Author's Notes:

This story was rated M because of adult themes and concepts; similar to "Nuclear Attraction" or "Consequences of Fission."

The young man, Ryan Smithers, had been waiting at the east gate, debating with himself what to do next.

When the gates swung open and the owner's Porsche roared in, the Ryan wasted no time in following.

He pulled his motorcycle to a stop behind the Porsche, turned off the engine, and put the kickstand down. He shrugged off his helmet, revealing short black hair.

His face was young, and vaguely familiar. His hazel eyes scanned the scene in front of him. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and tightened his lips. Larry hadn't been kidding when he said this place was huge. The young man tossed his helmet casually onto the seat of his bike, and followed the path his father (did he really just get a glimpse of his father?) had cut up the front stairs just moments ago.

Outside of the massive double door he paused. Technically, this was illegal entering. He hadn't exactly been invited. The last thing Ryan wanted was a tangle with the cops. The largest house on Mammon Lane, you can't miss it, Ryan heard Larry's voice in his memory. Well, there had been several large houses on Mammon Lane, but this was by far the largest and most impressive. Dominating the hill and surrounding landscape, bordered by a high stone wall, there was no question in Ryan's mind that he'd come to the right place.

He'd arrived in from a long three day drive, coming from Chicago out east. It hadn't been Ryan's original plan to travel this far north, to Springfield. His intent had been to follow Route 66 to the ocean. Then he didn't know what he'd do next.

His mind was still a jumbled mess of feelings and memories. His mother's death was still raw in his mind. Caught in that odd stage between a boy and a man, Ryan Smithers struggled to find himself. He was nineteen. It seemed too young to be on his own without a family, but too old to ask for help. There was, he decided, no good age to lose one's mother. No matter how old, or young, one might be. Unless you were too young to remember, he thought. Maybe then it would be okay. Or, he wondered as he made his way up the steps, perhaps there'd always be that sense of loss.

Regardless, there was this man here, the guy in the fancy car that hadn't even bothered to glance in his rear-view mirror. Ryan's mouth had a bitter taste to it. Bile, or maybe even anger.

If what Larry Burns had said was right, this man here was Ryan's father?

If that were the case, the man was a complete asshole who abandoned his pregnant wife, leaving her to raise Ryan alone.

If Larry had been wrong, then he, Ryan, was going to look like the biggest idiot on the face of the planet. Breaking onto a stranger's property? Accusing the resident of being his father? It was enough to make Ryan turn tail and run… if he didn't think that he was probably locked in.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his midnight blue jeans and scowled.

Just push the doorbell, sissy, he snarled at himself. It's a doorbell. It's meant to be rung.

Ryan's chest tightened with every heartbeat. He couldn't breathe. Ryan had heard of panic attacks, but never truly understood what it felt like. Well, he reasoned, this was either a panic attack or he was dying. He reached out his right hand, watching it tremble. Muttering a curse and a prayer in one, he closed his eyes and pressed the button.

Deep within the palatial house, he heard a series of deep chimes ring. He winced, and wished he could make himself invisible.

Now came the wait.

Ryan wasn't sure which was worse, that no one would come to the door; or that someone actually might. He swallowed, or tried to, but his throat was too tight. He licked his lips and shuffled his feet on the verge of bolting. Or throwing up.

A shadow passed behind the curtain of the sidelight window beside the door.

Ryan raised his head as he heard a bolt draw back, and the knob turn. He took as deep a breath as he could, drew back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. He'd been rehearsing this speech in his head for the last two thousand miles. I'm Ryan Smithers. I believe you're my father. If that's the case, I want some answers. Three little sentences, truly, how hard could that be?

The door opened and the man he'd only seen before from Larry's photograph regarded him coolly.

Yes, that was the same man, all right. The ash grey hair in a short crew cut, the brown eyes and full lips. Medium height, not overly tall, but square shouldered and deliberately taking an imposing stance.

The man regarded Ryan up and down, before lowering his brows accusingly. "Who are you and why are you here? If you've come to sell cookies or a subscription to some magazine, I'll have you know that Mister Burns and I have no tolerance for salesmen, so you best be on your way." He stared hard at Ryan, expression devoid of warmth.

Ryan tried to say the words he'd planned for days. All that came out was an inarticulate noise. "Guh…" he struggled.

The grey-haired man, Waylon Smithers, gave a contemptuous thought. "Just as I thought. You'd best leave before I release the hounds." He turned and began to shut the door.

