Montgomery Burns listened to the sounds of his fiancé and friends chatting in the solarium, and debated on joining them. He'd avoided joining them for dinner, an uncharacteristic behavior from the man who typically made the grand gesture of playing host.

At the same time, Burns cherished his privacy. For the first time in as many decades as he could remember, the rooms of his manor would soon be filled with more guests than he'd entertained since before he worked at Springfield University. What was that, fifty or sixty years ago? Burns couldn't quite remember. There were the Plateau boys and that assistant Rigel. Larry, his wife and their children would be arriving tomorrow. If it seemed crowded now, it would only be more chaotic tomorrow.

Burns debated long and hard about whether to show his face. He missed Smithers' company though. Finally, he relented and went downstairs.

They were sitting, back to the door, watching the last trickle of daylight fade in the west. A bottle of wine sat on the table. Glasses stood in various states of fullness. Burns regarded them quietly for a moment, observing the dynamic.

The assistant? She wore a skirt and a tasteful sweater, and sat off to Preston's right. She seemed rather quiet, but smart. He had no doubt she was listening to everything said, recording it in her brain. She was a decent looking girl, young, but not naïve. Eager, but not pushy. She'd mature nicely, Burns thought.

Preston on the other hand looked like he'd been through too much. His eyes had a slightly haunted look to them, his cheeks sunken in more than Burns remembered. The miasma of trauma still hung over him. It was subtle, but it an aura Burns was far too familiar with. What's got him so disturbed? Burns wondered. Nothing that he'd heard explained Preston's subdued demeanor. Burns couldn't imagine anything that awful had happened since last they met.

The blue-haired fellow? He seemed largely unchanged. That was a good thing.

Burns eyes then fell to Smithers. His Smithers. Look how far we've come, he thought as he watched from the doorway. He studied the way Smithers' held his hands, the way he tossed his head back when he laughed. Such a beautiful profile, and he's all mine, Burns thought proudly.

He straightened his jacket and strode into the room, the master of the house. "Good evening, honored guests," he remarked.

Smithers leapt to his feet. "Monty! Glad you decided to join us. Here, have my seat. I'll get another chair." Smithers gestured to the wicker chair he'd so recently been sitting in.

Burns smiled graciously and sat down. He regarded the small gathering, tenting his fingers out of habit. "It is so nice that you call could make it. Preston, my boy, you look like you've lost weight." He glanced over to Antoine. From the front, he could see Antoine's figure better. "And it appears this fellow here has found it." He narrowed his eyes. "Has anyone suggested you may wish to stop stuffing yourself like some common Spaniard?"

(Rigel glanced nervously from Burns to Antoine.)

"What can I say, Mister Burns? Guns like these need a lot of ammo." Antoine flexed his arms proudly, showing a notable amount of muscling. "Got a hard job down in Infrastructure. Gotta be strong like a bear."

Burns rolled his eyes. The blue-haired man never seemed to take anything seriously. "A teddy bear, perhaps," Burns replied dismissively.

He gestured back to Preston. "But tell me, Tucci, what has been the matter with you? Why the ashen face and haunted eyes? You sounded so much stronger back east. Before me, you seem positively offish?" Burns hunched his shoulders forward. "You've all signed confidentiality agreements. As your host, I demand you tell me what's going on."

Preston shifted in his chair, slouching uncharacteristically against the arm rest. He reached over, drained his wine glass and set it back on the table with more force than was necessary. He'd apparently been drinking more than he ought, Burns decided.

"You want to know what's going on Monty?" he asked, his eyes flashing with dark fire. "I'll tell you the truth. Both of you!" he gestured to Smithers. "I'm not happy to be here. I don't have a lot of fond memories of Springfield." He reached for his wine glass, realized it was empty, then produced another bottle from behind his chair. "Don't get me wrong," he added as he uncorked it, "I'm happy for both of you, and flattered you'd invite me, but how do you think I'd feel after last time?"

"Preppy…" Antoine began, voice filling with trepidation. He reached for Preston's hand, but Preston shook him away.

"Not now, Antoine," Preston muttered.

Antoine gave Burns a shrug as if to say I tried, he's all yours, and folded his arms across his chest.

Burns glanced over at Smithers. A lover's spat? He asked with his eyes.

Smithers shrugged. He clearly had no idea.

Burns poured himself a glass of wine, and tented his fingers. "So tell me then, Tucci, what is the issue here?"

Preston refilled his glass. "The issue here is last time I was out this way, a lot of bad things happened, and I'm not exactly finding it easy to get over." Preston gestured to Smithers. "Then he says I might want to start continuing where Dimas left off, citing all sorts of reasons from covering my own butt to not getting thrown under the bus by yours." He took a sip of his wine. "Well, maybe I want to move past all that. Maybe I never want to think about that day again, and now I'm out here and the things I could ignore back home are thrown in my face like I can't forget them now!"

(Rigel Vought felt as if she were watching a tennis match. Her head snapped back from Preston to Burns. She had no idea what was happening.)

