AUTHOR'S NOTE:

A few people have asked about the title. "The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers"? they question. Where did that come from?

Well, what happens when something unfolds? It depends on what it is. If you unfold a delicate piece of origami artwork, the creation is lost. But when flower petals unfold, the bloom within is revealed for the world to see. So too can you unfold a note from a secret admirer, and read their words.

Yet if you try to force a bud open, you inevitably destroy the flower within.

In both cases, change occurs. Whether unfolding is ultimately constructive, or destructive, remains to be seen.

~ Muse

Smithers woke with a bit of headache, but nothing he hadn't felt before. He set a pot of coffee to brew, and took a shower. He still hadn't glanced at his phone.

It felt strange not having a dog to walk, or going to the gym. Or having to rush over to Burns Manor to…

... He let the thought go. There was no point in dwelling on that. He packed his breakfast and lunch, he rarely ate in the early morning, and headed down to the train station.

A quick jaunt across town and he was at the Plateau nuclear plant. He flashed his ID badge to the guard, and walked quickly, following the swell of employees coming on shift; passing night-shift as they departed. He punched in, something he hadn't done in years, having been on salary at Springfield, and made his way to his office.

Preston was already waiting for him, tablet in one hand, a mug of chai tea in the other. "Good morning, Waylon," he said crisply. "Today we'll get you started in earnest. You'll be shadowing Gary down in engineering. He's one of our lead engineers, and has several decades under his belt. He'll be teaching you the basics." Preston paused. "I'm sure you already know the basics, of course, but Mister Dimas wants to be sure you have exposure from tech-pubs through active drills." Tech-pubs, technical publications, the several-inch-thick "user manuals" for a nuclear power plant. Smithers had seen them, but never actually opened one.

Preston lead him down to the main workspace, and passed Smithers off to Gary.

The day went by slowly. Smithers' experience had always been in the administrative side of things. He never spent much time down in the bowels of the plant. He had to admit though, everything in Dimas operation was so much more modern-looking, and cleaner, than the Springfield plant.

Gary went over the various manuals in a room he called 'the library.' It was mostly a closet, full of steel shelving and heavy technical publications so thick they had to be bound together with metal screws. "There's well over a hundred pounds of tech-pubs for each reactor, and several more for each hydro-circuit." He gestured to the various units. "Every piece of equipment had a manual."

"What's that shelf there?" Smithers asked, gesturing to a lone steel rack, about five feet high and three feet wide. It was full to the top with tech-pubs.

"Oh, that?" Gary asked. "That's the index." He strode purposefully over and grabbed a manual at random. He carried it back to the table and set it down in front of Smithers. "Now, it's not important to memorize this stuff, no one ever could. What's important is knowing how to use them. It's not always straight forward. Here, let me show you-"

For the rest of the morning, and all of that afternoon, Gary showed Smithers how to identify equipment by number, and find the relevant manuals. He went through tag-out logs, records that identified equipment either shut down or in need of maintenance, and maintenance filing requests. He showed Smithers how to record events as per government requirements.

It was rather dry, but Smithers had to admit none of this was anything he'd ever gone over at Springfield. There, it had always been "someone else's job."

"Does Mister Dimas know all this?" he asked during one of their breaks.

Gary made a so-so gesture with his hand. "He's not down here that often. I'd say it's more that he knows of it." Gary ran a finger over his beard. "Does that make sense?"

Smithers shrugged. "I suppose so."

The rest of the day past uneventfully.

Back in his office, Smithers finally took the time to look at his phone. The "missed call" icon was flashing. He checked his call logs. An incoming call from Springfield. A familiar number. Burns Manor.

Smithers narrowed his eyes. There wasn't a voicemail. Probably an accident, Smithers thought tensely. He deleted the notification, and stuffed his phone in his pocket.

