Around nine that night, Waylon coasted the Durango into the parking lot of a chain hotel. Nearly ten hours of driving. He'd covered close to six hundred and fifty miles. By his math, his three day estimate was on target.

Waylon had never craved a drink, or a cigarette quite so badly as he did at that moment. He shouldered his compact day bag over his shoulder. Ryan following stiffly at his heel, he went inside and booked them a room for the night.

"I want my own room," Ryan started to protest, but Waylon shot him a look that made the boy think twice.

"If you're willing to pay for it, be my guest," Waylon replied curtly as he handed his credit card to the desk clerk.

Waylon took the card keys, and handed one over the Ryan.

The hotel was a standard, modern affair: three stories, a pool, tiny exercise room, and a restaurant with a bar in it. Waylon glanced at the hours. The kitchen was still serving food till ten, a pleasant surprise. "Do you want dinner?" he asked Ryan as they made their way to their room on the second floor.

Ryan shook his head. "I'm not hungry." It was true, they'd stopped not that long ago for fuel and fast-food at a service plaza not all that long ago. There was also something about driving that tended to kill Waylon's appetite.

The room was a simple but pleasant place, typical of any large chain hotel. There were two queen beds, a TV, a few informational packets. Ryan flounced over to one of the beds and threw himself down on it, reaching for an informational brochure on the night stand.

Waylon stepped into the washroom, and afforded himself a moment of privacy. He'd shared many a room before; and, on occasional, even a bed or two. Up till recently, his private life outside of work had not been exactly empty. However, he'd never shared a room with his son before. Feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious, he groaned. Perhaps he should've gotten them two rooms after all. Waylon turned the taps and splashed cold water on his face, washing away the sweat and long road hours. Over the hiss of the faucet, he heard Ryan turn on the TV. He straightened up, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

I'm coming, Monty, he thought, running his fingers over the wedding ring on his left hand. Please, please don't do anything stupid…

The idea crossed his mind to try calling, but from what he remembered of Mortrouge, the cell reception had been spotty at best. And Monty Burns, never the most technologically savvy, there was a better-than-average chance he'd left his cell phone back with the jet anyhow.

Waylon sighed, heart heavy; mind weighted down with fear.

When he'd set out this morning, the drive hardly seemed so bad. It felt as if he'd be in Mortrouge before he knew it. Now that he was actually on the road, Montrouge, and Monty Burns might as well have been on the other side of the planet.

Waylon dried his face, and stepped into their shared room. "Ryan, do you mind if I go out for a walk to stretch my legs?"

Ryan shrugged. "You're a grown adult, dad," he remarked flippantly as he surfed through the channels.

For some reason, Ryan's words dug into Waylon far deeper than he wanted to admit. Little barbs, sinking into his heart. He wasn't even sure why. He gathered his wallet, and the silver tin he kept his cigarettes in, and grabbed his coat. Up in the mountains, the air had a remarkably biting chill. Waylon left Ryan lying on the bed, and let himself out.

Hotels could feel both like the most welcoming or the most lonely places on earth, Waylon decided as he let himself out the back door. His feet crunched over the dry grass. Was that frost underfoot? He wasn't sure, and didn't feel like stopping for a closer look.

I should've flown, he thought morosely. He glanced furtively about, making sure Ryan hadn't decided to follow him, and fished a cigarette from the tin. Three and half days. Well, now two and a half. Driving… what had he been thinking? If he'd bought tickets for a plane, he could be there by now.

Waylon pulled out his smart phone and checked around for the nearest airports.

Durango, ironically. There was an airport in Durango about forty miles straight east.

He took a drag on his cigarette and debated about buying tickets online. At this point though, it seemed a waste. He'd have to fly back into Durango to recover the, eh, Durango. Having started by car, it seemed he'd committed himself.

Why do you always have to be so damned impulsive? So emotional? He asked himself as he sat down on a bench and stared up at the black night sky. What's the worst that could happen to Monty even if he did decide to stay at Belledouleur for a spell?

Unfortunately, Waylon thought he knew the answer.

The place had a tainted air to it.

Waylon Smithers Jr. had only been to Belledouleur Plantation once, a long time ago; when he was but a devoted servant to his Montgomery Burns. The fact that the place was still standing amazed him. The river had inched slowly closer each year, swallowing one back, and spitting silt in its wake on the opposite side.

