. For his presence and the sensation it evoked in his heart. An uninvited visitor, but one who would not be denied.
