Monty Burns woke early Sunday morning to Hercules curled up on his pillow. The little grey terrier was almost on Burns' face.

Well, this can't become 'a thing,' he thought, pushing Hercules away. The terrier gave him a reproachful look, got to his feet, and came right back. He turned in a circle three times, then settled down, pushing his furry back against Burns' neck.

Burns got up and swung his thin legs over the edge of the bed.

"Smithers really lets you sleep like that, eh?" he said, lifting up the small dog and putting him on the floor. "I'm sorry to inform you, beastie, but I'm no Smithers."

Perhaps he wasn't, but Hercules appeared to find him an acceptable substitute for his master. Wherever Burns went, the tiny dog tried valiantly to follow. Eventually, out of sheer frustration, Burns called one of his servants over, and instructed the man to carry the dog around. "Don't speak to me," Burns growled. "Your job is to carry that dog, nothing more. Do you understand?"

The servant nodded mutely. Smart, Burns thought approvingly. This one gets it.

Burns took his breakfast in the formal dining hall while he read the Springfield Times, the Wall Street Journal, and a few other papers he kept an eye on. Satisfied, he strolled out to the veranda to finish reading that book he'd 'borrowed' from Smithers' room.

He'd never read anything by Faulkner before. The author's writing style almost reminded him of the authors he had grown up reading: the Bronte sisters, George Bernard Shaw… Faulkner's works had a profound melancholy to them, and a delightfully complex narrative. Burns enjoyed the juxtaposition of life, death, and morality. Nothing in Faulkner's was clearly "good," or decidedly "evil." It simply was.

Burns almost thought he could see inklings of his own character, the circumscribed turmoil of his own private nature.

"It's that I do not wish to die," he said. Then he said it again. "It's that I do not wish to die," in a quiet tone, of slow and low amaze, as though it were something that, until the words had said themselves, he found he had not known, or had not known the depth and extent of his desire.

Faulkner's words made Burns feel uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite put his finger to. Burns felt sort of voyeuristic sensation; but whether it was that of the watcher, or the watchee, he couldn't tell.

He draped the bookmark across the page. Absentmindedly he chewed on a thumbnail as he thought.

I do not wish to die.

Were those words his, or had they been the last thought of Waylon Sr. before he succumbed to the radiation in the reactor core? It was a day Burns could never forget. He'd carry the memory to the grave, or beyond if such things as the afterlife existed. He remembered everything had happened as if in slow motion: Waylon Sr. turning towards him, eyes already growing thick. Waylon had reached towards him, tried to say something, then collapsed face forward, on the reactor floor. He never moved again.

What had Waylon been trying to say, Burns wondered. He replayed the scene in his mind, over and over, trying to put words to Waylon's lips. Time and time again, he came up empty. There was no way to know.

Had it hurt, Burns always wondered. Was dying the final agony, or the great release? Had Waylon suffered? Did he even feel it when he fell? Those were the sort of thoughts that plagued him on restless nights, in the wee morning hours between midnight and dawn.

Three AM was the devil's hour to be sure.

Burns ran his hand over The Complete Works of William Faulkner, tracing the embossed letters with his deft fingers. Despite the warm, hazy day, he shivered visibly. A chill ran down his spine. He set the book on the table and rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

It should've been me, he thought bitterly.

I shouldn't have tried to stop him… I should've gone in instead of him.

Burns beckoned the servant bearing Hercules towards him. "Give the beast here," he ordered, "and leave me."

The servant nodded, and stepped back to rear entry of Burns Manor, remaining just outside the door in anticipation of Burns' eventual summons.

Burns stroked Hercules head absentmindedly. Whatever this sensation was, it wasn't simple. It wasn't anger, or sadness, or fear… it was something similar to all of them, but distinct. Burns took a deep breath, and tried to let it go. It's not my fault, Burns thought distantly. He'd tried to stop Waylon Sr. from going into the reactor; he'd grabbed the man by the collar of his lab jacket. He hadn't expected Waylon to wriggle free, leaving Burns standing with nothing more than an empty coat in his hand.

No, more than just the coat.

Waylon Jr.!

