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Something had been bothering Mr. Burns today and he couldn't put his finger on it. Their usual banter at the plant had been stilted, for Burns was listless, bordering on sorrowful. If anything had happened, Smithers hadn't heard about it, and he always heard about anything concerning the old man. He had quietly ushered him home and returned to his apartment for the night.
It was there, wrapped in his cotton sheets, that he tossed and turned and worried endlessly about the tycoon. He hadn't even fixed him dinner; Burns had outright refused to eat anything. All day, with precious little to eat and those sad blue eyes cast away on some far off voyage. Something was wrong.
As he got dressed he continued to pause, on and off, considering the path before him and its consequences. Burns wouldn't like being disturbed if nothing was wrong. He had worked for the old man for a few years now, what could possibly be different about tonight? In all reality he shouldn't be worried; Mr. Burns was a terrible person, hard and surly, cruel to anyone he deemed unworthy of his kingly regard. He had never been outright cruel to Smithers, but that couldn't be said for his lesser employees. Everyone hated him.
Except me, he thought. No, not he, not Waylon Smithers.
Premonitions ought to be dealt with, and promptly.
The streets were quiet as he drove to the mansion. How did he expect to find Burns? Dead, that was the worst case scenario. He didn't believe that, not when he had seen Burns alive and as healthy as his age allotted him. Of course, he reflected. It takes precious little time for a person to die.
Best not to think of it, really. If he voiced thoughts like that, Burns would eat him alive. He knew better. The old tycoon was probably fine.
Still, better safe than sorry.
Upon arriving at the mansion, he quickly headed inside. His heart dropped; there was light coming from the parlor. Flickering firelight. He rushed inside and beheld a sight for the eyes of no one.
Mr. Burns lay before the fireplace, in nearly the perfect center of a large floor rug, his small body curled inward. His teal suit jacket lay discarded upon the sofa, and the pretty salmon tie was undone about his neck. A bottle of cognac was clutched in his still, frail claws. Oh, but he ever looked the part of a corpse.
Smithers rushed to him, finding what a peculiar appearance this made for the old tycoon. There had never been a moment when he wasn't a trifle frightened of Burns. Now, dressed down and limp upon the floor, brow laxed and liquor upon his lips, he was merely an old man, more mortal than he. Humbling, for both of them.
With Burns' frailty at the forefront of his mind, Smithers nudged him gently. "Sir?"
No response.
He was startled by the freezing temperature of Burns' hand, but he saw his body shift with shallow breaths and knew he was still alive. He touched the old man's shoulder, nothing but bone beneath his hand. "Sir?"
No response.
Smithers checked him over, shifting him slightly and feeling his frail body, particularly about the shoulders and ribs. Nothing was out of place and presumably nothing was broken. He moved the old man enough to slowly scoop him up in both arms.
Only then did he stir, and not coherently. The bottle of cognac fell to the floor with a dull thud, what little remained became the carpet's spoils. He laid Mr. Burns upon the sofa and propped his head up with a pillow.
"Mm," the old man groaned. "Where is…" He blinked and put a hand to his head. "I'm so confused…"
"Would you like a drink of water?"
He started, gazing at Smithers with wide eyes.
"Sorry, sir! I didn't mean to scare you."
"Wh… why are you here?" He spoke with uncharacteristic softness, his voice nary a whisper, his lips hardly moving. Were the roar of the fire any greater, Smithers would not have heard him.
"I came to check on you. Can I get you a drink of water?"
"Of what?"
"Water."
"Ah… yes…" he blinked slowly, his eyes gradually parting from Smithers'. Those eyes, everyday so blue and beautiful, vividness and vice, now watered down and drowned.
Smithers retrieved a glass of water for him. Burns had not moved in the time it took him. Legs propped upon the couch and his head upon the pillow, he held the glass in his skeletal claws but did not drink. His eyes moved and twitched slightly, far off and away, seeing something Smithers couldn't, trapped in some liquor-induced dream. He had never seen the old man like this. The two of them had drank together before, and Burns generally had quite the tolerance, but he had always been jovial on such occasions. What had changed?
Then Smithers heard the silence, recognized the dead space and the dark corners of a room meant for light and life. How often had these walls heard Burns' drunken laughter? Never, he reckoned. What was the point in facades with no one to bear witness? He looked upon the sad, withered creature upon the sofa, and felt he ought to weep.
Instead of weeping he helped Burns sit up, and coaxed the glass to his lips. Their hands touched, an action so common and with so little purpose that Smithers hardly noticed. Burns certainly didn't.
"No more, no more," he said.
"It isn't alcohol, sir, it's water."
He let it touch his lips, tested a sip, and then rapidly began to drink.
"Careful now," Smithers said, easing him off of it.
He panted from the eager gulping and settled back onto the cushions. Burns glanced at his wrist watch, blinked upon seeing the time and put it to his ear.
"What time is it?" Smithers asked.
"One in the morning."
"How long do you think you were lying there?'
"Hm? Lying where?"
Smithers pointed to where the cognac bottle lay. "Just there."
