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Smithers' first reaction upon returning home and not finding Mr. Burns in his apartment was panic. A semi-rational panic; his heart beating a mile a minute and his brain swamped with worse-case-scenarios, but his problem-solving nature at attention.
First he checked the bathroom, terrified he might find that Burns had fallen and cracked his head open and bled to death on old tiles not meant for the blood of an aristocrat. He was then thankful to find the space unoccupied. The bedroom, less of a hazard, was clear too.
Then he noticed the absence of the grocery list from his refrigerator. Of course he'd want to make himself useful, Smithers thought, nearly dizzy with relief from having a benevolent lead. How could I have expected a workaholic to sit around this boring little hovel all day? Burns probably took the bus. Past his potent fear, he was thankful that the old man wanted to earn his keep.
To the grocer's he went. There was no telling how long ago Burns had left. Hopefully everything was fine. The nervous buzz rattling his brain said otherwise. But what exactly could go awry with an old man grocery shopping? A lot, he thought. Everyone knows him, no one likes him, and he's never done this before. It was an incredible concept, that something so mundane to Smithers could be considered a grand quest for an ex-millionaire.
He parked and rushed into the store. Thankfully the manager was at the front. "Pardon me," he tried to keep his voice even. "Have you seen an old man, about 5'7", uh, balding with-" Why am I describing the ex-richest man in town? "Have you seen Mr. Burns today?"
The manager raised a brow. "Burns? We had the police haul him off to the retirement home."
"You… you what !?"
"Mr. Smithers, the old man has lost his marbles. He was in here for about an hour, bothering customers, getting trapped in the freezer, and he's completely incapable of telling the difference between ketchup and catsup." Seeing Smithers' horrified expression, he seemed to momentarily consider that his course of action may have been cruel. "What was I supposed to do?"
"You could've… helped him!" He whipped around and raced toward the exit before turning back at the doors. "I am never shopping here again!"
He rushed to the Springfield Retirement Castle. More like a prison, he observed. It was a quiet, sad little place and it reeked of tragically unclean people. He made for the front desk. "Where's Montgomery Burns?"
The receptionist looked up at him, past the large rimmed glasses perched upon her thick nose. "Are you a family member? It's against our policy to let anyone aside from family and aids wail on patients."
"I'm his guardian, Waylon Smithers. He doesn't have family." He produced his ID. "Is this good enough? He shouldn't even be checked in here, he was taken here by mistake!"
"Settle down, please." She glanced at the clock. "This time of day, he should be in the parlor."
Smithers followed the signs and burst into the room, scanning the elderly faces for the one that was oh-so familiar to him. "Oh, Mr. Burns…" he approached the table at which he sat in dull conversation with Abe Simpson, so out of place in this home of forgotten souls. "Sir-"
"Smithers!" With the liveliness of a stoat he sprang from the seat and wrapped his thin arms about the younger man.
Smithers held him back when the shock wore off. It was hard to believe that this frail creature in his embrace was the same hard-boiled capitalist from a few days ago. "I'm here now, sir."
"Are you… going to take me home? Or do I have to stay?"
"Of course we're going home. I'll draw you a bath, I'll make you tea, we'll… we'll put on a movie or… something…" Anything, anything that'll take your mind off this.
He nodded quickly, and took up Smithers' arm on the way out, guard up against anyone who might force him to stay.
Burns was quiet on the ride home. He smelled terrible, exactly like the inside of that wretched hovel. Smithers wanted at least to get their minds off the entire scenario. Burns' shell-shocked expression told him it would be a difficult task.
Smithers guided him up to the apartment. The old man desperately clutched his arm all the way, terrified that he'd be dragged back to the retirement home when his sanctuary was so close. They both made it inside, shut and locked the door, and released sighs of relief into the clean apartment air.
Smithers did as he promised and drew Burns a bath. He'd dutifully scrubbed his tub as clean as it had ever been and ever would be for the old man prior to his arrival, and was proud of his work. Burns didn't hesitate at the sight of a tub lesser than the one he'd previously owned. Smithers lowered him into the hot bubble-populated water.
Things were different now, that was plain. He and Burns were closer. Of course they were, considering they had to occupy a space incredibly smaller than the entirety of the Burns Manor. The old man didn't seem to mind much. Smithers had never known him to be pessimistic, but he'd figured that losing all of his millions of dollars would get him down. It was only now that Burns seemed to be reflecting upon his situation and finding it more dreary than first he'd imagined. If he can't even go shopping without being chucked in a nursing home, how can he expect to lead a normal life? Burns wasn't as senile as the store manager had implied, but the context of what he'd been in his immense wealth didn't help his situation.
"Smithers?" The old man's soft voice roused him from his thoughts.
"Yes, sir?"
"I seemed to have caused you some trouble."
"It's not your fault." He took up a soft sponge, soaked it, and began to gently scrub the old man's shoulders.