He'd left Burns standing there with his infant son.

Burns hand froze, realization hitting him full force, showing no mercy. Smithers. Always Smithers. Not just one, but both. He loved me, he loved his son. He gave me his son, then gave his life for both of us. And I? What have I have done to live up to that? Burns resumed running his hand over the terrier's soft fur.

"Oh beastie," he muttered to Hercules, "I've been such a fool!"

The dog lifted its head, and regarded him with little coal black eyes.

"It never was the wealth, or the money, or the delight in crushing the common man…" Burns exhaled heavily. "It was taking care of Smithers the way Waylon took care of me."

Guilt. That was the name of the feeling. Remorse. The realization that he'd failed in the one task Waylon Sr. had left him with.

"Looking after someone, caring for someone… It's more than merely toting them around, putting clothes on their back, or food on their plate." He wrung his hands together. "It's not hurting them; then justifying it by saying you picked up the pieces."

Burns regarded Hercules' little cast leg morosely. "Putting things back together… it's not the same as not breaking them in the first place, is it… and sometimes, things don't go back together as neatly as a broken bone." Burns put his head in his hands.

A little voice spoke up in his mind, scolding. Well Monty, it observed, you've gone and made a real mess of things now, haven't you.

Shut up, Burns thought angrily.

No, the voice retorted. You listen here: you are indifferent to him, you berate him, and yet you depend on him for everything you do. You sent him away, why? Because you, Monty, couldn't deal with the fact that he wasn't what you thought he should be.

Well, guess what, the voice continued, it's not about you! Smithers is who he is. No more, but definitely no less. You can wrap your actions in whatever blankets of justification and denial you want, but at the center of it all, you're a pathetic old man who can't admit he's found someone he actually cares about after all these years!

You can either accept that Smithers will always be Smithers, or you can let him go once and for all.

I can't. I don't want to be without him.

Then you'd better learn to accept him as he is; and pray to whatever gods you believe in that he forgives you.

Burns ran his hands through what little hair he had left, clenching it in his fists, pulling his head back. He made sound halfway between a sigh and snarl. He stood, sweeping Hercules into his arms as he did. The servant scurried forward to take the dog, but Burns made a dismissive gesture. Hercules wasn't that heavy.

He strode purposefully into his private study, pulling the double doors shut behind him with a resounding slam. Burns set Hercules down in one of the chairs by the unlit fireplace, and sat down at his writing desk with a flourish.

Burns never hesitated. He grabbed a quill pen, and inkwell of some beautiful emerald-colored ink. He snatched a thick sheet of writing paper from the stack in the desk and sat down. Words flowed from his hand like ink from the pen.

My Dearest Smithers, he began, I hope this doesn't come to you too late…

Waylon Smithers found Sunday to be a perfectly uneventful day. To make up for his late night Saturday, he spent Sunday in, being deliberately lazy. He spent most of it relaxing in his apartment, and shopping online. He'd found an optometrist in town that took his insurance, and emailed over his prescription. He planned to call them Monday and see if it was possible to pick up a new pair of glasses after work. Two, probably. He needed a new pair of prescription sunglasses. He had no idea where his old pair was. Oh, he reminded himself, and contacts!

Monday morning rolled around, and Smithers made his way over to the nuclear plant. He always thought he'd never be able to live without a car, and yet here he was: getting around town just fine. He shouldered his day bag and walked towards the plant's main gate. He was surprised to realize he didn't miss driving.

Preston was standing by the timeclock, ever-present tablet in hand, looking down his nose at the employees coming in. When he saw Smithers, he gave a quick jut of his head, indicating Smithers to follow him.

"Mister Dimas wants to see you in his office immediately," Preston huffed, adjusting his glasses.

Smithers nodded.

"This way," Preston remarked, starting off.

Smithers bit his tongue. He knew the way to Dimas' office. It was right next to his own. He followed Preston nonetheless, arriving at the literally open office door.

Preston gestured Smithers enter, then followed, closing the door behind them.

Mister Dimas, broad and jovial as always stood up and extended a hand. "Waylon Smithers," he beamed, "glad to you could make it in. I've got a bit of a proposition for you." He gestured to one of his guest chairs. "Sit."

