Author's Note: Final Chapter! The previous one was short, so I'm making this one extra long, which is hopefully a good thing. :)
Thank you to my reviewers:D Please review this chapter, too, and enjoy!!!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons.
When Smithers went down to the lobby of his apartment complex shortly after lunch on Monday to check his mail, he found a young woman there about to get into his mailbox. It was Leah, who lived directly above him, and whom he had commissioned to retrieve his mail and care for his dog, Hercules, in his absence."Oh, Waylon!" she said surprised, handing him back the spare keys to his mailbox and apartment he had given her, "I didn't think you be back until after 5 o'clock today."
"I determined to come home early. I returned yesterday and spent the night here." He frowned at her in an attempt, without any real conviction, to come off as stern and cross. "And by the way, I've noticed that you haven't been in to feed Herky yet."
"Yeah, hehe," Leah replied sheepishly, rubbing at the back of her head, "Well, I was just about to do that, Waylon, honestly. I mean , I have been feeding him- he doesn't act like he's starving, does he?"
"That's because I fed him," Waylon pointed out, then grinned. "But no, it's okay, it's obvious you haven't been letting him go hungry."
"Hey, gorgeous!" Leah suddenly exclaimed, her attention shifting beyond Smithers' shoulder, to somebody who had just walked into the lobby. That person was soon at Leah's side, exchanging cheek kisses with her, and it turned out to be John.
John and Leah were good friends. She was a stylist at the place where he got his hair cut. Although she was a nice enough person, for his part, Waylon wouldn't trust her near his own hair as far as he could throw her. Next to Marge Simpson, wife of Sector 7G drone Homer Simpson, Leah probably was the female in town with the most radical hairstyle. Maroon colored, shaved in the back, long on the sides, with a few black-tipped spikes sticking up on top. Even though John always walked out of her salon looking perfectly fine, Waylon would continue to get his signature flattop at the same barbershop he always did, thank you very much.
"Are you ready to go?" John was asking Leah.
"Am I!" she cried, "I'm positively famished!"
He turned toward Smithers. "Howdy, Waylon, did you get my message?" He sounded very serious, unusual for John.
"I did, John, thank you, " Waylon replied solemnly.
"I was hoping you might call back," he confessed.
"I was on vacation. Forgive me if I was a trifle distracted."
"Ah," said John with a sly look, jabbing him playfully in the ribs. "And were you vacation where the company is particularly…distracting?"
He was referring to the Men's Resort. Waylon stepped away from John's conspiratorial nudging, which had grown a little too hard, and tried to speak with no petulance. "No, just someplace to relax."
"Say, Leah and I were just about to go for lunch; wanna tag along?" John offered.
Waylon shook his head in the negative. "No, that's alright, I already ate."
"Oh, come on, killjoy," John urged, his voice bordering on a whine. "Just come and spend a little time with your friends. Something's going on inside that pretty little head of yours, and I'm determined to wheedle it out."
"Well, you won't have any success," Smithers assured him. He really wasn't in the mood. He had been acquainted with John for a long time. Smithers was by halves another victim of his charm or else feeling such a complete lack of sympathy for the fellow (he being so reticent himself and not possessing John's natural and contagious buoyancy) that his nerves were mercilessly ground by him.
"Waylon, just say yes so we can get going!" Leah shouted.
"It'll be so much better if you come along," John persisted. "We're going to the Shaboom Kaboom Café, and you know it's only for the atmosphere. The food is sadly sub par. If I want a tasty little morsel, I'm going after you." He winked.
Waylon nearly burst out laughing. "Who do have writing your lines?" he asked incredulously. "Fine, I'll come."
Leah sat up front with John and gabbled on about her new girlfriend, Robyne, who apparently would be moving in with her soon. Leah had had, over the course of the last year, four girlfriends, all of who had moved in for a period. After the breakup, each was succeeded a matter of weeks later by a new live-in love for Leah.
