Ryan Smithers settled himself into his position at the bow of the boat, huddled as tight as he could against the driving rain. Burns had wrapped himself in the oiled boat tarp. After a time, he beckoned Ryan to his side. "There's enough room to sit, if you're so inclined."

Ryan gratefully slipped under the waterproof cover. Though he was already soaked, at least it kept the stinging rain away.

Waylon, on the other hand, appeared completely indifferent to the weather. He sat at the stern, guiding the boat deftly between the looking cypress trees and hanging moss. Periodically he wiped the water from his glasses with his free hand.

The tarp offered more warmth than Ryan had been expecting. Perhaps it was a sense of relief, or maybe he was just tired, but as he sat beside Burns, he felt oddly content. The man had just held him at sword-point an hour ago, and yet here they were, huddled together against the rain.

It makes no sense, Ryan thought to himself.

"No one ever said it had to make sense," Burns replied, as if reading his thoughts.

"I watched my mother die," Ryan remarked, staring through the sheets of rain.

"Of what?" Burns asked cautiously.

"Cancer," Ryan replied. "It was quick. I guess that's a blessing. But it doesn't feel like one."
"They never do," Burns replied, eyes distant.

For the remainder of the ride, they sat silently.

The storm had mostly let up by the time Waylon piloted the boat back to Alphonse's docks. He hoped out, and started wrapping the ropes around the cleats. He'd barely made more than a few passes when Alphonse emerged from his shop, expression surprised.

"C'est vrai!" he exclaimed. "You made it back alive, and found your missing man no less. What of Belledouleur?" he added, crossing himself and looking upstream.

"Sinking into the river as we speak," Waylon replied, offering a hand to Burns.

"Good, good," replied Alphonse as Burns and Ryan climbed out of the boat. "We're all the better for it." He turned to Waylon. "And I believe, sir, I owe you something."

"What's that?" Waylon asked, perplexed.

Alphonse extended his right arm. "A handshake, my good man. Welcome back from the dead."

Waylon wrinkled his brow. "An choice of words."

Alphonse shrugged. "Not from here, it's not."

"Fair enough."

The two men shook hands, then Alphonse turned on his heel, and made his way crisply back to his shop. Waylon unlocked the Durango, and pulled out several towels.

"We don't want you catching a cold, Monty," he fretted as he draped a towel around Burns' shoulders.

"Bah, quit your worrying, Smithers. I'm as fit a specimen as ever I was." There was a familiar edge to his voice, a sharpness Waylon knew all too well. It meant Burns cared, and was grateful for the kindness, but too proud to show it.

Waylon chuckled. "Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it back then."

Burns shook his head. "No, no. It's already wet, it will mildew in your travel bag. I suppose I am forced to endure its presence a bit longer." He pulled the towel closer around him and gave Waylon a stern look.

Ryan watched it all, quietly.

Waylon had the jet sent back to Springfield, and settled into the position as driver. Without the sense of impending danger, the trip took on a more leisurely pace. At some point, during the second day, Ryan crawled into the back seat beside Burns. "So…" he began, as he sized up his father's husband.

Burns turned his clear eyes to Ryan. "Yes, boy?"

Ryan extended a hand. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Ryan Hall Smithers." He gestured to Waylon in the driver's seat. "That's my dad."

"Yes, I gathered that."

It took Ryan a moment to get comfortable. Burns was sitting more or less in the middle of the seat, and Ryan didn't want to crowd him. After several minutes of shifting this way and that, he could a position that worked. "So… your my dad's husband…"

"And your point is?" Burns asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I think you said something about 'Waylon Smithers Senior, back… there." Ryan couldn't bring himself to say the name of the plantation.

Burns shrugged. "I might have. But again, boy, what of it? Those moments there, they passed as a blur."

Ryan struggled to suppress a smile, and failed. His eyes twinkled mirthfully. "You said you and my grandfather liked poetry."

Burns gave a snort. "I liked poetry, Ryan. He liked some sort of loose ramble-babble foolery with no sense of measure or footing. Not even a hint of rhyme! As if you can call it a poem when it doesn't rhyme." Burns folded his arms across his chest.