Ryan reached out, slamming his palm against the solid wood, halting the process. "No. I don't think so," he replied, a surge of anger giving rise to his voice. Dogs didn't scare Ryan, but he was never the sort to take kindly to threats. "Mitty tried that with me once. Set his pit bulls on me. He got me the first time. The second time, I maced them." Ryan's free hand slipped back to his left pocket where he kept a small aerosol can of pepper spray. "Go ahead and set the dogs on me. Just try it." He lowered his head and glared at the man in front of him.

"I'll just call the police then, simple as that," the grey-haired man replied, disinterested. He shoved at the door.

Ryan didn't budge. "No. I'm not here to see this Burns guy. I'm here to see you. We need to talk."

Waylon paused, pursing his lips. "What could I possibly have to talk about with a boy like you?"

Ryan looked away for a second, then met Waylon's brown eyes. "My name is Ryan Smithers. You're my dad."

Of all the possible responses the other man could've given, everything Ryan had been planning for, he never expected this. The man laughed, actually threw his head back and laughed. Even releasing the door as he did. Ryan took that moment to slide himself further into the doorway.

"Oh, I'm sorry my boy," Waylon said as he wiped his eyes. "Out of all the things I've heard in my life, that's got to be the best." He gave Ryan a patronizing smile, almost pitying. "I don't know who put you up to this, and I'm sorry they did, but there's no way you could possibly be my son." Waylon chuckled and shook his head. "It's simply not possible."

Ryan leaned in the doorway and folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah?" he challenged. "Tell that to Lydia."

Waylon froze in mid-laugh, the smile draining from his face. "What did you say?" he whispered, taking a step back.

"Lydia Martin Smithers. Your ex-wife. My mom! She's dead." Ryan had moved his way into the foyer, just within the front door. He squared his back against a wall next to an expensive looking vase on a pedestal.

Waylon shrunk back further, clasped a hand to his mouth and shook his head. "No," he whispered as the color left his cheeks. "That's not possible." He curled against himself for a moment, but just as quickly straightened up. Waylon raised his head, brown eyes hardening. "Nice try, kid. But anyone with the internet could find my ex-wife's name. It's going to take more than that to convince me."

Ryan reached into his wallet and pulled out his driver's license. Without a word he thrust it at Waylon.

Waylon took it and read over the details. Then he gave a snort of contempt. "Nope," Waylon said, shaking his head as he handed the ID back. "It says here you're twenty-two. You would've been about three years old when Lydia and I divorced." Smithers smirked. "I'm sure I would've remembered having a toddler about our house."

Ryan took the ID back and mentally kicked himself. He'd given Waylon the one Mitty had made. A forgery to make him appear older. He stuffed it back in his wallet and pulled out his real ID. "That's a fake one," he muttered, handing the new one over. "This is the real one."

Waylon folded his arms across his chest, regarded the license, and rolled his eyes. "Well now, that is convenient, isn't it. Covering up one lie with another. I might've been born at night, but it wasn't last night." Waylon suddenly seemed to take stock of Ryan's location. "How'd you get all the way in here anyhow?"

Ryan shrugged. "I just did. You weren't paying attention. That's a shocker." His voice was heavily laced with sarcasm. "Okay, something the internet doesn't know?" He paused, thinking. "Mom was Lydia Martin Smithers. She was born in September, and she used to always wear this silver locket around her neck."

"Lucky guess," Waylon replied, rolling his shoulders. "What pictures were in the locket?"

Ryan regarded the man carefully. Waylon either had the world's best poker face, or he truly didn't care. "I don't know. She never showed me."

Waylon's voice had adopted a caustic tone similar to Ryan's. "Well isn't that convenient," he remarked, clearly unimpressed. "Is that all you have?"

Ryan bit the insides of his cheeks and looked at the floor, at his shoes, at the combination of hardwood and marble that made up the main entry way. It wasn't easy, being put on the spot like that. What made his mother unique? He thought about all the stuff he knew about her, each part of a life that took place after her husband had already left.

Dragging up the memories was painful. Ryan hadn't expected to face them like this. He felt tears begin to burn at his eyes. Angrily, he sniffed them back. He couldn't meet the other man's eyes. What could he even say?

Nothing, he supposed.

Maybe it had been hopeless after all.

Wistfully, he thought back to their simple apartment in Philadelphia, a homey oasis in a gritty urban world. Every Sunday, his mother would make pancakes, or sometimes waffles. Bacon, eggs… the sunlight streaming in through the thin red-and-white checkered curtains.

Ryan kicked the floor. His shoes didn't even make so much as a scuff. "Mom always made breakfast before Church. It was our time. She had all these country-theme things, like potholders with roosters on them, or this cookie jar that was shaped like a red barn. It was just plastic, nothing fancy. Every time anyone opened it, it would play this theme song." Ryan wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I used to think it was stupid, all of it. But now it's all gone. And I miss it." He wiped his nose with his other hand and clenched his jaw. He was not going to cry. Not here, dammit, and not in front of some guy he'd just met.