Smithers sat.

Preston trotted over and stood behind Dimas at his right shoulder. He opened his tablet and made a few quick annotations with his stylus. He handed the tablet to Dimas.

Dimas took it, and glanced down at the screen. He nodded, closed it, and passed it back up to Preston.

"I took the liberty of going over your weekly evaluations, Waylon. Everything's been exceptional in all quarters. Now this week, I've got you assigned to infrastructure. It's not as exciting, but it'll teach you the basics of environmental management here in the complex. It probably won't take more than a day or two, honestly. Most of the service on these pieces of equipment are contracted out. When we get done with that, I'm sending you over to hydrology. From there, mechanics; and finally, administration. I've saved the best for last, of course," he added with a deep chortle. "You'll be working right alongside me, at my right hand!"

Preston stiffened visibly. "But sir, I thought you said I'd be training Waylon!"

Dimas gave Preston a smirk. "What did I tell you about experience, Tucci? That there's no substitute for it. I daresay Waylon here could teach you a thing or two about running a nuclear plant; eh Waylon?"

Smithers shifted uncomfortably in his chair, both sets of eyes on him.

"Well," Dimas pushed. "You do have experience running a plant, don't you?"

Smithers fidgeted slightly. It wasn't his nature to brag about his accomplishments. "Well, I did run the Springfield Plant for a few weeks while Mister Burns was indisposed," he admitted. "Then there was that time Mister Burns decided to take a sabbatical and not tell anyone. I had to handle things till he came back."

Preston leaned forward, mouth open in an incredulous sneer. "You?" he asked.

Smithers stiffened. "Yes, me."

Dimas made a calm down gesture to Preston, who shut his mouth with an audible snap, and looked at a spot on the far wall beyond Smithers' head.

"See, here's the thing," Dimas began carefully. "Every time I'd see you at one of the conventions, Mister Burns was always leading the show. When I first saw you, I thought you were partners-"

(Smithers swallowed dryly.)

"-But then I realized you were just an attaché. Between you and I, Waylon, it perplexed me. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't be letting you take the reins, sending you in his stead, that sort of stuff. Clearly, you have the mind for it."

"Thank you, sir." Smithers dipped his head graciously.

"There's a convention in Albany next month. Regardless of where you're at in your training, I want you to come along specifically as my Chief of Plant Operations. Regardless of your actual tasks, it's your title on paper. Human Resources knows it. I know it. I want to see what you do when the rest of the nuclear world knows it!"

Smithers blinked in surprise. "Yes, Mister Dimas. Of course, sir; but why?"

Dimas' eyes grew distant, as if remembering something from long ago. "Once upon a time your Mister Burns… bah!" he waved a hand dismissively, "it doesn't matter now. Suffice to say, I owe him a debt of gratitude, which he decided to call in; on your behalf, I might add." He thrust a thick finger at Smithers.

"Now, I don't know what the old fox is up to, but if there's one thing I've learned from my father, it's 'never question Monty Burns!' With that in mind, he wants me to teach you how to be executive material? Well, that's exactly what I intend to do."

He leaned back, and glanced over his right shoulder.

"Isn't that right, Preston?"

Preston started as if woken from a daydream. "Sir?"

"Isn't that right that we'll see Mister Waylon Smithers take charge at the North American Atomic Energy Convention next month."

"Oh yes, Mister Dimas," Preston agreed, scarcely able to hide the dripping sarcasm. "It will bring me such joy to see."

"There's a good man!" Dimas cheered, either not noticing, or deliberately ignoring Preston's tone. "Now, Preston, would you be so kind as to show Waylon down to the maintenance hub? I'd go myself, but I have all these reports to file." He gestured to a small stack of papers on his desk.

"Mister Dimas," Preston protested, "I could stay here and file those if you would like to spend a few more minutes with Mister Smithers."

"Oh no, I wouldn't ask you to do that. I like to keep my eyes on the paperwork; make sure everything's on the level. You boys go on. I'll catch up with both of you later."