But Leah stressed that she was very optimistic about this relationship.
As the Cadillac with its zebra print seat covers passed the nuclear plant, Waylon craned and stretched his neck to see every little bit of it. From the parking lot (which made no sense; who would be in the parking lot now?), to the building where the executive offices were. He cast his gaze upward, wondering if he would glimpse his boss standing out on the balcony. His breath quickened. He ached to see him. Already Smithers was going through serious Burns withdrawal.
Alas, the balcony was empty.
The car sped forward, Waylon still staring back forlornly at the plant.
John and Leah changed their minds and decided to stop at Krustyburger instead and eat their meals in the park.
"It's such a bee-utiful day!" John drawled, "Let's not waste it." The man proceeded to order the kid's meal at Krustyburger, and was so elated with the little Krusty figurine it came with that (while he was driving) he intermittently turned around to shove it in Waylon's face and make honking noises.
This was a mistake, Waylon thought, thoroughly incensed, as he slapped the toy way for the umpteenth time.At the park, however, things settled down. Leah soon abandoned them when she discovered a troupe of mimes performing there and it so happened that she knew a few of them. John finished up his food, and somehow they wound up talking about IT, Thursday night, when John ventured,
"I didn't get you in trouble, did I?"
And Smithers carried on confiding in people because it made no difference, "More than you. Mr. Burns found out that I'm….I'm in love with him."
John let out a whoop and slapped hi knee. "You telling me he didn't know before? He at least knows that you're as queer as a three dollar bill, doesn't he?
Waylon chafed and exclaimed, "God! If that's how you choose to refer to yourself but I'm no stereotype and I don't define myself by…"
"Okay, okay, settle down Bessie!" John held up his hands defensively. "So, he doesn't return your feelings, is that it?"
Waylon shook his head despairingly. "No, I don't think he can." He explained what had happened after John had gotten thrown out, and about Burns turning up at Smithers' apartment the next morning.
"So?" John said when he was finished, "Maybe he just needed some time to think about it."
"No! You didn't see the look in his eyes, as if I was a stranger, and his disturbed and apprehensive demeanor! He's from a different time, he probably thinks I'm a sicko, I'm probably fired, and he's way too straight!" He was nearly bawling in the middle of the park and needed to pull himself together.
John regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and his hand landed on Waylon's knee. Both of Waylon's eyebrows shot up. So much for trying to patch things up with Grady, he thought, as he lifted John's hand and removed it.
His companion only chuckled. "I don't get you. So you never planned on telling Old Bony that you loved him? You were content suppressing your feelings just to remain by his side?"
"I…I have confessed my feelings before, " Smithers said softly, playing with a blade of grass. "It's just…he wasn't really paying attention when I did it, or then I retracted it in some way…"
"Ah. Well, see, there's your problem."
"I wanted to tell him last Friday. I ended up being sent away by that time, but my vacation wasn't supposed to begin until Saturday…I had a dream of him going with me…" He sighed. "But then I've had several dreams. It's just that…we'd been getting along lately, and I was believe it or not, tiring of the staidness and invariability of my situation…"
"But you weren't really going to do anything about it."
And it then that the epiphany occurred.
"…No. I wasn't."
TuesdayWhat else could he do but show up for work on Tuesday?
He'd received no orders to do otherwise.
Waylon stood a moment on the manor's doorstep, the key in the lock, but he didn't turn it yet. There was a security camera at the gate, which caught the footage of him successfully using his keycard to access the property. Was Mr. Burns at this moment inside watching his monitors, watching Waylon's progress, waiting for him to enter the mansion? What would occur when he opened the door?
The second he stepped foot onto the cold checkered tile of the main hall, would he be met with his boss's vicious dogs bearing down upon him?
He took a deep breath. Turned the knob in his hand. Stepped inside.
Nothing happened.
