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"I have pizza for breakfast," Charla announced cheerfully when he reluctantly answered the door to her the following morning , her smile as sunny as the island day outside, brandishing a box containing said pie, a delicious aroma emitting from it. "Isn't it fun?"

"Oh, yeah, I don't know when I've had such fun," Smithers said sardonically, but he forced a tight smile and asked, "Do you want to come in?"

"Sure, that would be nice, " Charla consented and traipsed past him into the hotel room littered with clothes, peanut canisters, beer cans, bottles of scotch, etc.

She wrinkled her nose.

"Still a smoker, I see, " she mused, disdainfully brushing a couple cigarette butts off the comforter before perching daintily upon the edge of the bed.

Smithers leaned against the wall facing her.

"I quit for awhile. Then I started up again." He expected to be asked why, but she was silent. And the silence continued for several minutes as they munched their pizza.

"Do you know," Charla said suddenly, breaking the silence, sounding contemplative, "My sister and I…we were never really close, but I remember she drove up to see me one day, a long time ago. It was right after you'd proposed to her. I'd never seen her happier. She said she was positive you'd two do well together, because you were just the sort of man she always expected to fall in love with. I asked, 'What sort of man is that, Maggie?' And I'd never had cause to give her such credit for insightfulness as I did then. For she replied, 'Why, intellectual and cultured and sensitive.' And then she vacillated for a beat before telling me, 'but you know, there's something innately tragic about that kind of man.'" Charla scrutinized him unabashedly, Waylon noted as he stared back at her with a bland expression on his face.

"You're crossed in love, " she declared.

This got his attention.

"What? What would make you say so?"

"Something in your eyes. I walked around with much the same look in mine for months, after I first realized that things between my husband and me were hopeless. So it's either you're brokenhearted or you've killed someone." She paused. "And I don't think you're the murdering type."

Waylon laughed ruefully. "Well…you might be surprised."

He saw Charla visibly shrink back a little on the bed at his words. Suspicion and a hint of fear crept into her voice, "You haven't…"

Waylon swallowed the bite of pizza in his mouth and replied nonchalantly, "No. I haven't. Not…directly, at least. I might have… aided in taking care of a problem or two…not my problems, but if they are giving him problems…ahem, well, I'm not entirely sure…"

"Good Lord!" Charla gasped.

Waylon could have kicked himself. Here he was, essentially confessing to being an accomplice to murder! Or likely murder. Mr. Burns had oftentimes, without any qualms about the matter, implied that he'd had someone…err, settled. He'd certainly tried a few times. But Smithers had no knowledge of somebody who had, without a shadow of a doubt, been assassinated. And here he was, spilling the beans to this woman who could turn him in, giving information that could quite easily be traced back to Mr. Burns.

Of course, when you're the personal assistant to such a man, you [voluntarily or not become an extraordinary liar.

And so Smithers compelled his sickened stomach to shake with mirth as he merrily retorted, "I'm only kidding!" and hoped he wasn't overacting. Charla seemed to buy it. Her facial muscles relaxed and she sat upright, tittering nervously.

Smithers thought back on what she'd said a couple minutes ago and fixing his gaze on his reflection in the mirror murmured, "Months."

"Months?" she echoed, uncomprehending.

"For months you wore this look of emptiness in your eyes, matching the void in your soul when it's other half has been taken away?"

He heard her breath catch in her throat. His wretchedness and desolation that Maggie'd picked up on so long ago as being likely to overtake him was starting to get to her.

"Waylon…sugar…please. This melancholy you are displaying is unhealthy and counterproductive. Whoever this person is…someone else is always bound to come along. I imagine the length of time I spent…pining over Alan is the exception rather than the rule. After all, in my case I was mourning the end of a six and a half year marriage. Your period of recovery needn't be so long."

Waylon didn't divulge that he was mourning the expectation of his exile from the man he'd adored for twenty-five years. He did, however, set her straight about her assumption, "I meant that you suffered- not that you necessarily deserved to suffer at all, but comparatively speaking- for months. "Not years, or even a year, or you would have said as much. Whereas I shall suffer all the rest of my life. I will live as a broken shell of a man the remainder of my years if…" He could not continue, as tears began to form behind his eyes and his voice threatened to break.