Smithers gathered his travel bag, and clocked out; pausing to say goodbye to Preston on his way out. Preston raised an eyebrow and looked down his nose. "Goodnight, Waylon. We'll see you tomorrow." Smithers bade the young man good night, and clocked out.

Smithers boarded the train, and headed back to his cozy apartment.

Once he got in, he checked his email and social media. There were three new friends-requests from Preston, Antoine, and Ruby respectively. He clicked "accept," for each, and spent a moment browsing their walls. Preston had a girlfriend, according to his profile. It looked like Antoine was a native of Plateau City. Ruby apparently liked posting pictures of food.

Food… Smithers realized he was hungry.

Though his apartment had a kitchenette with a small stove and fridge, he hadn't thought about buying groceries. He didn't feel like shopping at this hour, so he threw on a coat and headed out. He didn't know the area well, but the Lucky Lady was within easy walking distance, and they had the typical "pub grub" of burgers, wings, and a handful of salads.

He didn't see anyone he recognized, so he sat down at the bar. He ordered a beer, domestic, and a "Bucking Bronco Burger" off the dinner menu.

One of the bartenders, a man with deep eyes, skin the color of warm hazelnut greeted Smithers warmly. He wore a cowboy hat over his thickly curled hair, and a red bandana around his neck; keeping with the western theme.

"I don't think I've seen you around he before," he said with a smile.

"I just moved to town," Smithers replied.

"Drinking a lager, eh?" the man observed. "Well, just between you and me, you should really try some of the CliffBoxer. It's a micro-brew right in town. Now I'm not hating on American pale ales, but don't be afraid to drink local. Whoa, looks like your food's up. I'll let you get to it then, but let me know if you need anything. Name's Leon, in case you need it." He tipped his cowboy hat to Smithers, and moved off to tend to the other patrons.

The burger was huge, and quite tasty Smithers had to admit. It had some spicy chipotle sauce, or something on it. The fries it came with tasted homemade. He ate his fill, then asked for a to-go box.

Walking home, Smithers had to admit he liked Plateau City thus far. He tried not be make too many assumptions, but he felt oddly empowered, like he was on some sort of euphoric high that came along with his newfound freedom.

His phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the number.

It was Burns.

Smithers almost laughed aloud. "I don't think so, Monty," he said smugly, and hit ignore. Two calls already. Well, too bad. If Burns had wanted to talk to him, he shouldn't have sent Smithers away. Smithers put his phone into "airplane" mode, and stuck it in his pocket.

When he got back to his apartment, he added Burns' number to his "blocked calls" list. If the man called in, his phone wouldn't ring. If Burns left a message, well, Smithers' phone would still get it. If it were an emergency, he'd be able to inform Smithers. At least Smithers wouldn't have to deal with potential drama though. If it's important enough, Smithers thought, he'll leave a voicemail. He put his phone on the charger, grabbed his MyPod, cued up a playlist, and curled up on the couch, eyes closed. He hadn't intended to fall asleep like that, but somehow sleep found him nonetheless.

The following days at the Plateau City plant passed in a similar vein as his first. By Thursday, he was starting to get the routine down. He'd moved on from the painfully dull technical publications to watching the engineers perform routine maintenance.

Gary explained that next week, they were scheduled to have the spent rods removed and transported away.

"You'll be watching that, of course," he said. "I'll see if I can get you some practice with the crane as well. Maybe you can move a few rods or two."

Gary explained the procedure. It was, in theory, quite simple. The spent fuel rods were stored in the secondary containment area, in a pool by the reactor.

There was a bay over each reactor that could be filled with water. An adjoining door connected the reactor pool to the storage pool. Removing the spent rods from the reactor involved flooding the reactor itself, lifting out the spent rods (while keeping the underwater, of course), and moving them into the storage pool. There they were dropped into basket-like slots until the time came to remove them for disposal.

"We'll get you some time on the simulator tomorrow," Gary said brightly.

Smithers tried not to look impressed. The Springfield plant didn't have a crane simulator.