Slowly, remorselessly it had begun to swallow the land like a python consumes its prey.

The town of Mortrouge had dwindled, each year losing a few more feet to the water's ceaseless hunger. By the time he and Monty had gone down to Belledouleur, the river had eaten most of the plantation's once expansive fields. Dozens, possibly hundreds of acres gone beneath the muddy waters.

Why do you even keep this place? Waylon had asked as he followed Burns down the tree-lined avenue, along a path overgrown with vines and hanging moss.

Why ask why, Smithers? Burns replied tersely. He led Waylon into the great room, still furnished after all these years, and bade him stay put while he looked for some things. Burns never specified what. He disappeared into gloom, leaving Waylon behind.

If ever there was a haunted place, Waylon decided, Belledouleur was it.

Fortunately, Burns had returned before too long, a moldy ledger book clutched under one arm. He extended his free arm to Waylon. Waylon, no stranger to his boss's perceived frailness took Burns' arm, and led him from the house. Did you find what you were looking for, sir?

Close enough, Smithers. This will have to do for now.

With that, they left, and not a moment too soon for Waylon's tastes. As they made their way down the row, they passed a massive marble stone, erected beside the road-walk to the plantation. A moment, Burns said, shaking himself free of Waylon. You stay here, he instructed.

Waylon did as he was told.

He watched as Montgomery Burns made his way to the massive stone, paused, and bowed his head. He stood motionless for so long that Waylon was beginning to debate coming over when he noticed what appeared to be eyes, watching from the shadowy trees. Small, gleaming eyes, unblinking in the cypress shadows.

Monty… he began nervously.

Burns raised his head, eyes oddly glassy. His expression was slightly vacant. That unsettled Waylon more than the eyes.

What now, man? Am I not entitled to a moment of remembrance? He clutched the ledger to his chest. Yes, apparently I am not. Burns licked his lips in an oddly unsettling way. It reminded Waylon of a wolf licking blood from its jaws. We will go now, for your tender sensitivities; and much to my supreme annoyance. You worrisome habits grow tiring, you execrable churl.

Waylon would never forget the unhinged gleam lurking just behind Burns' eyes as he spoke.

He'd seen Burns irritated before, but 'execrable' and 'churl?' In all his years of being insulted by Charles Montgomery Burns, Waylon could not remember hearing those words before. It was as if someone else was speaking through Burns' voice. Waylon didn't like it, not one bit.

Months later, after their trip was but a memory, Waylon finally worked up the courage to ask Burns about Belledouleur. Why was it important? Why had they gone there in the first place?

My dear Smithers, Burns replied, much himself once again. That was my childhood home. A place where I was nurtured and shaped by the steadfast tutelage of my grandfather, Wainwright. Ah, now there was a man one could be proud to know!

The picture Burns painted with his words, of being raised in the lap of luxury by his doting grandfather after his parents could no longer care for him seemed almost too perfect to Waylon; but the man decided not to question Burns further.

Family was something Montgomery Burns seemed loathed to speak about.

Waylon realized his cigarette had burned down to the filter. A long cylinder of ash extended outward. He flicked it away in annoyance, pinched off the glowing coal, and stuffed the butt into his pocket. He debated lighting a second one, but a quick look at his pocket watch dispelled that idea.

If he wanted a drink, or even a quick bite to eat, he'd better move. The kitchen closed in half an hour. Had he really been sitting in the dark for so long? He shook his head as if to clear it, and tossed the cigarette butt into a convenient ashtray as he came to the lobby.

He passed into the cheerfully lit room, to the pub beyond… then he froze.

Sitting there, on a barstool, was the last man he expected to see at the bar.

Well, maybe second to last. The absolute last would've been Monty Burns in the flesh. No, this, alas, was not Burns.

His son, Ryan, was perched on a stool, a clearly 'adult' beverage by his right hand. He was alternately chatting with the bartender, and watching the TV. In that moment, Ryan hardly looked like a young boy. The curl of his shoulders, the way his rested his elbows at the edge of the wooden bar: he looked like a much older man. However old he seemed, Waylon knew the young man was still but a teen.

