When Ryan finally felt like facing the world again, he raised his head and pushed the mink fur blanket off his face.

In front of him was a little platter of milk and cookies. What am I, eight? he asked indignantly, frowning. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. A few seconds later he was hastily snagging a cookie and dunking it in the milk. Comfort food, he reasoned. It was okay to be curled in a blanket with cookies and milk, as long as no could see him.

He grabbed the plate, and pulled it closer for easier reach. Within a few minutes, he'd devoured everything. Ryan finished the milk in a single, long sip, and blotted his mouth the a napkin that had been set on the plate. Then he reached for the note.

It was folded like a tent, to stand up on its own. Almost like some of those place cards Ryan had seen at fancy restaurants. Not that he went to many of such establishments, but he had gone to his high school formal dance. They'd had name cards like that at the reception.

Ryan unfolded it, and began to read.

Dear Ryan,

I'll be out on the back veranda if you want to talk. If you don't want to now, I understand. Please make yourself at home in the meantime. We can talk tomorrow if you'd prefer. If you're hungry, the kitchen is through the dining room to your left. Or we can have dinner together, it's your choice.

There's a room made up for you: up the stairs to the second floor, then take a right. It's the one furthest to the end, facing south. If you need anything, just let me know.

Please be careful if you go beyond the lawns of the main grounds. There's a lot of land, and it's possible to get lost if you're not familiar with it.

I'm available whenever you want to talk.

- Waylon.

At the bottom was a password for the wifi and an access code for the gate. Neither mattered to Ryan at the moment. He'd sold his laptop and smartphone along with most of his possessions to pay for the expenses in his mother's final days. As for the gate code, he didn't feel like leaving quite yet. Ryan puffed his cheeks and took stock of his surroundings.

He stood in the middle of a grand entry hall, a floating staircase curving up to the floors above. Paintings and artwork adorned the walls. The floor of the entry way was marble, but beyond that it was various inlaid hardwood, and deep purple carpeting.

The entire place seemed empty, but not deserted. Ryan scooped up his plate and glass, leaving the blanket on the floor, and made his way towards where the note said the kitchen was. As he approached the swinging doors he heard the sounds of chefs, the smells of something delicious being cooked. Steak, it smelled like. And not the chicken-fried steak that he was used to. This smelled like thick, seasoned cuts of savory meat.

He set his plate and glass on the dining table, and peered in through the round window of the kitchen door.

It was a room larger than his old apartment: all gleaming tile and stainless steel. Several cooks in white jackets and aprons were busy assembling a meal. Ryan quickly ducked his head down. Unwilling to intrude, he left his dishes on the table, and scurried back to the entry hall.

Ryan put his hand on the curving banister for the stairs, and glanced up. Tentatively, he started up the stairs. At the landing to the second floor he paused, and carefully peered down the hall. No one on either side. The note said the room farthest to the end had been made up for him. Quietly he tip-toed down the long vaulted hallway. The door was shut, but a placard with his name had been hung at the center.

Ryan shook his head. It seemed surreal somehow.

Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The door swung silently inward. Ryan stepped in, and caught his breath. The cathedral ceiling arched above his head, supported by oiled wood pillars. A four-post canopy bed was positioned in the center of the room. The tall windows faced south, allowing full exposure to the afternoon sun, and a view of Mammon Lane below.

A fireplace was on the wall to his right, and to his left another set of windows faced east. On either side of the fireplace were recessed alcoves to sit, backed with full bookshelves at their sides. There was a walk-in closet, and a small private bathroom. Ryan afforded himself a moment of privacy in the bathroom, noting as he finished the little soaps and scented lotions along a shelf above the sink. Next to the shower, a bathrobe had been hung between two ridiculously fluffy towels.

"There's even a mint on the damn pillow," Ryan muttered as he walked back through the bedroom. He rolled his eyes, but grabbed the mint and popped it in his mouth nonetheless. He glanced out the window.

Waylon's Porsche was gone, but his motorcycle was still there. At the very least, he should bring a change of clothes up to his room, maybe find Waylon and ask where he should park his bike and trailer for the night.

Ryan trotted back downstairs to the main hall, and made his way through the cavernous manor to the aforementioned veranda out back.

Waylon Smithers sat with a book open in front of him. On a whim, he'd also dragged out his old high school yearbook. That sat under the open novel on the table. After trying to read the same page for the third time, he'd given up. He could hardly focus. First Burns, now this boy… no, not just some boy, his son! It was enough to turn his entire world on edge, if not completely upside-down.

He took a sip of the tonic water he'd brought out. The boy, Ryan, he looked like Lydia, at least a little. But there was something about him that also reminded Waylon of the photographs he'd seen of his father, Waylon Sr., he wasn't sure what exactly, but there was a definite similarity there as well.

