Smithers wandered the length and breadth of the Concourse with Preston and Dimas. Antoine had disappeared off somewhere yet again. Just as Dimas had said, NAAECon was just like any other nuclear convention. There were vendors hawking their wares.
Here, a booth with the latest hazmat suits, now in custom colors! There, a gentleman trying to get signatures for a petition to re-use spent fuel rods in second-stage energy production. Of course there was the typical loot: pens, magnets, the occasional flying disk or drink cup with a logo on it.
There were a few agencies looking to hire. Smithers wasn't quite brave enough to hand out his résumé under Dimas' watchful eye, but he grabbed a few business cards, and made note of people to call.
Through it all, Smithers kept an eye out for a familiar hawk-like face; the old man with his piercing blue eyes, and biting words. Despite Smithers' constant vigil, if Burns was there, he wasn't making himself known. Smithers wasn't sure whether he ought feel sad, or relieved. Probably it was a combination of both. He put his hands in his pockets and regarded the marble floor pensively.
All day, he had followed along at Dimas' heel, beside Preston, meeting people, shaking hands, networking. He was glad he'd been able to read through the list of contacts on Preston's tablet. There was no way he would've been able to keep everyone straight.
By the time evening had worn on, he and the rest of the Plateau City crew slipped off to the private changing rooms near the Concourse-level entrance to Corning Tower.
Smithers slipped into his suit, a finely tailored tuxedo jacket and trousers that hugged his rather muscular build in all the right ways. Underneath, he wore a vest over a pleated white dress shirt. A black bow tie, reflective patent leather shoes, and his atom cufflinks completed the ensemble. He paused to check out his reflection, added a bit more gel to his hair, and teased the front up. It wasn't quite a pompadour, but close. Smithers turned one way, then the other, examining his profile. Satisfied, he rinsed his hands, and headed out to the main corridor.
Preston was there, wearing a straight-cut suit, and thin black tie.
Dimas looked more like "the Monopoly guy" than ever. All he needed was a cane an top-hat, and the effect would be complete.
Antoine had somehow resurfaced and changed as well. He wore an off-black suit made of a fine fabric that had an almost shiny quality to it. Despite the blue hair, beard, and eyebrows, he managed to pull off the appearance of sophistication. He fiddled with his cufflinks, then gave a sigh and held his arms out to Preston.
Preston muttered something about Antoine's ineptitude, and the poor choice of fixed back cufflinks as he fastened them for Antoine. Antoine muttered back that he bought them because they looked sharp, and he regretted nothing.
Smithers shook his head, and tried not to smile. He handed his invitation to the attendant, and waited patiently for the next elevator to arrive.
Over the dull murmur of the crowd, a familiar voice cut through the crowd. "Thaddeus! Thaddeus Dimas my old friend, there you are!"
Smithers resisted the urge to cringe. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and looked off at some unknown point in the distance.
It was C. Montgomery Burns.
The lean man was weaving his way through the crowd. Like the rest, he wore black, but his suit had a classic cut to it, reminisce of a Victorian ensemble, complete with top hat and cane. He wore a black topcoat, unbuttoned, and white gloves.
Dimas raised his head. "Ho there! Monty Burns!" The two men clasped hands warmly. "So glad you could make it. I was beginning to wonder if you would come or not."
Burns glanced around casually. "Yes, well, I must confess I had to deliberate long and hard on the matter. As you know Thaddeus, unless there's something it for me, I hardly like to commingle with these hucksters." He gestured back towards the convention hall.
Dimas snorted with amusement. "Oh, come now Monty. Surely there must be something that would interest you. A pen, a little trinket?"
Burns gave a polite chuckle and flipped his hand. "Tad, you jest. I cater my attention to the significant man, not some traveling atom merchant." He leaned closer. "So, did you bring him?"
Dimas feigned innocence with exaggerated theatrics. "Bring who, Monty."
Burns lowered his head. "You know."
"Oh, Smithers! Ah yes, Waylon Smithers! Why yes, as a matter of fact, I daresay he's around here someplace," Dimas remarked coyly, glancing in Smithers' direction.
Oh please, Smithers groaned inwardly, trying subtly to slip behind Antoine. Don't point me out to him.