"... it was… terrible. Everyone's eyes were glazed over. I didn't know the living could be affected by rigor mortis . And the smell…" he shook his head, swallowing hard as if fighting off vomit.
"I know. I'm really, really sorry, sir."
"... is that where people like me end up?"
Smithers took a deep breath. "If they're poor, yes."
"... are you going to put me back in there?"
"Of course not!"
"I didn't think so. I suppose…" he scrutinized his withered hand. "I didn't realize ."
"Monty," he took up the old man's hand. "Listen to me. You aren't going back, I won't allow it. Okay? We'll live here. And I know you'll be back on your feet in no time. You won't have to think about that place ever again."
Burns briefly held his hand before releasing it. "Oh, Smithers, I'll have no choice but to think about that place for the remainder of my life. What might've been, had I been born less fortunate." He shuddered. "I thought I knew the smell of death from the war, but… it was never like that. Human beings rotting to death." He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, clutched his arms and buried his nails in the liver-spotted flesh.
"Old age is a natural thing. I think it should be appreciated, I'd like to appreciate it, anyway. But comfort comes at a hefty price… most people can't afford it."
"That's where they would've put me. If I didn't have you… that's where I would've decayed for the remainder of my life." He watched Smithers bathe him, blue eyes wide, watery, brimming with an acute terror reserved for someone who realized they were to be forgotten. A wet, gaunt hand gripped Smithers' arm with as much desperate strength as its owner could muster. "Smithers, you are all I have."
The younger man smiled slightly. "And you'll always have me, sir."
"I don't understand it."
"Well, we're friends."
"Yes, but… I'm not wealthy anymore. I don't have anything to offer you; I don't have a damn thing to offer anyone! So… why?"
"Why…?"
"Well, why the deuce are you being so nice to me? You could've left me there. You could've forgotten about me. You could've gone on with your life without me as your burden."
Smithers was silent for a while. He dumped water over Burns' silver hair and gently massaged shampoo into it. What could he say to that? There was the truth; he loved the old man with every fiber of his loyal body, but this was not the time to admit that. Yet, as he considered it, he realized there was something else; something general and semi-separate from this undying love. "You're not a burden simply because you're old and lack your fortune. Money isn't everything…" Oh, whatever could he say that wouldn't sound like obligatory sentiments? "Your reign isn't over. This is just a setback, and I've seen Monty Burns overcome some incredible setbacks. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Burns. I know you'll get your fortune back one way or another."
He smiled slightly. "We have that much in common."
"What?"
"We never give up, never fold. Why, men like you and I can do anything together."
There was something so soft and down-to-earth about this man who had once sat a mountain of wealth. Burns had lost none of his gentlemanly poise, but being stripped of all worldly possessions and left with nothing but a singular friend and a suitcase of clothes had brought about a soul so gentle. What will I do if he can't get his money back? Burns would never work for anyone save himself; he certainly wouldn't be bagging groceries, for Smithers would never allow him to be stripped of what dignity remained to him. He had faith in the old tycoon, and if things took a turn for the worst he would remain at his side.
"I'll never abandon you, Mr. Burns."
The old man smiled at him, some type of foreign fondness fleetingly glinting within those pale eyes. "I know."
He rinsed Burns' hair and applied conditioner. At least these expensive ointments would last for a good while; he didn't want Burns to have to go through losing more hair. He would love the man, hairless or otherwise, but it wouldn't be fair to Burns' self-esteem.
Once he was scrubbed fresh of the day, Smithers helped him step from the tub and bundled him in a soft towel.
"Hm," Burns grumbled past his shivering. "N-never thought I'd m-miss a heated t-towel."
"Sorry, sir. I suppose I should invest in a towel warmer."
"I would appreciate it."
Smithers led him to the bedroom, helped him dry, and slipped him into his pajamas. "Still cold?"
The old man nodded.
They stepped out into the living room and Smithers sat him down on the sofa, wrapping the thickest blanket about him that he owned. Then Smithers' stomach growled; dinner had slipped his mind. He handed Burns the remote. "Here. Are you hungry? I'll fix dinner, it shouldn't take too long."
Burns nodded eagerly. "I couldn't eat a bite of that slop they were serving."
"That's understandable."
Smithers fixed a stir fry of steak and vegetables. It wasn't as high class as what he usually fixed for the old man, but he unfortunately had to adjust the quality of the meals to fit his budget.
He set the table for them and pulled out the chair for Burns. Just like the old times… of a few days ago. The old man ate in earnest without complaining. His enjoyment of Smithers' cooking regardless of the quality of the ingredients gave the younger man a boost of pride.
In comfortable silence they dined together. The aroma of seasoned meat, rice and vegetables filled the apartment. When they were finished, Smithers cracked open a window to air the space. He began to wash the dishes, and Burns stood over his shoulder.
"Can I assist you with that?"