Waylon looked at his senior photo. Aside from his mother's dark hair, he and Ryan were spitting images of one another. Waylon sighed. Apparently it was not just Monty's bloodline that bred true. Logically, Waylon felt that he should demand proof, a paternity test, something. In his heart though, he knew he was the boy's father: an odd, but undeniable understanding.

After he left Ryan, Waylon did some brief searching on the internet. It hadn't taken him long to find a recent obituary article for his ex-wife. Why did she keep my name, Waylon wondered sadly. True, he hadn't been able to keep his marriage together, but he never wanted Lydia to suffer for it. He figured she probably moved on, forgot him, settled down and raised the family she deserved.

Up till Ryan had come into his life two hours ago, he contented himself to believe Lydia alive and well. He could justify his actions believing everything had worked out for the best. The sad vision of Ryan huddled in the entryway was still fresh in his memory, was probably burned into his mind forever. Clearly, everything had not worked out happily ever after.

Waylon set his glasses on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. First Monty's sudden departure; now this. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his palm.

His silent reflection was broken by a soft, and rather uncertain voice from behind him.

"Hey…"

Waylon turned and looked up. "Hello, Ryan."

Ryan shuffled his feet nervously. He still wore the same black jeans he'd had on earlier, but he'd slipped into a clean long-sleeve tee-shirt and taken off his black vest. The white shift was snug, but not tight.

Waylon eyed the young man up and down. "Aren't you roasting in that?" he finally asked.

Ryan pulled out a chair and sat down. "It's athletic wear. Wicking. It's cool." He stretched his arms across the table and laid his head on them, watching Waylon with a sideways expression.

Waylon felt oddly self-conscious. Ryan seemed to be looking into him, rather than at him. Waylon had never considered himself a brave or confrontational individual. In public, he could present himself as such. In private, he preferred to avoid the sort of scrutiny Ryan was subjecting him to. It made him feel awkward and unpleasantly exposed. He resisted the urge to look away. It would hardly do to appear he'd been rendered insecure by his own son. He drummed his hands on the table. "So…" he began slowly.

The young man in front of him blinked slowly. "So…" Ryan echoed, matching both word and tone.

"I suppose you have a lot of questions for me."

Ryan shook his head. "No. But you've got a lot of explaining to do."

Waylon held out his hands, palms up. "What do you want me to say?"

"Why'd you do it?" Ryan left his right arm fully extended, and folded his left under his chin. He waited, patient.

"You're talking about why I left Lydia, aren't you."

The only reply was a snort.

Of course that's what you want to know, Waylon thought solemnly. "Well," he began putting his hands flat. "I just couldn't keep it together. I was under a lot of pressure. I'd recently broken my ankle in an accident at work. I was struggling to pay the bills-"

Ryan cut him off. "-So what? Lots of people go through that."

This time, Waylon looked away.

"Why couldn't you just file for a divorce, like a normal person? Why'd you have to run out that night?"

Waylon stared at the table top. He owed Ryan the truth. Why was it so hard to say? Before he could answer, Ryan had interjected again.

"I know about Burns," he said, not raising his head from the cushion of his arm.

Waylon drew his breath in sharply.

"I know that's why you left," Ryan continued.

"… How," Waylon began, grasping for words.

Ryan narrowed his eyes. "Mom always said you left her for someone else, but she never said 'another woman.' And when Larry said you were his dad's husband… yeah, it's not hard to put those pieces together." Ryan shrugged indifferently. "So… why'd you do it?"

Waylon sighed and looked out over the horizon. The sun was slowly making its way towards the western edge of the skyline, and would be dropping behind the mountains in not too much longer. "You want an answer, but there's not really a good one to give." He looked into the hazel eyes of his son. "I mean, I could give you excuses; but you're looking for something to justify…" Waylon dropped his eyes for a moment. "I can't offer that."

Ryan folded his right arm next to his left one, and nestled his chin over his wrists. "It's a shitty answer, but at least you're being honest. Still shitty though."

"Do you always use that sort of language?" Waylon asked, mildly taken back.

Ryan offered a half-shrug. "It's just how people talk."

"Not around here they don't."

"It's how I talk." Another shrug.

Waylon interlaced his fingers. "I'd prefer you didn't."

"Fine."

They sat in an awkward silence for several minutes. Waylon ran his fingertips around the edge of his glass. "Do you want anything to drink?"

Ryan shrugged.

"What about dinner?"

The same response. Waylon tried not to roll his eyes. "Well, I put in an order for steak earlier. Unfortunately, I think they probably made two out of habit. It would be a pity to see one go to waste. I'll have it brought out, and if you don't want it I'm sure the dogs will."