Then there was a loud crackling noise and Smithers jumped about a foot in the air before realizing that it was coming from a corner of the room, near the ceiling. About a year ago, Mr. Burns had installed an intercom system. It was just easier, in this cavernous place; betimes Smithers failed to hear him ring his bell when the assistant was dealing with a pesky girlscout at the front door and Burns suddenly needed help chewing his Kobe beef.
"Ah, good to see you're here," came Mr. Burns' voice from the speaker. "To the dining room, post haste, Smithers."
Smithers felt his features screw up into an expression of confusion. What, the dining room? Mr. Burns never ate breakfast until he was completely dressed. So he had dressed himself? Of course, Smithers presumed that was what he had been doing the past few days but…but why would he prefer to?
Waylon's stomach dropped. Unless he doesn't want my dirty, licentious hands on him, my lustful eyes ogling his naked body.
Even if Mr. Burns was prepared to ignore Thursday night's revelation, it had inevitably changed things between them forever. How could it not?
Waylon trudged into the dining room to find his boss seated at the head of the table. Their eyes locked. Mr. Burns did not flinch and appeared almost…cheerful. Not so cheerful that it got Smithers' hopes up that he was going to dash into his arms and passionately return his love.
No…oblivious cheerful. Like nothing was new.
"Uh…hello, sir," he greeted him with uncertainty.
Monty's face was still an inscrutable mask. "Salutations, Smithers," he answered unequivocally, "And how was your vacation?"
"It was fine, sir. I'm happy to be back, though." It was the uniform reply, even under these exceedingly awkward circumstances. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Smithers thought that he shouldn't have said that last part. He cleared his throat.
Mr. Burns narrowed his eyes at him. "Yes, well, I found myself in a fine kettle of fish on Friday night, I hope it was worth it!"
Waylon regarded him with surprise and concern. "You hope what was worth it? What happened on Friday night?" He peered at Mr. Burns carefully, as if to discern any injuries.
"Hmmph!" cried Mr. Burns. "Well, it wasn't meant to be taken literally, you blithering toady; I'm not a Catholic, it wasn't as if I was up to my neck in herring!"
Smithers chuckled under his breath. "I wouldn't imagine it would be anything less than filet mignon, sir."
"Regardless!" his boss raved, "I was referring to you taking off on your vacation early! I hope it was worth it!"
Waylon's jaw practically hit the floor. "But sir…you expressly said for me to take Friday off…"
"Bah! Why would I do that, pray?"
You know why, Smithers thought to himself. This isn't making any sense.
"Um…" he started.
"Never mind!" Mr. Burns cut in harshly. "The point is that I somehow came to be perched on a stool in some dingy, blue-collar 'dive'"-here he instituted the air-quotes- "on Friday last, with no memory of my previous twenty-four hours. The proprietor of that shameful establishment informed me that that had been my whole intention. That I had, for some mysterious reason come in and ordered a 'Forget Me Shot'"- air-quotes again- "in order to erase all remembrance from my brain of a most distressing incident the day before. I asked the barkeep- Moe, I believe was his name- if anybody else had been in my me. He replied in the negative. I then dialed your number to ask just what the dickens was going on, and to give you a thorough chewing-out. You did not answer! I could hardly fathom it! I was seething with rage, but then it was growing late- half past six! - and who knew what ruffians would be about at that hour? So I hied a taxi home. My God, Smithers, do you know what awful things could have befallen me, resulting from your abandonment!? Not to mention that peculiar disrespect you showed in taking off evidently just because you felt like it, instead of deferring to the vacation time had I set aside for you in my benevolence?"
As Smithers, out of force of habit, stammered out a million apologies, somewhat unintelligibly, himself not really aware what he said, his mind swarmed with thoughts he couldn't really hold onto, his heart with feelings so varied and undefined. He endeavored to define them.
Relief was one. The biggest one…wasn't it? Now he wouldn't be fired, he wouldn't be expatriated. That is, unless, Mr. Burns really did decide to send him packing on the grounds of his alleged 'abandonment'.