Preston glared at Burns, his cheeks burning. Antoine reached out again. Preston shoved his hand away and stood up. Wine glass in hand, he paced to the glass wall of the solarium overlooking the dark grounds. He stared at Burns over his shoulder.

"I was shot, point blank, in the stomach. I didn't deserve that. I can't forget that. I never asked to be a hero. Do you know what it's like to see a gun pointed at your body, to know what it feels like when a bullet enters flesh? Do you know how violated and helpless you feel? I mean, honestly, who here has ever been shot before?"

Antoine raised his hand tentatively. "I got shot with an arrow," he whispered, pulling the collar of his shirt down and pointing to the scar.

"I know you did, Antoine," Preston sighed tiredly. "We all do."

Smithers sighed and put his fingers in the air. "I was shot once. He mostly missed. Got me across the right arm. Who was it, Darryl Strawberry?" Smithers shook his head. "I honestly can't remember. One of the Major League Baseball players we were trying to recruit. It wasn't pleasant."

Preston flashed Smithers a dangerously unbalanced look. "Yes, well, that's not exactly potentially fatal is it."

Burns stood up. "No, but mine was."

Preston backed up as Burns approached. Although the old man was significantly shorter, he was imposing nonetheless.

"I've had pistols held to my ribs, and revolvers to my skull. A shotgun pressed against my back. Right here, from mere inches, I was shot," Burns said, straightening up and tapping a spot at his left breast. "Here. From less than a foot away. An inch higher and that leaden projectile would've pierced my heart." Burns bared his teeth and gestured to a chair. "You are not the only one who has lived long enough to find themselves scarred. Now sit down, Tucci."

Humbled, Preston sat down.

Burns returned to his own chair. He settled into it and propped his feet on the table. "Much as it might ruin your world view, Tucci, life isn't safe. There are no guarantees, there are no promises. The very act of being alive puts us all in the unpleasant position of having that ripped away at a moment's notice. Sometimes, we bring it on ourselves. Sometimes…" he glanced at Smithers, "… sometimes we bring it on others." Burns tented his fingers and lowered his head. "And then there are the moments where what we do allows someone else to draw breath for another day."

Smithers piped up. "You saved my life, Preston. If you hadn't distracted Franklin, he would've shot me in the head." Smithers raised his glass to Preston. "I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you."

"I'm no hero," Preston muttered. "I did that without thinking."
Burns and Smithers exchanged looks. "My boy," Burns began slowly, "that's exactly what a hero is! Someone who rises to the occasion without ratiocination. You saw a moment that could make or break a life. You didn't hesitate. You acted." Burns looked down at his hands for a moment. "Not every man can claim the same. Yours is a special breed."

Preston raised his head, eyes filling with angry tears. "I'm not special," he said with a faint sneer. "I never have been."

Burns pointed to Antoine. "You are to him."

Antoine gave a weak smile and a wave.

Burns gestured to Smithers. "And you saved that one; for which I am eternally grateful. I suppose I owe you a debt of my own." He rested his chin on his fingertips. "So tell me again, what exactly is the problem here?"

Preston handed his glasses to Antoine and covered his eyes with his hands. "I can't forget it. I keep seeing it over and over. Antoine covered in blood, Dimas carrying him to the control room. Rhodes, Franklin… I can't…" Preston hung his head.

A moment of silence hung through the solarium, broken only by the soft trickle of water in the fountain.

Rigel's soft voice finally broke the stillness. "What did happen out here? It wasn't a kidnapping attempt, was it."

Smithers shook his head sadly. "Oh no. It was more than that. Do you want me to, Monty; or would you care to have the honors?"

Burns rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's my project. Allow me." He turned his attention to Rigel. "You see, Miss Vought, back during the Cold War, I set myself up with a bomb shelter in the desert. Several levels, designed to withstand any act of man or God. Initially, everything ran on petrol. These days, I power it with the spent fuel rods. There's still a lot of good left in those delightful little things. It's all perfectly legal on paper; approved by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission itself." He finished his wine and refilled his glass. "I also provided a little service to others in the country. For a small exchange of funds, I'd gladly dry-store their spent rods in my silos. Thaddeus Dimas was one of my clients. It was an arrangement that his father coaxed me into: a favor, one Yalie to another."

"And that's why are cooling ponds aren't overflowing with spent assemblies," Preston muttered into his hands.

Burns nodded. "Precisely." He twirled his wineglass thoughtfully. "Now, unfortunately, Dimas made mistakes. And not the sort I would've expected."

Smithers coughed.

Burns gave him a warning look. "Alright Smithers, I too made mistakes of a similar nature. Dimas and I, we were both guilty of casting aside our families for our own selfish pursuits. I for wealth, him for women. Somehow, it came to pass that my grandson, Franklin, reached out to Dimas' son, Rhodes. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don't truly think it matters. Long and short, Rhodes came with the intent to commit patricide, and in that he was successful."