The will of Dimas was not to be that way. Thaddeus Dimas, proudly waved a meaty paw in Smithers direction. "Well look who it is! I daresay he's been there all along!"
Charles Montgomery Burns froze, caught speechless. He stood as if transfixed as the tall man with the tossed grey hair detached himself from the shadows.
"Hello, Monty," Smithers said.
Burns suddenly felt weak in the knees. He tightened his grip on his cane, and hoped no one noticed. This man was not the Smithers he remembered. Gone was the short, almost crew-cut spikey hair. In its place: a modern haircut that made Smithers' face look more lean and chiseled. Gone too were the round glasses Burns had always been rather fond of.
Smithers' familiar brown eyes regarded him stoically through a pair of rectangular frames.
Had Smithers grown taller too? Was that possible? Or was it simply the way he carried himself. Burns took a quick glance down to Smithers' shoes. Reflective enough you could use them as a mirror, but not any thicker of sole than the man usually wore. No, Burns decided, it was all in his carriage.
Smithers stepped forward, moving around that blue-haired fellow, and walked slowly up to Burns. Burns resisted the urge to take a step back as Smithers approached. Forty years of memories raced through his head. Forty years of seeing Waylon Smithers, but he'd never seen the man like this.
Burns straighten his back and stood as tall as he could.
"Hello, Waylon," he said guardedly. "It's good to see you again."
Smithers gave a curt nod, face expressionless. "I'm glad you could make it," Smithers said neutrally echoing Dimas' words. "Mister Dimas had been hoping you'd show up, as I recall?" Smithers raised his eyes over to Dimas.
Burns followed his gaze.
"Quite right, quite right," Dimas bobbed. "Now, I don't know about you, but I don't feel like staying down here all night." He gestured to the elevator. "Would you care to join our table, Monty? Unless you're with company, of course."
Burns shifted uncomfortably. "Alas, I am without a companion for the evening." He tried not to look at Smithers. "I'd welcome the invitation."
Dimas clapped him solidly on the shoulder. "Well it's settled then," he beamed, shoving Burns forward. "You'll join our and regale us with the latest tales from Springfield.
Burns resisted Dimas' pushing. He stepped aside. "You first, Tad," he said. No one goads Monty Burns, he thought irritably. He stole another glance over his shoulder, and his eyes met Smithers. Waylon…, he thought, a quiet desperation in his mind. It was as if Smithers didn't even recognize him. He's grown so cold to me, Burns thought turning, and resting his back against the rear wall of the elevator. He took off his top hat and held it in his hands, running his fingers over the brim.
Smithers stood in front of him, facing away.
Burns resisted the urge to reach out and grab Smithers' shoulder. He wanted to spin the man around, force him to talk face-to-face. There'll be time for that later, I'm sure, Burns thought as he set his hat back on his head. The night was young. He still had time.
Waylon Smithers stood, painfully aware of Burns' proximity. It took all his concentration not to turn around. He wanted to grab Burns up by his antiquated lapels and give the man a strong talking to. As they walked out onto the observation deck, Smithers played the various scenarios in his head. You've got some nerve coming here, was one opening line he considered.
Smithers shook his head as if to clear it. There was no rush, no reason he even had to say anything. He, Preston, Antoine, Dimas, and Mister Burns made their way to a table in the north corner, overlooking the plaza.
Antoine sat down, and glanced out the window. "Beautiful view," he remarked thoughtfully.
The rest of the party agreed.
The table was circular; there really was no good way for Smithers to sit away from Burns. He sat with Antoine on his left, Preston on his right. Dimas was next to Preston, almost directly across from him, and Burns sat between Dimas and Antoine.
Burns removed his hat, and set it on the window ledge next to the table.
Smithers took a moment to survey the scene. The observation deck was shaped like a "U", offering views to the North, South, and East. The western wall housed the facilities. At the middle, facing east, a DJ had set up. Along the South windows was a bar.
Smithers was debating whether or not to walk over and get himself a drink when a server arrived. "What will you be drinking?" he asked.
Burns ordered a cognac. Dimas requested a Manhattan. The server gestured to Antoine.
"I have to fly tonight, so nothing for me. But," he pointed to Preston, "that one there'll be drinking for me. He's going to have a Long Island Iced Tea."
"I would like to order my own drink," Preston snapped back.
"Have you ever had a Long Island?"