Heck, they didn't even have a crane!

The last time they'd had to move fuel rods at the Springfield plant, some unlucky chump from sector 7G had drawn the short straw. Think of it like a game, Burns said with malevolent cheer, before shoving the hapless oaf into the pool. Just dive down and bring them up. There's a good man. Just try not to drink too much of that atom water and you'll be fine.

The man had come out looking none the worse for wear… if one ignored the fact he'd grown a few extra eyes during the process. And a prehensile tail. Smithers had almost forgotten about the tail.

Smithers thought it best he not share this story with his new coworkers. Some things were best left unsaid.

Smithers finished up his shift, went home, and had the leftover burger for dinner. This weekend, he promised himself, he'd go grocery shopping and get back to eating healthy again. He went online, looked up the nearest grocery store, made a shopping list, tucked in, and went to bed.

The next morning came quickly, and he was eager to get some time in the simulator. Just as the day before, he got up, commuted to work, clocked in and headed to engineering to meet with Gary.

The first part of the day was spent going over fuel rod handling procedures. Proper ones, not with tongs or bare hands. The Plateau City plant had never had a case of radiation-induced mutation in all their years of operation. They didn't even had a "mutation free days" sign on the wall. When he'd left Springfield, Smithers recalled they were up to nearly seventy-five days without a new mutant being discovered. If we keep up at this rate, why it will be a new record, Burns had crowed proudly.

Smithers gave a cough and shook his head. Nope, he admonished himself. You are not going to think of Monty Burns at all today. He pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis.

Gary caught the motion.

"Is everything alright, Waylon?"

"Oh yes," Smithers replied, agreeably. "I'm just, very eager to begin training, that's all."

Gary grinned. "Glad to hear it. Here," he led the way, "the simulator's in this room. You'll be standing at an exact replica of the controls. Everything else is displayed on the screens around you." Gary went over the controls, then gave Smithers time to become acquainted with them. After Smithers felt confident Gary nodded. "Okay. I'm going to load some scenarios. We'll start with routine ones, and see how you do."

Smithers had never used a simulated reality system before. At first it felt like being surrounded by TV screens, but as the simulated image shifted and adjusted, it began to feel more real. Smithers found using the controls came naturally to him. It was no different, really, than playing a musical instrument or flying a small aircraft. He easily maneuvered the illusionary arm around, grasping the virtual rods and sliding them into their assigned tubes.

Gary's voice crackled through the speaker into the darkened room. "Good job. Now I'm going to give you a few problems. Hang on while I reset the computer."

The screens in the room went dark, then flashed to life.

Smithers began the scenario again. This time, as he was lifting one of the rods, it started to slide out of the claw.

Smithers felt his pulse quicken. He quickly lowered the claw, hoping the water pressure would work against the slipping rod. After several frantic moments, he regained control of it. Carefully, he lifted it from the core, through the gate between the pools, and dropped it into the slot.

"Nice!" came Gary's voice.

"I'm going to have you load the transport cask now. You'll be taking the baskets of spent rods, and placing them in the cask. For the sake of time, I'll start the program with the cask already placed in the pond."

The screens went dark, the computer reset, displaying the familiar virtual view of the pools. Smithers proceeded to grasp baskets of fuel rods, and slide them into a large, cylindrical drum. The first scenario was an ideal-situation program. The second scenario was more difficult. He grasped the basket, but the crane started to lose power. Smithers panicked, and tried hastily to raise the boom. The basket assembly containing fueling rods followed the motion of the crane, lifting it up out of the simulated pond, and dropping onto the catwalk. The screen went red, and the system powered down.

Gary's voice came through the speaker. "You know what you did wrong there?"

"Brought them out of the pond," Smithers replied breathlessly. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Want to try again? Same scenario?"

Smithers took a deep breath. It was easy to forget this was all just a simulation, especially with the real crane and storage pool just down the hall. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. "Okay," he said, placing his fingers at the controls, "I'm ready."