Ryan glanced at the clouds through the transparent sun-roof of the Durango. "No? What about this one? It's one of my favorites." He tilted his head back and recited:

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice –

though the whole house began to tremble

and you felt the old tug at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do-

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Ryan finished, and looked at Burns, feeling very proud of himself for remembering the whole piece. A poem titled "The Journey," by Mary Oliver.

Burns regarded him thoughtfully, and interlaced his fingers under his chin. "Yes, Ryan. That's the sort of poem that would've been a favorite of your grandfather as well. And perhaps one that, given time, I could even come to appreciate."

The young man leaned back in the seat, and folded his hands across his chest, very much satisfied. Ryan smiled, and watched the sky, lost in his own imaginings. He sat like this for some time, until finally he was shaken from his reflection by Burns grumbling something, and forcing himself between the front seats.

"Dammit, Smithers, we missed our turn!" He gestured over his shoulder at an exit ramp heading north. "Springfield is that way!"

Waylon gave a sly smile. "I'm aware of that, Monty, but I hear California is beautiful this time of year."

Ryan's ears perked up. "California?" he asked, wedging himself in between Burns and his father, oblivious to the older man's protests.

Waylon offered an innocent shrug, as much as he safely could from behind the wheel. "Have you been paying attention to where we are, Ryan?"

The boy shook his head.

"Well," explained Waylon, "We're in the panhandle of Texas, we're heading west. You honestly can't tell me this doesn't look familiar…"

Ryan's eyes lit up. He could barely get his words out.

"Are we…? No, we can't be. We are, aren't we?"

"On Route 66?" offered Waylon. "As a matter of fact, we are. And, I don't know about you two," he added, glancing at Ryan and Burns in the rearview mirror, "but since everything in Springfield's gotten along just fine without us for this long, it can wait a little longer; don't you?"

Ryan hurled himself into the front belt. "Santa Monica, here we come!" He bounced up and down. "Really? Really? We're doing this?"

Waylon glanced back at Burns, who said nothing; but didn't protest.

"That's about as much of a unanimous vote as we're apt to get," Waylon laughed. "So yes, Ryan, Santa Monica it is. But don't talk about jumping off any piers or anything, okay? I've already had to drive across the country for one person in this family. I'd hate to have to swim across the ocean, though lord knows I'd do that too."

Ryan gave a happy yip, and threw his arms around Waylon's neck in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

"Hey, whoa, careful there," Waylon admonished. "I'm driving here!"

Ryan hastily settled back in his seat, and buckled his safety belt. "Okay, okay," he said, taking a deep breath and attempting to regain his composure. He exhaled through pursed lips, then sighed happily. "This is going to be the best road trip ever!" He glanced over the Monty Burns in the back seat.

The old man said nothing, and his mouth was set in a prim line, but there was a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Ryan saw it. To some, it would've been too subtle, but Ryan knew a smile when he saw one. He felt his own grin widen in return.

Burns raised an eyebrow, then examined his tattered fingernails.

He reached into Waylon's day bag, removed a file, and began to smooth them. After a moment, he flicked his eyes over Ryan. "I will tolerate such a deviation in our course, Waylon, if it brings joy to your son."

Waylon gave Monty a wink. "Don't get all sentimental on me, Monty. We wouldn't want people to think you were becoming soft in your old age."

Burns made a coughing sound that almost passed as a laugh.

"A travesty, were it to occur. Fortunately, it shall not. Oh, and the boy, your son, shall he be staying with us then?"

Waylon glanced at Ryan; and Ryan returned the look. It was a topic neither of them had discussed much since they started out.

"If he wants to," Waylon replied. "I've extended the offer."

Ryan patted his father's arm. "I think he'll stay, at least for a while," Ryan replied with a smirk.

"Then it is once again as it should be," replied Burns from the back seat.

With that, the small, unorthodox family made their way west, to California; following the gold-pink haze of the setting sun.