Burns felt his shoulder and hip.
"Are you hurt?"
"... no. I only don't remember." He stared at the empty bottle.
"This is really unlike you, sir."
He shrugged.
What did he know, anyway? Burns was such a private person, seldom letting his various facades slip. So often he became angry, snapping and frothing like a rabid dog; who could say what he was safeguarding? Smithers didn't know him anymore than anyone else did. Until tonight.
"You should leave," Mr. Burns said, the fire sparking once more in his tone.
"Can I put you to bed first?"
"No, I can manage. I can…" he looked at the floor and seemed to realize the impossibility. "Perhaps you'd best. But not now."
"Can I get you anything else?"
He stared at the younger man for a long time, and didn't seem to be considering a command. "No."
Burns steadily drank more of the water.
"Are you okay?"
His eyes roved back to Smithers. "Tired." Another word perched on Burns' tongue, but he didn't elaborate.
Tired. Smithers was tired too, but he didn't want to make Burns feel at all ashamed that he was here instead of sleeping. Better a tough day at work than shipping his boss off to the hospital.
"It's lonely here."
Burns raised a brow so subtly that Smithers hardly noticed. "Yes."
"I never realized."
"Realized what?"
"Just that it is so lonely. I mean, it's a beautiful building…" he stopped, not really knowing what he was saying. "Sorry, sir, I'm just sentimental at these hours is all."
"... how long are you going to stay here?"
"However long you want me to."
So often Burns measured him with that steely gaze, more than he ever turned it upon anyone else; staring at him, sizing him up, and for a man so small and frail that should have been considered laughable, but Burns had the presence of a despot. Drunk, disheveled, eternally lonesome; none of these attributes could steal his regality.
"... you really do care about me, don't you?" He spoke so slowly, so cautiously.
"Of course I do."
Burns nodded.
He didn't want to know why, and that was fine, because Smithers couldn't fathom how he would explain it at one in the morning on a work day. A love confession was hardly palatable to the old man, let alone in this state.
"Have I ever told you," Burns said, limp upon the sofa. "Of my trip to France?"
Smithers perked up. "No, you haven't."
"Good. Good…" He was still awfully drunk. "Very good, Smithers."
"A bad trip, hm?"
"Just awful."
"I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault, you weren't there."
"No, but I'm still sorry. Can I get you more water, sir?"
He fetched the old man a refill, and upon returning found him standing at the hearth with a partial bottle of liquor he had pulled from somewhere. His silhouette a blaze of darkness against the inferno, he spoke with the likeness of a spectre.
"I don't believe you. I may have seen the truth, in your words, your eyes, your actions, but I don't believe you. It isn't personal, I only know better."
Oh, I love you, Smithers thought, suddenly knowing so with all his tender heart. Everything he had ever been taught about the disgust of old age was swept away, replaced with deep appreciation and every minute he had spent with the surly old man. God, I love you. Words he doubted he'd ever have the courage to utter, and that was for the best. Here they stood, and that was enough.
"I understand," Smithers said at last.
He felt those eyes upon him. "So, you understand."
"As much as I'm capable, sir."
"Then why are you here? You know I'll never trust you."
"Well, I know my own intentions. It's your decision whether to trust me or not; I've always left that up to you."
He wanted to touch him so badly, just to hold him gently in the amber night. He should have savored the seconds when he'd carried him, but he knew better than to think he would've been able to feel any intimacy in such a moment.
"I can't trust you," Burns said, more to himself than to Smithers, as though he were trying to convince himself. He sipped from the bottle. "I can't."
"I know."
"What could you possibly know?" He said so without contempt.
"I know what you mean to me."
Burns' surprise brought on a still silence.
God, he only wanted to hold the old man! But his figure was so dark, he might contract some of it. Well, that would be alright.
"To know oneself," Burns mumbled, shaking his head.
The old man paced back to Smithers, slowly, measuring each step and still wavering, like a child learning how to walk. Smithers caught him, but Burns wasn't falling. He had leaned into Smithers with purpose, head upon his shoulder, and dug his claws into the younger man's jacket. Tension, tight and thick, held between them. He heard Burns stifling something, words or tears.
"Oh, I know," the old man croaked. "I know you don't want me."
"Sir-"
"I know I'm not easy to handle."
He let Burns continue, wondering what this was all about.
"I should have…"
He was drunk, yes, but this came from somewhere, spilling out like vomit.
"I don't know. I don't know a damn thing..." He breathed slowly, in and out, his grip loosening and tightening, over and over.
Smithers patted his back. "It's okay."
He pulled back suddenly, his lips dangerously close to Smithers'. The liquor upon his breath, so potent. He regarded the younger man without derision. "I can't trust you. You know that."
"I know." He petted Burns' unkempt hair, dark steel in the firelight. "It's okay."
Whatever tension remaining in the old man laxed at Smithers' simple, tender words. They understood each other. Smithers had never thought he'd get this close to the old man, physically or emotionally. He was so beautiful; those eyes, so blue, and the bags beneath them carrying the weight of all his work, all those sleepless hours. He wanted to touch, not with his hands but his lips. Kiss him, kiss him all the way to bed. Perhaps he'd allow it, in this state. Perhaps he'd forget about it upon waking.