"No."
"Then you will tonight." Antoine ignored Preston's indignant sputterings. "He'll have the Long Island Iced Tea," he announced decisively.
The server nodded. "And you, sir?" she asked, nodding towards Smithers.
Smithers held up a hand. "Just a tonic water for now," he said. His order surprised him. His mouth had been craving a single malt. Perhaps it's better this way, he thought, looking across the table at Burns. I don't want to say something we'll both regret.
Burns looked up from his menu, and inadvertently his eyes met Smithers'. He looked away uncomfortably, then stole a second quick look. No, Smithers was still there, silently watching him. Dammit Smithers, Burns cursed under his breath. Just say something!
Smithers gave an almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrows, and glanced to his left, looking out the windows. On a clear day, they said, you could see the outline of the Adirondack Mountains against the northern horizon. Burns wasn't sure about that. It wasn't clear tonight, and the city sky was painted a golden red from the lights below.
Burns made idle conversation with Dimas, and tried not to think about Smithers.
Mentally, he kicked himself. He'd come all this way out here specifically to see Smithers, and now, he found the words wouldn't come. Why was it always so difficult?
He'd come prepared for everything, except being struck dumb. Burns slid his hand into his pocket and felt the two small boxes he'd carried along: a heavier one, containing Smithers' watch, and the lighter one with his ring. Whatever happened, tonight, he would not let Smithers leave without taking both.
Burns let his eyes flick over the blue-haired pilot. "I can't believe Tad lets you get away with that," he remarked, gesturing to Antoine's teal beard.
"None of us can," remarked the lanky Preston, eyes narrowing at Antoine.
Antoine shrugged.
Smithers rested his head in his hand and stared out the window.
Such a beautiful profile, Burns thought sadly. He longed to reach out and cup Smithers' cheek in his palm. He was certain Smithers' skin was as smooth as it looked.
His reverie was interrupted by the server. She placed each drink carefully, then asked if the gentlemen had decided on their menu choices. Like most of these events, there were a few selections for an appetizer, main course, and sides. It wasn't truly a la carte, and the choices were more exotic than standard beef or chicken.
The menu featured "Native to New York" dishes: venison steak, seared brook trout, or roasted duck breast were listed as protein choices. There was a vegetarian option was a vegan lasagna. Burns hardly paid attention to what anyone ordered. He wasn't particularly hungry.
Burns watched Preston take a sip of his Long Island iced tea. "Antoine," Preston remarked, "you were right, this is good."
Preston tapped his head and pointed at Preston. "See, what did I tell you? Sometimes ya just gotta trust me, Preppy."
Preston rolled his eyes, and took another long sip.
Smithers leaned over and whispered a question to Antoine, who shrugged.
Burns ran his fingers on the side of his snifter. Come on, he silently willed Smithers. Talk to me!
For all his abilities, psychic communication clearly wasn't one of them. Burns sat in quiet irritation as Smithers chatted alternately with Preston and Antoine, and even Dimas; all the while ignoring him. I'm glad he's made friends, Burns thought wistfully, but I wish he still considered me such. He drank his cognac, and tried to look relaxed.
Their meals arrived. They ate. Burns couldn't even remember what he ordered by the time it arrived. Despite the amazing aromas, he could barely manage more than a few mouthfuls.
Smithers was still drinking tonic water. That Preston fellow was on his second Long Island. He finished it, and was about to ask for another when Smithers cut him off. "You've had quite enough, Preston."
"Don't be silly, these things are like water!"
Smithers winced. "Yeah, that's kind of the point."
"Look, just trust us on this," Antoine affirmed.
Burns turned his attention away from the employees, and tried to engage Dimas in conversation about the latest happenings at the Plateau City Plant.
He wasn't paying much attention when the DJ stated something over the announcement system. Burns still wasn't paying much attention when Preston got up and left the table.
Dimas held up a hand, temporarily pausing their conversation. "What the devil is he doing?"
"Oh no," muttered Antoine.
"What!?" barked Dimas.
Burns' head snapped back and forth between the two like he was watching a tennis match. "Karaoke," Antoine replied, clasping a hand over his eyes.
"Well, stop him!" Dimas snapped.
Antoine reached out. "Hey, Preppy, get back here!"