He's too young to be drinking, Waylon thought in annoyance. He swept in and pulled up a seat beside his son.

"Hello Ryan," he began carefully.

"S'up Waylon?" Ryan replied nonchalantly.

Waylon watched as Ryan prodded a lime slice to the bottom of his glass with a red cocktail straw. "What are you having tonight?"

Ryan's hazel eyes looked up, met his. The boy smiled leisurely, confidently. "A gin and tonic. Why do you ask?"

Waylon tilted his head towards the hallway. "Can I speak with you outside for a moment?"

Ryan gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "I'll be back," he told the bartender as he slid off the stool and followed albeit stubbornly, at the heels of his father.

"I don't want you drinking," Waylon hissed quietly, once they were out of earshot.

Ryan smirked. "Yeah? Why not?"

"You're not old enough?"

"Says my ID I am."

Waylon narrowed his eyes. "That's a fake, and you know it."

Ryan gave a cocky smile. "Really? And what do you intend to do about it?"

Waylon folded his arms across his chest, indignant. "That's irrelevant. I'm your father. I make the rules."

The smirk on Ryan's face took on a cold edge. "Oh no. No, no, no. You do not get to do that."

"Do what?" Waylon asked, feeling suddenly defensive.

Ryan jabbed a finger at Waylon's chest. "You do not suddenly get to play the parent card just because you just learned you have a son. No way. For the record, I got on just fine without you all these years, and I will not tolerate you suddenly deciding you get to make the rules just because you think you're entitled because you got mom pregnant."

His son's insolent tone, it was hard for Waylon to stay calm. He wasn't used to being sassed at by, well, anyone! No one in Springfield would dare talk to him that way. If they did, he'd have them quickly put in their place. He was Waylon Joseph Smithers… and a Burns! How dare some young pup mouth off to him.

Waylon felt his face reddening, his heart start to beat harder.

"Ryan," he began slowly.

"Waylon," Ryan mimicked back.

"There is no reason a boy your age should be drinking alcohol. It's not good for you, and it could cause you serious problems. It's easy to get in over your head."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "It's one gin and tonic. By the way, please tell me again how horrible drinking is when, at the time you were my age, the legal age was eighteen? How did an entire generation of adults manage when they were ruining their fragile teenage minds with alcohol? And, explain to me the logic that I could've joined the military and been shot in some foreign country whose name I can't even pronounce… but alcohol is dangerous? Please. I can vote, and I can fight in combat. Those are the dangerous things. Right? Right. Now, if you'll excuse me, Waylon, I am going to finish my drink."

Ryan shouldered his way past Waylon, and returned to his seat at the bar.

Waylon clenched his fists tightly, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Were all teenagers this difficult, or had he just a choice pick? And really, he asked himself, what was he objecting to? Ryan had raised valid points.

Control, he decided.

It was a control thing.

Waylon Smithers was used to handling the reins on all aspects in his life. Even in his relationship with Burns he had a surprising amount of influence on the tycoon's actions. What was that they said: the Dominant gives commands, but the Submissive has the power to say "no"? It was something like that. It was most definitely true. For all that Waylon preferred to take the subservient role, he had learned exactly how much power he wielded in his intimate dynamic with C. Montgomery Burns. While Waylon was not the sort to enjoy power for power's sake, he was not used to being challenged.

Encountering someone who didn't naturally bow down to his authority? He wasn't used to that. Throw in that he was dealing with his own son, and it was like trying to argue with himself. Ryan had a quick wit, and a smart mouth to match.

Waylon watched Ryan slowly sip his drink.

Finally, he relented. With a sigh, returned to the bar and settled into a seat next to Ryan. He was debating what to say, when Ryan spoke first.

"It's okay," Ryan said gently, hazel eyes oddly soft. "You're just figuring this out. I am too. So let's give it time, okay?" He gestured to the empty space in front of Waylon. "What'll you have? I'll buy you a drink."

Waylon laughed in spite of himself. He rested his head in his hand and regarded his son thoughtfully. "You… will buy me a drink?"

Ryan give a placid shrug. "Sure, why not? I'm billing them to your room anyhow."