Preston bowed his head stiffly. "Yes, Mister Dimas." He got up, ushering Smithers to follow him, and headed out of the office. As he shut the door behind him, he turned and sized Smithers up. "I must inform you," he said rigidly, "that I intend to make this plant my due patrimony, if by act, not lineage."

Smithers held up his hands. "Preston, I'm not after your job."

Preston narrowed his eyes. "Mister Dimas is conspiring with your Mister Burns, then suddenly you're here and you already have experience as an interim director. What, exactly do I have to convince me that you're not after my career."

Smithers stopped, and squared off in front of Preston. He might not be quite as tall, but he was a good deal more muscular. Smithers leveled his gaze into Preston's eyes. "Look, Preston, I'm not interested in your nuclear plant or your job. I've done my time as a personal assistant for twenty years, and I'm tired of it. You can keep it." Smithers' voice lowered, taking on a slightly menacing tone.

"I have no intention of being anyone's sycophant ever again. You may think I'm here on some covert spy mission," he waved a hand, "or whatever it is you think I'm up to. But let me tell you that's not the case. After I'm done here, I might get out of this field altogether. I haven't made up my mind yet."

Preston's jaw flapped a few times. He tried to form words, but Smithers cut him off. "If you want to be a lapdog for the rest of your life, good; fine! Do what makes you happy. But don't you dare start thinking I'm your enemy. I don't have any interest in your job. I've already done it. Now," he added, holding up a hand, "you can either take offense at that, or you can listen to your Mister Dimas, and perhaps you just might learn a few things from me."

Smithers was on a roll now, not yelling, but speaking with soft intensity. "Don't underestimate me, Preston. Because if I do decide to stay in nuclear energy, and so do you, I'm sure we'll cross paths again. I don't want us to be enemies. The business is too small for that."

Preston snorted with contempt, but he gave a curt nod. "Fair enough, Waylon, but don't you forget, you're yesterday's news. It's people like me who will be running the scene in a few years. Just you wait!" He gestured down to the end of the hall. "Maintenance is up ahead. Go in and ask for Sharon. She's expecting you."

The discussion was at an end.

Preston spun on his heel and stalked off. Smithers turned his back to the disappearing man, and headed over to meet this Sharon person.

Like the rest of the plant, the maintenance department had a clean, modern feel to it. Sharon was already there, waiting for him.

"Waylon Smithers, right?" she asked, extending a hand. Everyone apparently shook hands in Plateau City, Smithers noted.

"Yes, ma'am."

She beamed. "So, do you have any idea what you'll be getting into down here?"

Smithers admitted he did not. He'd expected "infrastructure" would be mostly janitorial duties, and wasn't particularly looking forward to it. He did not, however, tell that to Sharon.

The bright eyed woman regarded him cheerfully. She had short, spiky red hair, and dark eyes. She wore a pair of clean work pants, and a polo shirt. Her hands were dainty, but strong, slightly stained from the various chemicals. She eyed him up and down.

"There's a lot of hands on maintenance," she said. "And occasional heavy lifting," she added.

"I can handle that."

"Good, good." She waved him into her tiny office. It was filled to the ceiling with filing cabinets, papers and books; all rather haphazardly stacked.

Smithers tried not to let her clutter affect his initial impressions. He was still rather irritated from his exchange with Preston a few moments before. The idea of working as a janitor for some disorganized woman did not appeal to him in the slightest.

"You're probably thinking this is all mop-and-bucket work; and some of it is, but most is more technical. You need to know your way around an HVAC flowchart, how to back-prime the hydrology pumps, fix basic electrical problems, and of course the unglamorous unclogging of toilets. That last one's easy. Plunge it up, flush it down, look out below." She gave him a friendly wink. "Seriously though, this is one of these jobs where you have to know a little bit about how to do every other job here."

Sharon glanced at the memo on her desk. "Dimas-willing, if you have past experience in basic handyman work, this should take less than a week. If not, it'll take longer." She grabbed two books off the shelf and handed them over to him: Home Maintenance for Dummies, and Electronics All-in-One for Dummies.

Noticing his rather miffed expression she remarked: "I make these required reading for all my trainees. Don't be offended. Pretty much everything basic you'll encounter here will be addressed in these books."