Waylon raised his hand and motioned towards the house. A hitherto unseen servant detached herself from the shadows of the entry and came over, giving a half bow as she did. "Elise, would you be so kind as to bring those porterhouses out here? Oh, and a glass of water for Ryan here." Waylon gestured to Ryan. "Unless you want something else?"

Ryan raised his head and looked torn between acting mature, and indulging a whim. "Do you have, um, chocolate milk?" he asked both hopeful and shy at the same time.

Elise smiled warmly, her face crinkling. "I believe we can accommodate that, young master Smithers." She gave a half bow, and headed off.

Ryan drew his lips tight. Waylon could see the question forming. "I didn't see the point in denying anything," he admitted. "I don't have any idea what your plans are, but if you're going to be here, I'll see to it you're treated like any other member of the family would be."

Ryan watched Elise go. "She's polite," he mused, wondering.

Waylon made a face. "Of course, why wouldn't she be?"

"Well, you always hear about snooty butlers and that sort of stuff on TV," he admitted.

"Don't believe everything you see, Ryan."

The young lad gave a faint smirk. "Believe me, I don't."

Their meals arrived, two massive porter house steaks, each topped with mushrooms and grilled onions. Two sides included Brussel sprouts, and a baked potato. Ryan's chocolate milk arrived with them, as did a refill of tonic water for Waylon.

"So," Ryan began as he ate, talking through a full mouth, "you're not like I expected either."

Waylon chewed thoughtfully then swallowed. He took a sip of his drink. "Oh," he asked curious. "How so?"

"Well," Ryan replied, "Burns is a complete dick, and so far you're not. But I expected you would be." Ryan looked up, expression calculating.

It was a provocation if ever Waylon Smithers had seen one. The youth was testing him. Years of living with Montgomery Burns had taught Waylon the fine art of ignoring such a challenge. Best to let it go. He cut a piece of meat and added a mushroom to it. "Language," he chided.

Ryan smirked. "Sorry."

Waylon shook his head. "No you're not." He popped the delicious piece of tender meat in his mouth and chewed slowly.

Ryan looked oddly abashed. "Okay, I wasn't sorry," he admitted.

Waylon tilted his head.

"But seriously," Ryan continued. "I mean, the way that Burns treated Larry? I mean, that's out-and-out abuse right there. Not just verbal, but physical too! He grabbed Larry, Vulcan death grip style, right at his neck." Ryan pantomimed reaching out and shaking someone. "It hurt him! And Burns didn't even care. He did it that way on purpose!"

Ryan threw up his arms. "And Larry's telling me Burns treats him better than he treats you. So explain that to me. If he treats you like dogsh-… I mean dog poop, how'd you wind up leaving mom for that?" Ryan muttered something else under his breath.

Waylon didn't catch it. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Another remark to ignore. Waylon decided to try changing topics slightly.

"How'd you even meet Larry anyhow?" Waylon probed. "Chicago's a huge city. The odds are, well, they're none too high. There's a story here, isn't there, Ryan?"

Ryan speared a Brussel sprout, examined it cautiously, then stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed a few times, and washed it down with a sip of chocolate milk. "No sense in staying in Philly after mom died. And I didn't have anywhere to go. So I decided I'd travel along Route 66 till I hit Santa Monica. Then, I dunno, swim across the Pacific or just jump in holding something heavy and sink..."

Ryan gave a humorless laugh. "I hadn't planned it beyond that. But anyhow, Chicago. I'm in this garden, ironically the cancer survivor garden, and these two guys cut through talking about stuff. One of them, Larry, he's falling behind. His dad doesn't even look back, just leaves him behind. And while he's catching his breath he sees me. Then he tells me I look just like his dad. At first, I think he's an idiot because there's no way he could have a dad that's young. He shows me a picture, then explains it's not his dad, but his dad's husband that I look like. By the time topics of names come up, he's firmly convinced it's a crazy coincidence… and I don't believe in coincidences. So, I had to find out if it was true. Now, here I am."

Ryan took a deep breath, and another sip of his chocolate milk.

"Did Larry tell you were I live?" Waylon asked cautiously.

"Larry talks a lot," replied Ryan. "He mentioned the city, state, and road in more or less that order. It was easy to find on my map. So, no, he didn't explicitly give your address, but he wasn't exactly secretive."

Waylon nodded. He wasn't sure if he'd have to attempt to force the idea of discretion into Larry's thick skull, or if he should call the man and thank him for uniting him with his son. Maybe both, Waylon decided, and probably in that order.

"I liked Larry," Ryan remarked out of the blue, catching his father off guard.

"Really?" Waylon asked, surprised.

Ryan nodded. "Sure. I mean, his jokes are killer, and not in a good way, but he's genuine and he sees the good in people. At least he seems that way."

