Waylon Smithers expected Burns to be temperamental in March. He known that since the beginning of working with the man. He hadn't known, until only a few short years ago why. Finally, after all the time they'd worked shoulder to shoulder, Burns confessed the reason.
In March, many decades ago when the Springfield power plant had recently come online, there was a mishap with the cooling rods. The reactor started to overheat at an alarming rate. Smithers' father, Waylon Sr., had manually lowered the rods, exposing himself to a fatal dose of radiation in the process.
Burns had been there, witnessed the entire event. That day had shaken him to his core, leaving a crisscross of wounds across the man's psyche that had been far too slow to heal. It wasn't until recent years that he'd finally spoken about it. All of it.
Smithers had taken his own time to come to terms with the implications, and what it meant for him and Burns.
Despite Burns' confession, Smithers expecting this March to be no different.
How surprised he was when Burns had not lapsed into his usual despondency. It was a welcome from the typical gloom that befell the manor early each spring.
Even at work Burns' good mood continued. He hadn't set the hounds on anyone in nearly a month. Give it another week or so, and Smithers was quite sure that would be a new personal record for Burns.
Perhaps also the fact they'd recently passed an inspection without the usual concealments and bribes had something to do with Burns' upbeat attitude.
Since his temporary assignment in Plateau City, an incident that had left Burns begging him to return as a partner instead of a lackey, Smithers felt invigorated. He bore down with relentless determination to overhaul the plant, starting with the major issues first, and working through down to the tiniest ones. He wasn't finished, not by a long run, but he felt a sense of accomplishment nonetheless. Slowly but steadily, maintenance issues that Burns had ignored for so long were finally getting resolved. It would be a long road, Smithers knew.
One could hardly fix forty years of problems in a few short seasons.
There had been one day when he was in his office that stood out in his mind. Montgomery Burns came in, expression guarded, and deftly pulled a sheet of paper out from Smithers' hands: a spreadsheet of repairs Smithers had ordered, and the timeline he expected them to be completed by. A few other items, such as budget and manning had also been part of Smithers' calculations.
Burns read over the document carefully, keen eyes examining every detail.
He didn't say much. Sometimes Burns could be particularly tight-lipped. He'd only nodded his approval and quietly uttered five words: Your father would be proud.
It was all Smithers needed to hear. He glanced at the photo on his desk, one he'd found at the manor and framed. Two figures, now both familiar, looked up at him: Burns and his father. The two men stood, arm in arm in front of a marble fireplace at the manor. Held between them was a tiny infant swaddled in a lambskin blanket. Waylon Jr. Him.
Smithers gently rested his finger on the picture.
When Burns had first told Smithers about the relationship he and Smithers' father had shared, the younger Smithers found himself upset and confused. Maybe even a bit jealous of the father he never knew. Initially Smithers had resented his father the relationship he'd shared with Burns. Then he'd resented Burns for pushing him to be more like his father. I'm not my father, and I'm not you either, Smithers had declared in frustration when Burns had flown out to Albany to see him. You can't make me what I'm not.
Finally though, he and Burns had reached an understanding. Smithers would always be who he was, Waylon Joseph Smithers Junior. And Burns would always be himself: Charles Montgomery Burns. In that moment of understanding everything changed. The unspoken weight from the memory of Waylon Sr. was lifted gently from both their shoulders.
Smithers no longer wondered about the man, nor did he resent him. If anything, he felt proud to be Waylon Sr.'s son. Although his time with his father had been a few short months, and he didn't remember any of it, Burns delicately filled in the missing details. Smithers had grown to feel a sort of kinship to the man.
Perhaps, he thought as he reorganized the maintenance logs and planned an installation of a proper lift system above their cooling ponds, I am my father's son after all.
Charles Montgomery Burns found time flying by too quickly. It was March before he realized it, and he still hadn't even figured out what he was going to wear next month. Springfield was generally quite warm in April.
Finally, Burns gave up and hired an event planner to help handle the logistics. Lord knew planning a wedding was not something he had any skill in. And Smithers? The man had been too busy with the plant lately to tackle such an enterprise.
He and Smithers had driven out to Shelbyville to meet with the event planner, a dark haired woman named Stella. She had a vivacious personality, and seemed utterly delighted to arrange a small and intimate affair at Burns Manor.
As they drove home, Burns had leaned over to Smithers and asked: Don't we know her from somewhere? She seems terribly familiar to me.
Smithers shook his head, neither the name nor the face rang any bells; and Burns let the matter slide.