He watched Charla's reflection in the mirror. Her hand went up to cover her mouth and she gawked at him in astonishment. She said in a softened tone to him, "Alan was not the other half of my soul."

Smithers swallowed around the lump in his throat and slid down the wall until he was sitting back on his heels.

"Monty's mine."

"A man, " Charla clarified, stating the obvious. That was all she could focus on.

"Yes." He pointed wearily at the TV. "Turn that on, would you?"

She complied and it turned out there was a classic movie marathon on. They had landed right smack in the middle of Casablanca.

"My favorite movie, " Charla offered somewhat awkwardly.

"Not mine, " Waylon said, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the counter and joining her on the bed. "I always wished Rick hadn't of done the noble thing."

They watched for a little while as Smithers smoked his last cigarette. The shades were all pulled tightly shut but the room was warm and the combination [coupled with their full stomachs made them both drowsy.

He dreamed of Mr. Burns. Not of making love to him as he did when he was only cowardly, but not worried, and free to be lustful. Last night as he had lied awake in bed, he concluded wryly that should he ever get the chance to…do those things with his love, he might simply be overwhelmed by the experience and his head would probably explode. But as he dreamt on this golden afternoon he had visions, sweet but torturous, of some moments they'd shared. Tender, but not necessarily romantic. Out of 25 years there were many memories. The last was of Mr. Burns giving him mouth-to-mouth after he'd slipped into a sort of coma resulting from being denied his thyroid medication. The only time Mr. Burns had ever voluntarily put his lips on his. And that was to save his life. Now did he care if he lived or died?

He pried his eyes open. He was lying on his side facing the nightstand where his cell phone was laying. He reached over to check the time and saw that he had one missed voicemail. His heart almost stopped.

Could it be…

He wasn't even sure if he wanted him to have called. If he had, there was a good chance it was to nicely, contritely, terminate his employment. Or…it may be the reverse. A message saying that he had thought about it, and some wondrous revelation had occurred.

Smithers, I love you, too.

Tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he shook his head. No, that was impossible.

The message was from John, sounding properly ashamed of himself, apologizing profusely for showing up at the plant drunk and making a scene. It had been there since Friday. Waylon had never bothered to check.

"I appreciate the apology," he told the phone and added despondently, "But it's of little help to me." Then he quickly dialed the airport.

As soon as he hung up the phone, he glanced over at his ex sister-in-law, still asleep.

Smithers nudged her gently.

"Hey. Hey Charla, wake up."

Charla sighed and stretched and opened her eyes. She grinned. "My, my, in bed with your wife's sister," she joked.

Waylon chuckled. "Not to be rude, but I need you to get up and go back to your own room."

She groaned and propped herself up on one elbow. "Why?"

"I'm leaving."

Charla blinked in confusion as sat fully up. "Where?"

To Springfield." He hauled himself off the bed and she clumsily did the same, nearly tripping over the various items littering the floor."

"You're going home? Now? Why?"

"I have to. I just…have to. There's a plane leaving in an hour and a half. I think I can make it."

"You still haven't answered my question, hon, " she demanded, hands on hips. "You going to go after that man?"

He felt the vise constricting on his heart. "I'm not in a position to do so. But I just had…what you could call…an ephiphamy. If he is going to banish me, I have my whole life [however long that is to be apart from him. If I go back to town now…I can't see him, but just to know that he sees the sunrise when I do, sees the moon and the stars at the same time I do. And find out somehow if he's okay. I still worry about that, you know."

Charla caught a glimpse of herself in the little mirror over the bureau and gasped. "Oh! Waylon! My mascara is all smudged! Why didn't you tell me?! Oh, that's what I get for sleeping in makeup."

Waylon fished a tissue from his pocket and leaned in, dabbing at the black under her eyes, but quit when he realized he was only making it worse. He smiled sheepishly, his hand halted to her cheek.

"Here's looking at you, kid."

"Good luck, Waylon. With everything." She placed her hand over his own and brought it down to his side. And with that she was gone.

And as soon as he'd packed his things and dropped the key off at the front desk, so was Waylon.