But then there were these two other feelings…Smithers knew perfectly how to categorize them, but he almost didn't want to, because they were so… incongruous. He had wished, so violently for IT to have been undone. Because it shouldn't have happened like that. But no…these two feelings were unmistakably Disappointment and Blame.
Disappointment because of yesterday's conclusion that he was very unlikely to ever reveal his true feelings to Mr. Burns. And if it hadn't been that moment he always meant to go for, of pouring his heart out to him, eloquently and fervently…It was the equivalent of being in middle school and asking your friend to let your crush know that you liked them. It wasn't romantic or courageous but it got the job done.
Not to mention that tiny flicker of hope, that Smithers was almost embarrassed of, that dwelt in his heart with those tantalizing and soothing whispers that things might turn out the way he wanted them to.
And he blamed his boss for downing that drink.
"What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Burns?" he inquired, moving toward the kitchen, suddenly very desirous to be alone and get his bearings.
"No, no don't cook me anything," his boss requested, "Let's go to a restaurant for breakfast today." With an imperious lift of the chin he proclaimed, "I am far too generous with you."
Smithers offered a frail semblance of a laugh and went to pull the car around. He did not espy the small, secretive smile creep onto his employer's face, nor the old man press his fingertips together.
"Excellent."
The day went by more quickly than usual, with Smithers as busy as he'd ever been. There was a board meeting that day, which gave him a chance to perform the more administrative assistant duties according to his job description, as opposed to the hundreds of little odd jobs he was responsible for on a daily basis. It truly kept him on his toes, assisting during the meeting, seated firmly at Mr. Burns' right hand, then scrupulously leaving the room at intervals to check and organize Mr. Burns' e-mail and phone messages. During lunch, under Mr. Burns' orders, he returned or disregarded them as called for, between bites of his cold salami sandwich at his desk, whilst his boss did some rare socializing with the board members in the 'cafetorium'.
There was little time to dwell upon one's personal thoughts and feelings.
Finally, the day was winding down. Smithers and Burns were alone in the boardroom. Mr. Burns was seated at the long rectangular table, looking tired but smug. He declared the day a triumph, with an air of self-complacency even more prevalent than usual, but he was in his 'all is right with the world mode', as opposed to his 'all is wrong with the world so I must destroy it' mode. The main objective of the meeting had been coming up with new ideas for cost-cutting, and Monty grinned as he opened the folder containing the day's minutes, quite confident about the effectiveness of effecting some of the measures.
Smithers wandered over to the little side table where there was the a coffee pot and poured himself a Styrofoam cup's worth of the strong, thick, black liquid.
"Well, Smithers, let's go over these, shall we?" Mr. Burns started, eyes flickering over the sheet of paper, "Hmmm…I think this one sounds the most promising: a mass layoff, followed by the expedient hiring of illegal aliens and recent college grads with no experience, who we won't have to pay so much."
"Hehe," Smithers, twittering, approached Mr. Burns and sat down next to him. "While that certainly would be...erm, effective…. temporarily, I think, that in the long run, it would create more problems than it would solve. I mean, you're already bribing the Mayor, the Nuclear Safety Commission, and once it got out that you were hiring masses of illegals, you'd have to start paying off Immigration, too. And considering how many people with families this plant currently employs, once they are fired in favor of young singletons, there might be riots. The media will spin this in a most unflattering way, and you'll become generally even more hate…ooh, um, I mean, misunderstood, and they might be prompted to boycott and switch to…solar power."
Mr. Burns gasped.
"You'd be much better off," Smithers continued, "implementing some of these smaller changes. You know, they can really add up, " he began reading aloud from the list, "Switch from selling name brand Buzz Cola in the vending machine to generic soda, start using a lower grade of beef in the cafeteria, alter the dental plan so its doesn't cover bridgework, enact stricter policies for the pension plan so employees have to work longer before they qualify…"
Upon looking to his boss for his reaction, he encountered a distracted, glazed-over look in Mr. Burns' eyes.