The scenario was repeated. This time Smithers kept the rods under water, but swung the basket against the side of the cask. Several rods shattered, and the screen went red.

"Do you want me to give you a hint?" asked Gary.

"No," replied Smithers, feeling his heart pond against his ribs. "I think I've got it."

"Let me know when you're ready for a reset."

Smithers stretched his arms, and rolled his shoulders. Calm, calm… he told himself. No one ever told him how much simulated drills could cause real heart palpitations.

This time, instead of trying to continue raising the boom, he released the basket of fuel rods gently into their slot in the pool, and let the arm drop into the water away from the rods or cask.

Gary ended the simulation. "That's as close to a victory as you're going to get," he remarked as he opened the door. Smithers shielded his eyes, temporarily blinded by the fluorescent light beyond. Gary continued. "We can always manually remove to boom with winches, but we can't repair fractured rods." He gave Smithers an approving look over. "You did pretty well for your first time in a sim, Waylon."

Smithers gave a modest shrug. "I've had some experience with running various machines. It wasn't so bad."

Gary grinned. "Well, next week, you'll have to come down for the main event. Who knows, you might even get a chance to handle some for real, Dimas-willing."

"Dimas-willing indeed," Smithers chuckled.

Gary glanced at his watch. "It's just about lunch time. What do you say we'll head over to the cafeteria a little early, avoid the rush."

They sat down at a table near the corner as the rest of the scheduled shift came in. Smithers was surprised to see Antoine casually saunter in. He was wearing a vibrant hawaiian shirt and sandals. He looked like he'd just come from the beach. Antoine saw Smithers and waved. He got his food, and sat down beside Gary.

"So, Waylon, haven't seen you since Monday. How's it been?"

Smithers filled Antoine in on his rounds with the simulator. Antoine listened intently, while wolfing his food down like a starving man. He nodded, mouth full, and gave Smithers a thumbs-up.

"So how've you been?" Smithers asked.

Antoine swallowed mightily. "I had to fly the bossman to Albany today for a meeting with the governor," he replied with a shrug.

"Dressed like that?" Smithers asked.

"Nah. I changed once I got back here. Mostly to annoy Preston." He grinned.

"Isn't Preston in Albany too?"

Antoine pursed his lips. "Good point. I guess I'm just doing it for casual Friday." He gave Smithers a toothy grin, and got up. "Well, it's been great chatting with you, but I've got to make sure the Little Diva's refueled and ready to pick them up tomorrow.

"They're staying overnight?"

Antoine shrugged. "Apparently. I've got my pickup scheduled at the governor's mansion by the Plaza at nine AM. Busy, busy."

"Wait," Smithers said, holding up a hand.

Antoine paused.

"Do you know of any place to work out around here? A good gym or something?"

Antoine furrowed his brow. "Not off the top of my head. I can't say I'm much of a gym-goer. I don't seem to find the time for it. Ah well, you folks enjoy the rest of your day. Oh, and Waylon? Me and some of the guys are going to the Lucky Lady tonight. You're welcome to come with if you want. You too, Gary." He smiled, bussed his tray, and left.

Gary glanced over at Smithers. "Do you think you'll go?"

Smithers shrugged. "I don't know. I'll probably sit this one out. I've already been there twice this week. What I really need to do is go grocery shopping."

"I'm not going either," admitted Gary. "I was going to take the wife and kids out to the movies tonight." He shook his head. "I'm too old to go out every night like that."

Smithers nodded. "I know what you mean." He glanced at his watch. It was almost time to get back to work. Gary noticed that too. The two men got up, bussed their trays, and headed back to engineering.

Charles Montgomery Burns sat by the phone, his hand hovering above the receiver. He wanted to pick it up and dial Smithers' number again, but even if Smithers answered, he wouldn't know what to say. He hadn't even been able to muster up enough gumption to leave a voice message.