Waylon glanced up at the lengthening shadows. The late afternoon had taken on a lovely golden cast. "No, that about sums him up," Waylon admitted. "He can be a bit of an oaf sometimes, but he's got a good heart."

"So how'd a man like Burns wind up raising an easy going guy like Larry?"

Waylon shifted anxiously in his seat and pushed his plate away. He'd suddenly lost his appetite. "Monty didn't realize he had a son until recently."

Ryan's eyes narrowed to slits. "That explains a lot. You two are quite the pair, aren't you."

Waylon pointed his fork warningly at Ryan. "Be nice…" he admonished.

"Or what? You'll tell me to get packing?"

Smithers laid the fork down. "No. I'm not going to do that. This place was built to house a large family. You're family, so you've got as much right to be here as anyone else."

"Yeah, family…" Ryan grumbled. "At least until your hubby gets back."

Waylon bit his tongue and swallowed the scathing reply that played at his lips. It would do no good, he knew, to get in a battle of sarcasm with a teenager. If Ryan was anything like his mother, he would be a master at verbal wit. Combine that with Waylon's own stubbornness, and it would be a battle no one would win. There'd only be survivors, Waylon thought, remembering the increasingly frequent fights he and Lydia had shortly before everything fell apart. He resisted his urge to defend Burns on instinct, and tried as best he could to see things from Ryan's perspective.

"Why would you say that?" Waylon asked.

Ryan finished his chocolate milk. "Because as soon as he looked at my face he basically flipped sh-… he freaked out. He said I was nothing to him, not even a ghost. Then he dragged Larry out of there by the neck. I mean, if Larry considers that good treatment, and says he gets handled more kindly than you, what the hell constitutes abuse around this place? Hah, as soon as 'hubby' gets back, you're going to catch it good… dad." Ryan added the last word soaked in derision. Dad. He hadn't meant it as a kindness. Ryan's lip curled in a sneer.

Waylon tried to catch Ryan's mood. It was like trying to capture smoke in a jar. One moment the youth was almost civil, the next he was spitting venom without remorse. Waylon supposed he could understand it, but he heartily disagreed that he deserved it. It wasn't his fault Lydia had hid her pregnancy, not his fault she never contacted him after Ryan had been born. Why was he, Waylon Smithers, sitting here taking the brunt of the teenager's anger? He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head.

Try and see if from Ryan's perspective, Waylon coaxed himself. Don't take it out on the boy.

"Well, Ryan, be that as it may. I wasn't there, and I don't know what happened. Monty, Mister Burns to you, is out of town at the moment, so you won't have to worry about him for several days at least." Waylon took a deep breath. "Let's try and relax, get to know each other without fighting, okay?"

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah? Where's he go?"

Waylon looked away. "I don't… know."

Ryan gave him a self-satisfied look. "How's that feel for you, huh?"

Waylon stood up, gathering his plate, not waiting for Elise. "It doesn't bother me, Ryan. Mister Burns is a busy man, he's got important matters to attend to, and if he feels the need to travel it's his right to do just that." Waylon grabbed Ryan's empty plate and stacked it atop his.

He started in towards the house, when Ryan's voice came across the patio. "So he leaves you, and you just have to be okay with it? Sounds pretty one-sided to me. I doubt he'd be so calm if you weren't here when he got back."

Damn it all, Waylon thought, enraged. He stormed back over to Ryan and practically threw the plates down on the table.

The youth's smug expression rapidly faded, replaced by fear. Ryan shrank back, drawing an arm up protectively.

"Now look here, Ryan. You have no right to start flinging accusations around like that. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, I really am. But I'm also sorry Lydia never told me about you! That's not my fault. And it's not yours. That's hers, but there's nothing either of us can do about it now." Waylon could feel his face reddening. He ran his hands through his short hair and tried to compose himself. "You want me to say it? Fine! I'll say it: I made a mistake. I fucked up! I shouldn't have left the way I did. There, are you happy?"

Waylon sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. "I never met for any of this to happen. And if I'd known about you, I could've been helped somehow. Visited you. Paid some bills, or at the very least sent you a Christmas card."

He slid his glasses off, and raised his head. Ryan's face was blurry, his dark hair reminding Waylon even more of Lydia than ever.

"How do you think I feel about this? Do you think this is easy for me to learn about? Do you honestly think I wouldn't have helped if I knew? Of course I would've! It's called responsibility. Simple as that. I can't change the past, or anything your mother did, but that doesn't mean I would've have been involved had I known."

Ryan bit his lower lip, but Smithers could still see the trembling in the boy's face. Ryan looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally, quietly, he spoke. "But mom loved you," he began plaintively. "Why would you leave her for someone who treats you like shit?"

Waylon Smithers realized he had no idea how to answer that.