"No, it's okay-" But he saw Burns' expectant gaze and recalled that he was bound and determined to help in some way. "Well, you can dry if you want to." He handed the old man a dry washcloth.
Burns held it in his hands for a moment. "... dry? But I'm already dry."
"The dishes. You just dry them off and set them on the counter."
The old man looked about. "Haven't you a dryer?"
He chuckled. "Unfortunately they're not commonplace."
"I see." He picked up a plate in his dainty hands and set about swabbing it with the towel. "It's not so difficult to do manually, I suppose."
"Maybe when you have a lot, but yeah, it isn't so bad between the two of us."
Once everything was washed and dried, Burns handed Smithers the dishes so he could put them away in their proper cupboards. Burns watched him closely, mentally marking the locations of each specific item, and Smithers was proud of himself for being so organized in the first place. He wondered if Burns ever thought his home life was just as coordinated as his work life.
Afterwards, they returned to the couch. Burns offered him the remote, but Smithers shook his head. "Oldest gets to pick the channel."
"Is that poorman's rules?"
Smithers chuckled, unsure if Burns was serious or not. "No, just house rules."
He flicked through the channels for a few minutes, eventually settling on an airing of Casablanca . The movie was almost halfway over. The flashback scenes played, of the man and his lover in France eventually being forced to part. Smithers was more focused on Burns; the old man pressed against him, likely in an attempt to steal his warmth, but the prominent edges of his bony little body felt good against Smithers' firm build. When Burns laid his head upon Smithers' shoulder, he melted.
"Tired, sir?"
"Not yet."
Smithers blinked and the movie was drawing to a close, the lovers parting once again, this time forever. What a short time to possess the warmth of the one he loved.
"If a woman loved me like that," Burns muttered. "I wouldn't be capable of letting her go. I'd have taken the opportunity to kill for her. Perhaps that's selfish of me, but love is a rare enough thing."
"Indeed it is, sir."
"What about you, Smithers? You're quite the ladies' man, aren't you?"
He always wondered where Burns could've possibly gotten that idea. "Hardly, sir."
"Really? Hm. Then I suppose my presence won't impede on any courtship."
"Not at all." He hardly brought men back to his apartment anyway. The majority of them were one-night stands and he didn't want to taint his personal space. "But you know, I would kill for someone I loved."
Burns chuckled and patted his arm. "Just as you have for me."
Smithers tensed, waiting for the realization of what he said to dawn upon the old man. But Burns had never realized a damn thing before when the remarks had been more conspicuous, and he wouldn't start now. Smithers glanced at his watch. "Well, I suppose I should head to bed."
Burns briefly clutched his arm, little claws on those dainty digits grazing his flesh. "Yes." He hesitated, then shifted to the other end of the couch.
Smithers stood and stretched.
"I'm sorry."
He looked down at Burns, who seemed impossibly small for a man of 5'7". "What? What about?"
"For causing you so much trouble today."
"That wasn't your fault, sir."
Burns ignored him. "I'm… ignorant. It's embarrassing that a life so ordinary is foreign to me."
"You can't beat yourself up about it. Sir, I'll teach you."
He turned off the tv and left them in a ringing silence. Softly, he continued, "We're on level ground now, Waylon. I'm Monty Burns. Monty ."
Is he giving up? To submit so quickly was extraordinarily out of character for this tycoon of the Roaring 20s, for a Yale alumnus, a nuclear powerplant proprietor. Where to had C. M. Burns fled? Smithers was flattered to be treated so fairly, but frightened for the wellbeing of this once fearsome creature he loved so much. "You'll always be Mr. Burns to me, sir."
And he was surprised to see disappointment in place of pride. Disappointment , from a man who would once have snapped at him for referring to him as anything beyond his surname.
"Well… goodnight, Smithers." Burns fetched himself the blanket and pillow from the closet. Smithers had offered to give up his bed, but the old man simply refused to take it.
"I guess I'll have to get you a bed."
"You don't have to do that."
"No, but…" he shrugged.
"Where would you put it? You haven't got the space."
"Mm. I don't know. I just feel bad that you have to sleep on the couch." The question was teetering on the tip of his tongue again and he tried to force it back. He knew what Burns' answer would be. Still, he supposed it couldn't hurt to ask. "My bed's pretty big. I don't know how you feel about sharing , but…" he paused upon seeing how dangerously still Burns had become. "Well, the offer is there. Goodnight."
He went to his bedroom. Usually he locked the door, but since Burns had moved in he started leaving it cracked. Moreso in case Burns needed him for anything, rather than that faint hope that the old man would slip into his bed some night. It wasn't as if Burns was going to seek his company after a nightmare.
Smithers changed into his pajamas and turned out the light. For some time he watched the sliver of light coming from the living room. Eventually it was turned off, plunging the entire apartment into darkness, and the soft squeak of sofa springs played in the silence.