Preston ignored him, and made his way over to the DJ's table.
Dimas tone had gone from warm, to ice cold. Burns knew that tone, and what it meant. "You were the one who was ordering him Long Island iced teas!" He watched Preston talking to the DJ, and looking through a playlist.
Antoine held up a finger. "Hey, I only ordered him one! He didn't have to drink it."
"Tell him to get his Ivy League ass back in his chair or he's fired."
Antoine winced, and hustled over to Preston.
Burns and Dimas watched the two men having an animated conversation. Antoine tried pulling Preston's arm, but Preston shook him free. Looking chagrinned, Antoine returned to the table. "I'm sorry," he said, holding out his hands.
"This is your fault," Dimas growled, pointing a thick finger at Antoine's chest. "Oh well, let him sing. I've gotten tired of his face anyhow."
"It's not my fault, Big D."
Dimas put his hands on the table, knuckles white. "Call me that one more time, Antoine, and you're gone too. You are this close right now," he warned, holding his thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart.
Smithers, who had been watching closely finally spoke up.
"You're going to fire him just for singing karaoke when we were all invited to?"
"I'll not have any of my employees embarrassing me," Dimas replied.
Preston had selected a track, and music began to play through the room.
Smithers drummed his hands on the table and stood up. "I suppose it's a good thing I'm kind of a free agent," he remarked.
He gave Burns and Dimas a nod, then got up from the table.
"At least he's got sense enough to stop him," Dimas remarked.
Burns drew his lips back, grimacing. "Tad, if you knew Waylon like I know Waylon…" he began and let his voice trail off. He couldn't help but give a smug grin. Music was to Smithers as honey was to a bee.
Burns wasn't sure which he was enjoying more: Dimas' obvious discomfort, or Smithers being obstinate and rebellious. Good for you, Smithers, Burns thought feeling an unexpected warmness spread from his chest. You show old Tad here how a Springfieldian does it.
"Come on, Tad," Burns nudged. "Lighten up. Haven't you ever broken in an impromptu song and dance number?"
Dimas folded his arms across his chest. "Never."
"No? Well it happens in Springfield all the time."
They all watched Smithers grab a microphone and jump on stage in time for the chorus. Crazy modern age minstrels. "You, boy blue," Burns thrust a narrow finger at Antoine, "who is this?"
Antoine tilted his head for a moment, like a dog listening to a high-pitched sound. "I think it's called 'Shame,' by Adam Lambert." Antoine shrugged. "At least Preston chose a duet, right?" he offered hopefully.
Dimas rumbled softly in his chest. "It's none the better."
"At least it's in his register," Antoine pushed, encouragingly. "And look, it's like they choreographed this! I mean, they didn't, but if they had it could hardly be more well done."
Dimas muttered something and shook his head.
Burns steepled his fingers, and focused on the lyrics.
I feel thrown out the window
You're too hard on your boy...
Now, I don't mind a little pain when I've really earned it.
But you've got me whipped and chained when I don't deserve it…
Smithers and Preston finished, the piece; amid a surprising amount of applause. Antoine stood up and gave a loud wolf-whistle.
"This-close," hissed Dimas, holding his fingers mere atoms apart.
Antoine looked sufficiently cowed. He ducked his head, and offered a submissive grin. "Heh, sorry, boss. Sir."
Is this really how they run things here? Burns marveled, watching Dimas put Antoine in his place. No hounds, no death threats… And it seems to work. Well, it's definitely not for me. He raised his head and watched Smithers guide a rather giddy Preston back to the table.
Smithers' glanced Burns way, and their eyes met once again.
Damn it all, Burns muttered.
He pushed himself up and walked around the table to Smithers.
"Waylon," he said, "a moment if I may."
Smithers glanced over at Dimas for permission, an act which Burns found more than a bit offensive.
He's mine, not yours, Burns thought hostilely, glaring at Dimas. Out of habit, Burns held out his elbow for Smithers to take. He wasn't that weak, but he liked the feeling of Smithers' strong arm guiding him. It only occurred to him afterward that Smithers might not accept.
A half-second later though, he felt Smithers' familiar warm palm on his elbow.
"Let us go for a walk, Smithers. I'll have you back before you turn into a pumpkin at midnight."
Smithers took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.
"Yes, Mister Burns."