He'd dial, wait while the phone rang, then he'd get Smithers' soft and familiar tenor: "Hi, you've reached Waylon's voicemail. You know what to do. Beep." After that, he'd panic and hang up.

Burns sighed. Another night alone. He shook his head regretfully. He'd assumed he could manage without Smithers. Hadn't he learned to be more independent over the years? Absolutely. It wasn't handling his daily affairs that bothered him. Aside from trying to train some of his current employees to handle Smithers' job-related duties, there wasn't much reasonably that he lacked.

He had a fully employed nuclear power plant.

He still had his household servants. Admittedly, he'd given them strict instructions to neither be seen, nor heard, but they were still there and taking care of his property out of sight. When it came to employing the common man, Burns liked the feeling of being alone.

There were very few people whose presence he could tolerate for long. In living memory, there were only three: Waylon Jr., Waylon Sr., and his old manservant Johan.

Years before Smithers Jr. was the liaison between him and his staff, Johan had been his head steward. An admirable employee and assistant, but not a friend the way of either Waylon Sr. or Jr. had been.

After Johan, but before Smithers Jr., there had been a butler (Burns couldn't remember his name) who hadn't panned out.

Smithers had eagerly started tending to many of the jobs the unnamed butler wasn't able to accomplish satisfactorily. Smithers' skills was what had eventually lead Burns to fire the man.

Once Smithers became his new majordomo, Smithers truly became an omnipresent feature in Burns' life. Burns found he enjoyed Smithers company more then he wanted to admit. He liked the idea of Smithers being his head steward at Burns Manor.

Then one fateful day, young Smithers applied for a job at the Springfield Plant. Initially Burns turned him down with all the intensity he could muster… Burns had never intended to let Waylon Jr. become an employee at the power plant. It wasn't because he doubted Smithers' abilities. It was completely because he couldn't bear the thought of an unanticipated mishap somehow claiming the young man's life. Burns Manor was far safer than a nuclear power plant.

For better or worse though, Burns had a change of heart. Less than twelve hours later, he was calling Smithers and telling the young man he had the job.

Ah, but that was then... and this was now.

Burns lifted the phone, fingers hovering above the keypad, then put it back down. He stared at it, willing it to ring. The phone stubbornly refused to comply.

If Burns had been a younger man, he would've gone out for a night ride on horseback around his estate. He used to keep several thoroughbreds, and one quarter-horse, for recreational riding. It was a way for him to get out and clear his head. These days, there was a chill in his bones that didn't seem to go away. The idea of a nightly trek about the grounds did not appeal. At this moment, all he wanted was to have Smithers at his side.

Burns had not expected to miss Smithers so soon. If he were to be honest, he figured he would hardly notice Smithers' absence. Burns hinged his entire plan on that assumption.

Patently, he had been wrong.

He got up from his writing desk and stalked off, leaving the unaccommodating phone behind.

Aimlessly he paced the empty expanse of Burns Manor. Eventually his wandering took him to the residential wing.

Burns Manor had originally been designed to house a large family, or provide accommodations for a great number of guests. Burns had neither; not that he regretted that fact. Friends, family, they'd get in his way. (Except Smithers, he thought despondently. He could have Smithers around.)

Like many rambling structures, Burns Manor had its fair share of secret nooks and crannies.

Burns slipped through a little known passage, the entrance of which appeared to be no more than a closet. The narrow route snaked between the walls and ended at the back of a second closet. He pushed his way through the clothes, into a large, dark room. Burns ran his hand along the wall till he found the light switch, and flicked it on. The bulbs came to live, revealing an elegant bedchamber, the likes of which paralleled his own opulent suite.

This room, however, was clearly one that rarely saw visitors. The main door had been sealed and hidden from the hall decades ago. Dust lay thickly across every surface. Despite the clear evidence of disuse, there was an almost palpable sense of anticipation in the air. It was if the very room itself was expecting the occupant to return any minute.

