Waylon Smithers sat quietly though the rest of the evening. He listened the amiable drone of conversation, around him. It made a pleasant background noise. Occasionally, the buzz was accented by a louder voice breaking through, laughing at some joke, or barking out with incredulity.
Smithers ran his finger over the ring on his right hand, familiarizing himself with the sensation. He didn't even know what he felt like. His emotions, like the conversation, were a dull hum in the background of his mind. From time to time, a definitive sensation would break the surface, demanding his attention, before slipping under again.
There were so many questions he had unanswered… about everything.
Dinner was over, desert had been cleared. The various groups had dissolved and started to mingle. Some weasel-eyed bald man had joined their table, sitting down beside Dimas. Smithers sipped his tonic water and half-listened to Dimas and "weasel-man" arguing over the what was considered a fair mark-up price to the consumer.
Preston wasn't looking so hot. He had a slightly ashen hue to cheeks, kept his head focused on the table and occasionally took small sips of water. Antoine was nowhere to be seen. How can a man with hair like that disappear in a crowd, Smithers wondered. He slipped the ring off and rolled it between his thumb and forefingers.
Huh, there was an inscription on the inside. Burns hadn't said anything about that. He lifted it up and peered at it, curious. Forever as Yours; CMB. There was a date, the same one that had been inscribed on his watch. Underneath that, was a second date. Smithers squinted and held the ring to the light.
That date… it was today!
Smithers suddenly felt light-headed. He put his hands on the table to steady himself. Dimas, and "weasel-man" looked up, momentarily distracted.
"Are you okay, my good man?" asked the weasel.
"Absolutely, sir," Smithers replied, glibly. "I had simply lost track of the time. This evening has been flying by, hasn't it."
The weasel pulled a silver pocket watch out of his jacket pocket. "Well so it has, young man," he remarked, raising a pencil-thin eyebrow. "Thaddeus, were you aware it's already into tomorrow?"
Dimas checked his watch. "I had no idea," he remarked honestly. He gave that familiar (and grating) laugh, and clasped the thin man's hand. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this lively debate some other time. I should probably be getting on home to the missus. Don't want her worrying these rascals have kidnapped me, right boys?"
Preston gave a weak thumbs-up gesture.
Smithers nodded obsequiously. "That's right, sir," he said with as much of a fawning expression as he could muster. It seemed so unnatural now, but someone had to fill the role of lackey; and he supposed it wouldn't hurt to play the part for a little while.
Dimas gestured to Smithers. "See that one there? He gets it." Dimas grinned broadly.
Weasel rubbed his chin. "Looks familiar.
"Monty Burns' associate. He's been doing some cross training with me; haven't you Waylon."
"Yes sir."
The Weasel nodded approvingly. "Well, keep up with it lad. Old Thaddeus here could teach an Arab how to sell ice to Eskimos!" He gave Dimas an approving slap on the back.
("That's racist!" admonished Preston. Smithers shushed him.)
"Well, I'd best let you all be off then. And you boy, Waylon, tell old Monty I said 'hi.'"
Smithers nodded chipperly. "Will do, sir!"
"Good man," approved the Weasel as he wandered off into the crowd. Good man.
Dimas pulled out his cell phone and called Antoine, giving him orders to start prepping the helicopter for flight.
While Dimas was preoccupied, Smithers took a moment to check in with Preston. "How are you feeling," he asked, concerned. Two Long Islands, that was something like ten shots of liquor. He wasn't sure Preston's tolerance. Alcohol poisoning seemed a reasonable concern in Smithers' mind.
Preston appeared to be alternating between feeling great, and feeling terribly ill. He gave Smithers a blurry look, and his words were rather slurred, but he seemed alert enough. "This has been quite the evening of discoveries, hasn't it," he remarked thickly.
Smithers put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Just drink that, slowly," Smithers said, sliding the water closer to Preston.
"I'm fine." Preston's eyes focused on Smithers, then drifted out, then focused again. "No, really, I'm fine," he insisted.
Smithers gave the water glass a tap with his fingernail.
Preston's gave him a sideways look, but took another sip.
Dimas snapped his phone shut and slid it back in his pocket. "Antoine will have Lima Delta ready in fifteen minutes. I suggest we start making our way up there." He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. "Smithers, Preston," he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the men to follow.
Smithers slipped the ring back on his finger, and offered Preston a hand up.
The lanky man accepted it gratefully.
Slowly, pausing to bid good evening to the other atom barons, Dimas and his entourage made their way to the roof.
Antoine already had the engines running.
He noticed Smithers struggling to support Preston, and ran over, sliding under Preston's right arm and helping the man to walk straight in the heavy wind. Preston pulled Smithers and Antoine close in a tight hug. "You guys are my best friends," he crooned.
Antoine leaned away from Preston's liquored breath, but didn't let go.
"Right now, Preppy, we're your only friends. And if you throw up in the Little Diva, you'll be down to just Waylon over there."
"I'm not gonna throw up," Preston said adamantly. "I'm fine. Just a little dizzy."