Waylon cleared his throat. "Uh, sir…are you okay?" he asked worriedly.
Monty nodded abstracted. "We're going to have to take this slowly…"
"Uh, yeah, of course," Smithers replied, thinking he referred to the cost-cutting endeavors. "That makes sense, sir, I mean…"
His lips were suddenly stopped when his boss's captured them. He saw Mr. Burns leaned in toward him, in such a way that logically Smithers could think of any other reason but for a kiss. But no, that couldn't be it, he had lint on his jacket, or Mr. Burns merely intended to whisper in his ear…
They were kissing, though. They were actually kissing! Waylon felt such a surge of emotion and pleasure…and shock. He couldn't fathom what was happening, or for what purpose. Even as he cupped a hand to the back of Mr. Burns' neck and deepened the kiss, he couldn't help thinking, he is going to kill me!
Finally they drew apart from one another. Smithers' head didn't feel like it was going to explode, but it felt dizzy and swimmy and light.
Nevertheless, he spoke first.
"You didn't…"
"I didn't."
"You remember…"
"I remember everything, yes."
"So…?"
"So."
Smithers gathered up all his courage. "Sir, I…I well, why…why did you, um, kiss me? I mean it seems like," he stared deep into his employer's eyes, searching. Mr. Burns turned his head away, smirking slightly, "It seems like you've come to a decision, and I just want to make sure I didn't misinterpret what it is."
"Didn't I say that I wanted to take it slowly/' he grumbled, standing, looking quite exasperated. "I meant our…relationship. I want to have…one. With you."
Waylon felt tears of joy welling up in his eyes and he leapt to his feet. "Oh, sir…" he exclaimed rapturously as a warmth suffused his entire body and his heart soared. "I love you!" And that final part of the confession, those words he'd always longed, to say, came so easily, so freely out of him.
And to his utter astonishment and delight, his boss, his friend, his love replied, "I love you, too." He nearly fainted!
Monty had waited a fraction of a second to say it back, but Waylon needn't doubt the authenticity of the statement. He knew Monty well enough to know that the older man wouldn't lie to give comfort on anyone's behalf. He had hesitated just because the words on his tongue had felt so strange there, and who he was about to say them to (his assistant, his male assistant), was even stranger to him. This was all so new to him. Which also added validity to his declaration of love- nothing less than that emotion would override his objections to a thing he had never in his whole life imagined he would be a part of.
"Oh, thank you, sir," Smithers breathed, laughing internally at the high probability that he'd continue to address his new boyfriend as 'sir'. But from habit, he reflected, it doesn't have such a formal sound.
Somehow they were locking lips again. Smithers was a good kisser, Monty thought, enjoying it every bit of it as he had at the table. Both of these kisses amplified times ten the spark he had experienced (but strove so arduously to pretend he hadn't) all that time ago when Smithers kissed him at the quote unquote 'Apocalypse'. It was sort of amazing, that he was enjoying kissing a man. This concept of being involved with a member of his own sex was not distasteful, but a foreign imprint on his mind. For when it came right down to it, it wasn't about finding the right woman anymore. It was about the right person. Everything in his mind, the old teachings, that reminded him that this was unnatural and taboo, was silenced. For C. Montgomery Burns had that (which was mostly a flaw, but in this case a talent) ability of finding a method of sanctioning everything that he did. He was never one to deny himself whatever he wanted.
And what he wanted was here. Who he wanted was here. He has stuck another claim to Waylon Smithers. He had claimed him previously as an employee, a friend. Now he claimed him as a lover. (For no matter what Monty'd said, even he knew at this moment, that it wouldn't be long before they quite literally moved from boardroom to bedroom)
And he had a good feeling Waylon Smithers wouldn't mind that sort of possession in the slightest.
The end.