That would never happen.

Everything had been left just as it was the last time its resident had been there. Coat and scarf still hung by the sealed door. The bed had been casually made, blankets pulled up, but the pillow still showed the indent where someone had once rested their head. There was a drawing table in the corner, blueprints rolled in tubes and stacked neatly beside it. A baby grand piano, with candelabra atop, sat by the curtain-covered windows.

Burns walked slowly to a pair of wing chairs beside a large, marble fireplace, and sat down in one of them. A cloud of dust rose into the air, swirling around him in pale motes. He glanced to the small, round table between the two chairs.

The table held a few books, a notepad and a pencil, still sharp and eagerly awaiting use after all these years. He lifted a book and blew the dust off the cover. The Complete Works of William Faulkner. A bookmark was still in the middle.

Burns set the book down, not opening it. He sat and stared into the cold fireplace. On the mantle, a vase of long-dried daffodils sat next to a still anniversary clock. A clock that no one had wound in ages. Its hands frozen at 3:27.

Burns glanced at his watch. It was getting late, so late… and he was so very tired.

Burns felt suddenly exhausted. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

In his dreams, he was a young man again; traveling in Europe. His face was smooth, hair long brown locks. He was walking through the streets of Paris, a familiar companion by his side. Burns recognized him as Smithers' father. The man looked older than Burns remembered, and he didn't have glasses, but it was Waylon Sr. nonetheless.

Burns put his hands in his pockets and breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the gardens. Nice night, his companion remarked.

Beautiful, Burns agreed.

They walked through Paris, space and time taking on that fluid yet unquestioned way it can have in dreams. It didn't matter how they came to be where they were. Burns leaned over the railing of the Eiffel tower, and gazed at the city below. Waylon Sr. put his feet on the railing and stretched his body out as far as he safely could. He reached an arm around Burns shoulder in a casual sort of way. There's the river, he said, gesturing to the Seine. It matches the sky.

Burns looked up. Though the river was a ribbon of light, the sky was dark.

No stars, Burns remarked, looking up.

Can't you see them? Smithers asked. I can see them.

Burns shook his head. He looked back to Waylon Sr., and realized he was now staring into the familiar face of Waylon Jr. instead. Smithers' brown eyes replaced his father's hazel ones. His expression was somewhat accusing.

Can't you see it? Waylon Jr. prompted. Look closer. We can get closer. He raised his hands out to either side, as if they were wings.

Burns stepped up onto the railing next to Smithers and spread his arms.

Don't fall, Monty, Smithers warned. No one ever dies in their dreams.

I'm dreaming?

Aren't we all?

Burns puffed his young chest out and felt the night breeze blow through his hair. I can't love you, you know, he told Smithers.

I'm not him, Smithers replied, gesturing to the sky. I'm me. Stop comparing us.

It's wrong. I'd be betraying his trust. I'm supposed to look out for you. Burns couldn't bear to say the name aloud.

Stop trying to make decisions that aren't yours to make, Monty, phantasmal Smithers replied. I'm not my father, and I'm not your child. Don't treat me like either.

Smithers leaned further out into the open air.

What if I lose you? I'm not strong enough. They were both precariously balanced on the rails, hung too far over to be safe.

Everything falls, Smithers replied nonchalantly.

What? Burns tried to turn, but his body over-balanced. He reached out into nothingness, hands clutching empty space. He reached out to grab Smithers' hand but the man was gone. The observation deck was empty. No one was there.

Burns jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize where he was. He'd fallen asleep in one of the chairs by the fireplace in Waylon Sr.'s old room. Burns groaned and ran his hands over his face. He'd had another intense dream.

What had it been? Something about Paris? Smithers? Parts were still fresh, but on the whole it was rapidly fading from memory. It all felt terribly important somehow.

He glanced at table. Quickly he snatched the notepad and pencil and jotted down as much as he could remember before he forgot it all.