Burns set his glass on the table and regarded Rigel thoughtfully. "Your Thaddeus Dimas did not die a hero, trying to save Smithers and myself. He died like a dog. And now, there is nothing left of that story but closure. It is though, why I have taken to inviting my son and his family to my wedding. It cannot, I fear, make up for the past. But since the incident at AlkaliStark I have been trying to recover the present." He straightened his back. "And now, Miss Vought, you know."

Rigel met his eyes unblinking. "Now I see why the nondisclosure agreement was necessary."

"What, my dear?" Burns' face pinched in surprise, then he laughed; actually laughed. "Oh no, Miss Vought, those past dealings have absolutely nothing to do with that paper. Do you honestly think I couldn't keep people silent by other means when it comes to my projects?" He beamed. "Child, my need for such confidentiality is of a much more personal matter."

Reaching out, Burns grasped Smithers hand firmly in his. "This charming specimen here has decided he's willing to forego the pursuits of any others, and has pledged his hand and heart to me forever more." Burns winked at Smithers. "I daresay I could not imagine my days without the gladness of his company at my side day and night."

Smithers winked back.

Burns watched Rigel's face, smirking as realization dawned in her eyes. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh!" Rigel clutched her hands to her mouth, and uncharacteristic display of emotion. "Best wishes for you both, sirs!"

Smithers chuckled lightly, and gave her a smile. "Please, I told you. Call me Waylon. It feels weird to be called sir."

Burns raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't feel weird to me."

Smithers laughed. "You've had more time to get used to it."

Preston sat hunched up, looking oddly alone. Antoine sighed and slid his chair closer. "You okay, Preppy?"

Preston lifted his head to Antoine's. His face was drawn, but not pained. He gestured to Burns as the old man chatted lightly with Rigel and Smithers. "I hadn't thought about what he said, about being a hero and all."

"You always felt kinda like the victim, huh," Antoine observed.

Preston hunched his shoulders in agreement. "Not victim exactly. Powerless, helpless. Like everything since that moment has been spinning out of control and I can't do anything about it. I'd been feeling better back home, but coming here made it too real again."
"Real," Antoine agreed, draping an arm around Preston, "but you got through it. You're here, and nothing bad is going to happen. I'm here, your friends are here. Heck, if it weren't for you saving Waylon over there, there wouldn't be a marriage! Old Burnsie there would be sad and alone, and Waylon would be in the ground somewhere. Technically, I you saved two lives that day." Antoine gave Preston a squeeze. "And so maybe the rest of the world doesn't know it. But so what? I mean, the important thing is that you know it; because the rest of us do." Antoine removed his arm and stood up. He poured Preston's wine glass into his own, and finished it in a single gulp.

"I dunno about you, Prep, but I think I'm going to be heading to bed soon. Jet lag and all. Or something. You need your sleep too."

Preston looked into his empty wine glass sadly, his cheeks slightly flushed. "You drank my wine." His voice was slightly petulant.

"Yeah. A necessary evil. I might not be very smart, but I really don't think you should try and match drinks with Burnsie there. Something tells me he has a lot more practice." Antoine jabbed a thumb in Burns' direction.

"Riley! I'm going to bow out. Preston too. You gonna stay up?"

Rigel nodded. "I think so, yes. Waylon showed me my room earlier. It's across from yours, I believe."

Antoine nodded. "Ordinarily, Preston and I would have separate rooms, but with the other guests coming in and all…" Antoine turned his attention to Preston. "You don't snore, do you?"

Preston rolled his eyes. "No, Antoine. I don't snore."

Antoine followed Preston out of the solarium into the great hall. "You know I don't snore," he whispered as they ascended the stairs.

"Yeah, but there's this thing called 'keeping up appearances,' Preppy." Antoine pulled his hair out of his ponytail and shook it free. "You already know all about that. Anyhow Rigel probably won't even notice. She seemed positively misty over Burns and Waylon there. It's a good thing."

Their room was the same one they'd stayed in before, spacious but not overly extravagant, with two full beds. A guest room for two. Unlike last time when they'd slept separately, Antoine was fairly sure Preston would curl up with him at some point in the night.

While Preston changed in the bathroom, and went through his evening routines, Antoine took a moment to look over the books in the shelf along one wall. Burns had books everywhere, it seemed. Antoine wondered vaguely if Burns had read them all. Once the washroom was free, Antoine slipped in and took care of what he needed to do.

He climbed into the bed across from Preston's and smiled sleepily. "You going to be alright?"

Preston yawned. "Are you going to keep asking me that?"

"Until the answer is 'yes,' then yeah, I probably will." Antoine reached for the light. "Goodnight, Preppy."

"Good night, Antoine."

Preston turned the light off. Through the darkness, Antoine voice drifted over. "You never answered my question."

Preston nestled deeper into the soft blankets. "I'll be alright, Antoine. It's just going to take time."

"Okay. But I'm here if you need anything."
"I know. Thank you." Antoine heard Preston's smile in his reply.

"Any time, Prep. That's what friends do." He rolled over, and fell asleep almost immediately.