Smithers took them, nodding silently. He flipped open the thick All-in-One book. "This has almost nine hundred pages," he remarked.

"It's light reading," she replied, ruffling through her stack.

You call this 'light'? Smithers thought silently, hefting the book in one hand.

"If that All-in-One's too basic for you, I have a textbook on classic electrical theory around here somewhere. No one ever wants to borrow that," she muttered, precariously lifting a stack of papers.

While Sharon's back was turned, Smithers took a moment to glance around the office. The walls were covered with note boards, calendars, and a few certificates.

He took a closer look at one of the certificates.

"You have a Master's Degree in Engineering!?" he asked incredulously.

Sharon glanced over her shoulder. "What that? Oh yeah, from RPI. I also have a Doctorate. Didn't really have space to hang that. Oh!" she reached into a pile and pulled out a framed certificate. "Here it is." She passed it over to Smithers.

"Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute? That's, one of the best schools in the country."

"World," interjected Sharon, finally hauling a book on basic plumbing out of the heap.

"'World,'" Smithers corrected himself. He took the plumbing book and added it to his stack. "So why, if I may ask, do you work here?"

Sharon smiled. "It's close to home. It's a low-stress environment. I have a lot of free time to work on ideas and designs to improve the plant. I like to think about how I can make things better, and I like the people." She shrugged. "What, did you think I was just some highschool drop out?"

Smithers thought about the mental aptitude and education of some of the Springfield plant employees. "Well no, it's just, eh…" he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

She watched him, expression level. "A lot of people think that. I get it. And most of the people who apply to work for me fit that description to a tee." She shrugged again. "That's part of the reason I make them read all this stuff." She gestured to the books in Smithers' hands. "If they can't manage some basic reading, I definitely don't want them trying to navigate a schematic for one of the generator fail-safes."

That made sense to Smithers. He nodded. "Isn't that usually the nuclear engineers' jobs?"

Sharon laughed, sitting down on top of her desk. "You'd think that, but sometimes they don't want to get their hands dirty. So, that means my team has to. Especially if whatever needs fixing is in an awkward place, like beneath the drop-floors, or something." She grinned. "I like my team strong, smart, and flexible. You would not believe how difficult it can be to get to certain parts."

"So it's mostly electronics?"

"A little bit of everything. There's a leak in one of the cooling pipes, we fix that. Airplane warning lights on the towers go out? We fix that too. The sink in Mister Dimas' executive bathroom is dripping?" She pointed a finger at Smithers. "Yep, you guessed that. We fix it."

"I thought it would be more, uhm, janitorial."

Sharon shook her head. "We hire out for basic cleaning. Their company does all the background checks and screenings. It's actually cheaper than hiring an in-house cleaning crew."

Smithers filed that little piece of information away. At the Springfield plant, they had a crew of interchangeable janitors and maintenance personnel. The problem was finding qualified workers who could be trusted around the plant. There was a high turn-over in that department. Sharon was right: hiring and training new people was expensive.

Despite what he'd said to Preston earlier, Smithers was quite sure he'd stay in the nuclear field. If, and it was a big if, he ever wound up in control of a plant full-time, it would be good to know ways to cut down on losses. That would save money for more important things, like updates and repairs. Lord knew the Springfield plant could use both. Burns was almost deliberately lax on necessary maintenance; yet it was always Smithers who wound up protecting him from the consequences.

Smithers wondered distractedly how things had panned out once he left Springfield.

He realized he didn't care.

Sharon was snapping her fingers loudly. "Hey! Focus here."

Smithers shook his head. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about what you said, comparing how things are run here to the plant I worked at before."

Sharon regarded him seriously. "Well, glad as I am that you're thinking about the topic at hand, please try to stay with us. There's a lot to go over." She grabbed an armload of blueprints. "Come with me!"

"Where are we going?"

"There's a disused storage room down here that I use as a planning room. I want to show you the schematics for our plant, help you get a better understanding of the site and the layout thereof." She pushed her door open with a foot. "Come, come."

Smithers rose, scooped up his books, and followed placidly along.