"Yeah?" Antoine asked as he and Smithers helped Preston climb into the passenger compartment. "Well nearly six hundred feet in the air is a poor time to feel loopy, Prep. Now get in there, and strap yourself down."
Preston snickered.
Antoine glanced at Smithers and shook his head. "Me and my poor word choices, eh Waylon?"
Smithers gave him a pat on the shoulder as he climbed in. "It can't be helped now."
Antoine shrugged, slid the passenger door shut behind Smithers, and climbed into the cockpit.
Preston leaned his head against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, he was snoring softly.
Dimas regarded him with a carefully guarded expression.
"I don't know if he'll pan out," Dimas remarked to Smithers.
Smithers fidgeted with the ring on his finger, unsure of what to say. Preston didn't deserve to get fired, not in his mind anyhow. He glanced up, and caught Dimas watching him. Dimas' eyes were focused on Smithers' hands.
"Unless I miss my guess, I didn't see that before," he remarked with false innocence, nodding his head towards Smithers' ring.
Smithers self-consciously curled his hands together. "It's not new," he replied. That was the truth.
Dimas gave that shark-like grin that Smithers found more than a little unnerving. "Oh? A gift from someone?"
Smithers untucked his hands, and looked at the ring. "It was my father's," he replied, not meeting Dimas' eyes.
Thaddeus Dimas rubbed a hand along his jawline. "Ah, I see. I never met the man personally, but I knew he was the architect of the Springfield plant before he ran off." Dimas shrugged, but his eyes were shrewd. He was either testing Smithers' nature, or trying to provoke him. Smithers wasn't interested in falling for the bait.
"So I've heard." Smithers examined his hand thoughtfully. "Someday I'm hoping Mister Burns will allow me to see the records."
"Going to design your own, eh?" Dimas probed.
Smithers almost laughed out loud. Dimas' attempts at digging for information were about as subtle as a dropped piano. Smithers smiled harmlessly. "Oh no. Nostalgia, really. Nothing more. I've learned ever so much from you. I just want to see how much things have changed between then and now. Your plant's much more modern than Mister Burns' plant back in Springfield, sir. It's an inspiration, really."
Dimas chuckled and interlaced his sausage-like fingers. "Ah, Smithers," he began softly, "don't think I don't know what you're playing at."
Smithers held up his hands. "What am I playing at, Mister Dimas?"
"You're Burns' little stooge. You've always been so, and that's all you'll be to him. You could do so much better than languishing in the shadow of that decrepit old man and his crumbling empire." Dimas gestured over to the sleeping Preston. "Everyone hits their stride. He passed his several hours ago. What do you say, hmmm? Want to make something of yourself? Be a true power in the atomic world?"
Smithers gave Dimas a lazy smile. "Ah, Mister Dimas, sir. Power for power's sake doesn't interest me. I do appreciate the offer though. At present, I must decline, but perhaps someday I may have a different answer."
Dimas interlaced his hands behind his head.
"So you'll head back ramshackle disaster-waiting-to-happen, and make yourself a doormat just so Burns can wipe his shoes on your back?"
Smithers smirked and shook his head. "No, I don't think I shall. I'm going back to Springfield, no doubt. I'm going back to where I was, but I'll never be who I was."
Dimas shrugged. "You say that now. But familiar places lead to familiar routines. Regardless, that's your choice, Waylon, and you're welcome to make it. Just remember, I offered you a chance to say on with me. So much is the pity, but at least you know what you want. There's no shame in that. Burns, me, we are both at our cores cold-hearted businessmen. And that's fine. But you? I'm don't feel you're cut from the same cloth. Maybe you'd make it in this world, maybe you won't, but that's your path to follow, not mine."
Dimas gave Smithers an oddly agreeable smile.
Smithers returned the gesture. "Thank you, sir."
Dimas extended his heavy paw. "The pleasure's been all mine, Waylon." He enfolded Smithers' right hand in his. "Just remember, you'll always have friends back here at Plateau City."
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Dimas watched Smithers and Antoine help an inebriated Preston across the tarmac. He wrinkled his brow and made a face before shaking his head and turning away. It wasn't his problem to deal with right now. He let himself into his private office at the plant, and grabbed his phone.
Dimas punched in the number he knew by heart, and waited for the familiar voice to pick up.
"Ahoy hoy?" Burns asked.
"Monty, it's Thaddeus." Dimas could hear the dull noise in the background. It sounded like Burns was already on his company jet back to Springfield.
"Well," snapped Burns, "what do you want at this hour?"
"I just wanted to say, you've got a real loyal one there, with your Smithers fellow. I tried to bribe him to stay, just like we discussed, but he's pretty insistent on going back to Springfield. I thought you might like to know."
Burns gave a cough of acknowledgement. "I see. I appreciate you keeping me informed."
Dimas snorted. "I thought you'd be glad to hear it. Now, about business. I was wondering when I could send a shipment out to you?"