Men don't cry, he berated himself.

A voice, the man across the entryway from him. "Green acres," he began softly. "The song was 'Green Acres.'" Waylon leaned against the wall heavily, a look of remembrance passing behind his eyes. He offered a weak laugh. "I used to hate it too."

Ryan straightened immediately and jabbed a finger accusingly at Waylon. "No!" he snapped. "You left! You don't get to hate anything because you ran out!"

Waylon held up his hands apologetically. "I didn't mean to… look, I'm sorry. I just… bah." He moved deeper into the foyer, and sat down heavily in a leather dressing chair.

Ryan followed, walking stiffly. Aggressively.

Waylon gestured weakly to a second chair.

Ryan regarded it as if it were a cobra. "No. I'm standing," he announced. He found himself a comfortable spot of wall beside the chair and leaned back. Involuntarily, his arms refolded themselves across his chest. He stared hard at the man sitting before him. This wasn't what he'd expected. Ryan didn't even know what he had expected, but this wasn't it. He flexed his knees, and waited. He'd ridden hard for the past three days. Standing felt good.

The man across from him, his father if Ryan could even call him that, finally spoke again. "How," he began slowly, raising his head out of his hands. "How is Lydia anyhow?"

Ryan felt a surge of rage. He swallowed it down. "Weren't you listening to me earlier? I said mom died."

Waylon's already pale face appeared completely bloodless. His mouth opened and shut a few times without words. Ryan remained still, unmoved by Waylon's distress. Eventually, his father's voice returned. "What… how?"

Ryan licked his lips and stared at the ceiling, then the floor. Anywhere but Waylon's face. "The Big C," he replied, trying to sound indifferent.

"Cancer?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Duh."

"Isn't there more?" Waylon pressed.

"What's there to say?" Ryan replied sharply. "She got pancreatic cancer, and we didn't even get two months after the diagnoses. So they kept her comfortable, and I paid the bills, and then she died." And you weren't there. The words, however unspoken, hung like a heavy accusation from Ryan's mind.

Waylon put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. Was he crying? Ryan looked away, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Men don't cry, he repeated to himself.

"And what about you?" Waylon asked, voice muffled from his hands. "Where are you staying now?"

Ryan still couldn't look at his father. "I don't," he replied, staring at his motorcycle and little trailer in the driveway.

"What do you mean, you don't?" asked Waylon.

Ryan snapped his head up. He spat his words at Waylon with all the rancor he could muster. "I mean it's me and that's everything I own, right there. And I was never going to come here because I NEVER wanted to meet you, because you were never there for me. But then Larry showed me this picture and said I looked like his dad. I wasn't going to come out here, but I had to know. So I did. Now I'm here, and… and… I don't know!"

Ryan's voice pitched from frustration to a mournful wail. He sagged down against the wall to a sitting position and buried his head in his arms. "I don't know, and I… don't know," he sobbed into his arms. "I'm here, but I don't have anywhere! No one!" His words blended together into an incomprehensible sound of anguish. He ground his teeth together and snorted through drawn back lips. "And I'm not crying," he managed to hiss out. "I'm just… angry. That's all."

Waylon Smithers looked across narrow entryway to the young man huddled on the floor. Anger? No. Waylon had been around long enough to know utter sorrow when he saw it. He started to rise, then stopped.

What could he even say or do that could comfort the boy? Anything he did would probably make the matter worse. Waylon reached behind him, and grabbed a mink throw blanket from the back of the chair. It was one Burns would occasionally wrap around himself when they went out on cold winter days.

Tentatively, he made his way over to Ryan. Ever so gently, he draped the blanket over the boy's legs and arms.

Ryan grabbed the blanket reflexively, and pulled it over his head. A young man, and yet still a boy. Nothing could quite offer a sense of safety, Waylon knew, then a cozy place to hide from the world.

Waylon rose quickly, and beckoned one of the servants to him. He whispered commands, then stepped into a nearby drawing room. Deftly, he took a sheet of paper and one of Burns' quill pens. He wrote a quick message on the paper, sprinkled it with pounce to dry the ink, then folded it onto a a little tent. By the time he got back to Ryan the boy still hadn't moved from his blanket nest, but a small plate of cookies and a glass of milk had been set out within easy reach.

Waylon added his note to the small offering, then took his leave.

If Ryan was anything like him, or his mother for that matter, he'd want to be alone. Hovering over him would only make everything worse. Waylon sighed, he knew what it was like to be without a father. His heart ached for the boy. He didn't even know what to do.