But that wasn't fair to Mr. Burns, this man who provided him work and income, a place at his side, a purpose.
"You deserve to be taken care of," Smithers whispered.
"That's what I have you for, isn't it?"
Smithers caught his breath. Oh, God, I love you!
"You must grow tired of me."
"Never."
"Never?"
" Never ."
Burns considered that. He turned his head away from Smithers, as if he were about to push him away, then faced him again. "Why are you here, Waylon Smithers?"
"Because…" Because I love you. "Because I want to take care of you."
"That's what I pay you for."
"You pay me for the necessity, not for the desire." The word was too forward. "I-I mean-"
"You can't tell me that scraping a drunk old man off his living room floor at one in the morning is desirable."
"I'd rather not see you hurt."
"I've been hurting… for a very… very long time. The physical pain is easier to bear than what lies within."
"I'm so sorry."
Burns turned away.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Like what?"
"Like… well, do you need more water? Some pills? Undressed?"
He dismissively waved a hand. "I don't know. You're probably exhausted."
"It's not a big deal."
"A man needs his rest."
"I'm not tired, sir, I promise." He exhaled slowly, "I'm here for you."
Burns sighed. "I don't believe you."
"Why not?"
"It would be a first."
"So what if it's the first time? Does that make it unreal?"
"Of course. If you live to be my age and encounter something so personal for the first time, you'd believe it a delusion as well."
"Are you often delusional, sir?"
He hoisted the bottle to his lips and whispered over the glass neck, "Only with the cognac." And he took another long drink.
"Why cognac specifically?"
"Something… something about…" he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Colors and ecstasy… prismatic bliss…" When Burns opened his eyes they were very sad. He shrugged. "A spectre of a memory, and nothing more."
"Sounds like a lovely memory."
"Do you ever forget?"
"Of course, everyone does."
"No. Do you ever forget yourself ?"
"... sometimes. Maybe."
Burns leaned in close to his face once more, his nose grazing Smithers' cheek. "I'll pay you something a little extra if you forget yourself tonight."
"... sir?"
"Only for a moment, that's all I'm asking." He drew back, toying with the bottle in his claws. "Merely a moment, it won't take long."
What the hell was Burns talking about? The frail little man stood before him, nervous for once in his posh life.
"I'll forget," Smithers said, knowing he wouldn't. How would Burns know the difference?
He tentatively handed Smithers the bottle and said, so, so softy, "Go on."
Smithers took a drink and set the bottle aside. It was good cognac, tasting of cinnamon and aged oranges, with a nutty undertone but no hint of prismatic bliss. Whatever was Burns remembering? Prismatic bliss.
The old man approached him suddenly, grabbed his lapels, pulled him, kissed him upon the lips. He too tasted of it; so archaic and drunk. Smithers held him carefully in trembling hands, savoring this wild, erotic moment, so sad against the withered mind and memory of Montgomery Burns.
Burns pulled away.
"Sir…?"
Eyes, so blue, stared directly into Smithers', but they were very far away, sailing in some distant past. "I think you ought to kiss me."
You're drunk, Smithers thought. You're not here. But he looked so very sad. Smithers obeyed.
This instance was less bold from Burns' end; he quivered, whimpered, but didn't struggle or pull away. Smithers held him closer, tasting him, savoring him. This would be his first and last opportunity to be a part of Montgomery Burns. His hands traveled over Burns' thin body, caressing the bones jutting against his paper skin.
Burns parted from him. He cupped Smithers' face and traced his lips with his thumb. Whatever he was about to say faltered, and his ecstasy crumbled away. "Take me to bed. I'm so tired," it almost sounded like an excuse, or some confused apology. "I'm so tired."
Smithers scooped him up in his arms, feather light. Burns pressed his face into the younger man's shoulder, refusing to look at him as he was carried as a babe to his bedroom. Half awake, as Smithers dressed him down and assisted him into his pajamas, he watched the younger man closely. For once, Smithers didn't feel scrutinized under his gaze.
"Will you be alright alone?"
"Of course. I've always been alone."
Smithers smiled sadly. "Get some rest, sir. It's been a long hour, and you'll be tired tomorrow."
"Time ceases to mean anything behind the lace curtain."
He was so drunk. Smithers would be prepared to medicate his hangover tomorrow. "Good night."
But Burns had already fallen asleep, still and lovely in the satin.
As he journeyed home, he wondered where it all came from; the drinking, the rambling, the kiss. Mr. Burns had led a solitary life, or so it would seem. Perhaps such loneliness was finally driving him mad.
Smithers shook his head. Loneliness is madness itself. He would make a point to spend more time with Burns, and not think about that wonderful kiss. He wondered if the old man would remember what they had shared in the warm, liquor-thick night. It was unlikely, and perhaps it would be for the best if he didn't.
"I'll pay you something a little extra if you forget yourself tonight."
Smithers found it impossible to forget a damn thing.