"I can't talk here," replied Burns irritably. "This line isn't secure. We can discus that later, during normal 'business' hours."
"Absolutely," Dimas deferred. "A pleasure working with you Monty."
Burns gave a slightly wicked chuckle. "Oh Thaddeus, the pleasure is all mine." With that, he disconnected, and the line went dead.
Preston Tucci woke up feeling sick and disorientated. He sat up, felt the room spin, and laid back down. He was at the Plateau City Nuclear Plant, in the employee bunk room. That much he knew.
The bunk room was part and parcel of the facility, having been built to accommodate employees who had to work double shifts, or odd hours. It was a simple room, consisting of six twin beds, a row of lockers, and a small, attached washroom. There were a pair of office chairs by a narrow window. Preston rubbed his face. His glasses were missing. He felt around on the nightstand next to him. His hand bumped a glass of water.
Groaning, he forced himself to sit up. He put on his glasses and looked at the water. Next to it were two aspirins and a note. Preston, the note began, I hope you're feeling better. Antoine said he'd watch you, but he needed to take mandatory down time. Mister Dimas is going to Florida this afternoon. So I kept an eye on you till this morning when you woke up a little and said you were feeling better. If you need anything, here's my cell number. There was a number, and it was signed "Waylon S."
Preston took the aspirin and washed them down with a sip from the room-temperature water. It was unexpected, this random kindness. He hadn't done anything to exactly put himself in good graces with Smithers, he reflected. If anything, he'd resented Smithers' intrusion into his world. Would he have done the same if Smithers had over-indulged so badly? Probably not, he had to admit.
I'm sure he knew that, Preston thought as he swung his feet to the floor. But he took care of me anyway.
Head, and mind swimming, Preston made his way to the washroom to take a shower and get cleaned up.
Antoine Radson slept comfortably, sprawled out on his king-sized bed in his house at the western edge of Plateau City. It was the sleep of the utterly exhausted. He'd come in late last night, after showing Smithers to the bunk room at the plant. He'd changed, pulled the heavy curtains to his room shut, and set his alarm for one PM. He'd sleep till afternoon, a good eight hours at least, before getting up and priming the Little Diva for Dimas's flight.
The man travels far too much, Antoine thought as he pulled a pillow over his head to block out the road noise. He fell asleep almost immediately thereafter.
On the other side of the country, Charles Montgomery Burns drank another cup of black coffee, and watched as the movers brought the last of Smithers' possessions into the receiving docks of Burns Manor.
Burns was having everything brought and loaded into the basement under the south wing. He didn't feel right having Smithers' possessions unpacked yet. Let Smithers see to that whenever, if ever, he came back.
Hercules, recently free of his cast, stood at Burns' foot, little stub of a tail quivering excitedly.
"You recognize this stuff, do you, beastie?" Burns asked, glancing down at the small dog.
The terrier looked from Burns to the boxes, and sniffed the air. After all this time, the familiar scent of his long-absent master excited him.
Burns watched the movers, working like ants, until the process was complete. Even now, Monty Burns was capable of staving off sleep. When he'd been a young man, he would stay awake for days it seemed, rarely sleeping. Tesla has nothing on me, he remembered, thinking about one of his late night botanical projects years ago.
But that was then, and this was now. Burns yawned and stretched. He'd go upstairs, make sure that Waylon's room was cleaned and ready, and perhaps catch a short cat-nap while he decided what to do with the rest of his weekend.
Hercules pawed at his leg. Burns looked down and chuckled. "No, sorry beastie. You've got to walk on your own four legs now. You can't honestly think I would carry you forever."
The terrier tilted his head, stared at Burns inscrutably with his shoe-button black eyes, then relented and trotted off after this acceptable substitute for his old master.
Back in Plateau City, Waylon Smithers woke from a deep and restful sleep. He got up, and went through his morning routine of work out, shower, then breakfast.
He sat down at the table with a bowl of cereal, pocket watch and ring in the center of the table. He was still getting used the idea of the ring. He wanted to wear it, but Smithers wasn't sure he was emotionally ready for that yet. He knew he felt something, but he still wasn't sure even what. The thing his advice books never seemed to address, when it came to matters of the heart, was how difficult it could be to even identify an emotion.
They must've been written by women, he thought with a hint of amusement; or at the very least by people who already understood what they felt. Trying to sort out his feelings was like trying to identify that moment when green became blue. It seemed simple, but on closer inspection there were infinite shades of aqua and teal, and everything in between.
Teal… green… that thought at least sparked a clear idea in Smithers' head. The letter, with its emerald ink and wax seal!
Smithers didn't hesitate. He got up and removed the letter from the bottom of his travel bag where he'd stuffed it unceremoniously the week before. It was none the worse for wear; a bit bent, and the green wax seal had cracked, but otherwise, it was undamaged.
He sat back down at the table, pulled out his pocket knife, and split the seal the rest of the way. Hands trembling ever so slightly, he pulled out the folded linen paper. Carefully, he unfolded it, and began to read.