For some reason, that struck Waylon as humorous. There was something in the boy's casual attitude, his jaunty disposition and lack of fear in the face of authority. "Has anyone ever mentioned you can be quite cheeky?"

Ryan shrugged. "Mitty might've said something like that. Or it might've been 'f-ing a-hole punk.' I'm not sure. But same gist, right?"

"Not exactly," Waylon replied with a smile. "But probably similar." He ordered a vodka tonic, and glanced at his watch again. "It's getting late, and we've got a long drive again tomorrow."

Ryan prodded the lime that was little more than green mush by then. "If you'd let me drive, you could take a break."

"Can you drive? A car I mean."

Ryan made a so-so gesture with his hand. "I, uh, borrowed Mitty's car once. I might've kinda ran it onto the curb, but it was okay. He was pretty pissed off though." Ryan looked like he wasn't sure if he should be amused or embarrassed by the memory.

Waylon wasn't sure either. "How about we wait on the Durango then," he suggested. "I appreciate the offer, but…" Waylon paused. "I can teach you to drive on the access roads back at the estate. Even Mammon doesn't have much traffic on it. That's a good place to learn."

Ryan's eyes lit up. "Can I drive the Aston Martin?"

Now it was Waylon's turn to smirk. "You most absolutely may not!"

Another exaggerated sigh. "Fine, fine. Not the Martin. I'll take the Ferrari then."

Waylon laughed and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "How about the Durango? It's durable, and it's got good ground clearance. You know, it case you want to run it up the curb or something." He was expecting Ryan to shrug himself free. He was pleasantly surprised when the young man didn't resist his touch.

"Okay," Ryan said. "The Durango. But maybe, you can let me practice a bit on the way down?"

Persistent, Waylon thought, regarding his son thoughtfully. "Maybe… but don't bet count on it." He finished his vodka tonic and gave Ryan's shoulder a fatherly squeeze. "Come on, we've got a long road and an early morning ahead of us. It's time for bed."

Ryan Smithers lay on his back, his knees folded up, a book in his hands.

"Aren't you going to bed?" his father asked from the bed across from him. "Meh," replied Ryan. "I wanted to read for a bit."

His father propped himself up on an arm. "What are you reading?" Waylon asked.

"The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams," Ryan replied, holding up the well-worn book for Waylon to see.

Waylon removed his glasses and set them on the nightstand. He flopped down and drew an arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. "Interesting choice, Ryan."

"It's one of my favorites." Ryan made a neutral gesture. "I don't know. I just like it, is all." He glanced over at his father who was squinting at the screen of an .mp3 player.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Waylon replied. "Do you mind if I listen to music?" he asked as he unraveled a set of ear buds.

"Do you mind if I have the light on?" Ryan replied, watching closely.

Waylon shook his head. "It doesn't bother me."

"Then enjoy your music," Ryan replied, and returned his attention to the book.

Ryan had read the story more times than he could count. He knew all the characters by heart, could probably have recited the entire play if he had to. Once he was sure his father wasn't paying attention, he pulled the book to his face, buried his nose between the pages and sniffed deeply. The scent of home still lingered on the pages. Ryan closed the book, lest the aromatic memories escape, and held it to his chest.

The Glass Menagerie wasn't a survival story like the ones he used to read as a child; and yet it felt similar. It was a tale about a young man who ultimately chose to follow his own path in the world. Survival, but of a different sort, Ryan felt.

He reached over, and turned off the light, but didn't let go of his book.

It was strange, he thought as he rolled over and slid it under his pillow. Spending time with his father, getting to know the man. He wasn't anything like Ryan had expected. He was confident, but unassuming for the most part. He didn't try to pull rank. He treated Ryan like an adult.

What will we do, after this is done? Ryan asked himself.

In some ways, he was grateful that Burns guy had flown the coop. It gave him a chance to get to know his father without some other person mucking it all up. His father seemed… normal. He wasn't a complete ass like Ryan had suspected, nor was he some spineless coward who obsessed over Burns.

Maybe he was once, Ryan thought. Or maybe, that's how he is around Burns.

Ryan rubbed his eyes, and realized he still had his glasses on.

How many times in his life had he fallen asleep wearing them? More than he could count, probably. He took them off, set them on the nightstand beside his father's, rolled over, and let sleep overtake him.