Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Warnings: mild profanity, adult themes, slash.

Author's Notes:

This might best be described as a meta-fanfiction. I took inspiration not only from the Simpsons themselves, but from the bits and pieces other artists and authors have put together regarding the relationship between Burns and Waylon Sr. I've intended this story as an homage to all the other fans of BurnSmithersSr pairing. If you see something that might be slightly familiar, it is deliberate, and meant with the greatest of respect. To all you other BurnsSmithersSr shippers out there, this one's for you!

With that out of the way, please sit back, relax, and enjoy!

~ Muse

NOW

A tidy maroon station wagon pulled into the driveway of a neat little house in the new suburb of West Springfield in mid-November. It was evening, just about dinner time.

The driver stepped out, a man in a grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He was in his early middle age, though he'd experienced significant balding for his age. His mouse-grey hair was lighter at the temples, thickest in the back. A pair of round-rimmed glasses framed his expressive eyes. His mouth was drawn tight in thought. Absent-mindedly he rubbed a hand over his lips and moustache.

He took his leather briefcase from the back seat before locking the car, and headed inside.

Dinner used to be waiting on the table, but these nights the kitchen was cold. No matter, he thought, setting his briefcase on the table and putting a can of soup to heat. His wife was probably in the bedroom with the new baby. She hadn't been feeling well as of late. Baby blues, perhaps. The man was accustomed to making his own meals.

He walked quietly towards the bedroom calling, "Roberta?"

He found his wife, curled up under the covers of their bed. The baby was dreaming peacefully in his bassinet next to her. Waylon bent over, and kissed Roberta's cheek, before checking on the little boy. Waylon Jr. was sleeping, a tiny fist curled up at his mouth, snoring softly. His father smiled, gently stroking the baby's check with the back of his finger. Everyone said how much the baby looked like him, even his wife.

Waylon Sr. smiled as he took off his loafers and jacket. He had a beautiful family. A strong, healthy baby boy, and a wife who was his best friend. The only regret he had in his life was of the private, personal sort. He tried to keep that from affecting his family. Occasionally Roberta would remark on how distant he seemed towards her.

I know you love me, she'd admit, hands at her sides, but sometimes it seems like there's something you're not telling me.

In those moments, Waylon Sr. would sweep her up in his arms, arms around her waist, and plant a tender kiss on her cheek. Something I'm not telling you? he'd coo. Why yes, I haven't told you how much I love you yet today; and he'd kiss her again. She'd laugh, pretend to struggle, and the moment would pass. Or mostly pass. As of late, there was a lingering flicker of doubt in her eyes.

Initially, Waylon Sr. chalked it up to simply fatigue from new motherhood. His son's birth had been uneventful, but Roberta seemed to be struggling afterwards. The baby was the proverbial "happy baby" who watched their faces with delight, and hardly cried except when he needed something.

The other week, Waylon had sat down with Roberta, and encouraged her to talk to her doctor. Perhaps he can give you something to pick you up a bit, he pushed gently. He wasn't sure if she'd taken his advice. These past few weeks had become increasingly difficult. Waylon found himself coming home from work, then tending to his wife and his son in equal parts.

You've got to take care of yourself, Roberta, he chided. You need to be strong for the baby.

Roberta had responded with uncharacteristic harshness. I'm taking care of this baby just fine, Waylon Joseph, she snapped. You worry about yourself. With that, she swept out of the room, Waylon Jr. in her arms, and stormed out to the back porch. Waylon Sr. had put his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Life, it seemed, always found a way to become complicated. Even when one did everything right.

These memories played through his mind.

He stroked his wife's hair. "There's tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. Please eat something tonight." She made a mummer of a response. "I'll feed Waylon," he added, giving her another kiss. He scooped the baby out of the bassinet, and headed back to the kitchen.

NOW

"Waylon! Waylon Smithers, my old chap, I dare say there's a loss of spring in your step today," remarked Monty chipperly.

"I've had a lot on my mind," replied Waylon pensively, falling into step with his business partner.

"Oh ho, well I'm sure of that! How is the missus doing, and the child? Any news?"

Waylon smiled despite himself. "Well, they're day older each than they were yesterday when you asked," he replied smirking.

Monty tilted his head back and laughed. "Oh there's that jaunty reply I was waiting for." Then he became serious again. "But tell me, Smithers, is anything amiss?"

"I'm not sure, Monty. I'm truly not sure."

The two men walked in silence through the main corridor of the newly finished nuclear generation station. "I daresay, we'll have this place up and running at capacity within a few short weeks," Monty said, steepling his fingers. "I loved those additions you made: the office complex, the guard house," he interlaced his fingers. "They make for a right proper plant. Have you finished going through the applications?"

Waylon held the door to their shared office open. "I've gotten it narrowed down."

The office was a modest space, still in the old complex. They'd be moving into the new office building when the plant came online in a few months. The room had several filing cabinets and boxes, in the preparation for the move. A few utilitarian windows ran along the back wall, affording light and fresh air when the weather permitted. In the far corner, they'd moved in a water cooler, coffee pot, and later had a small refrigerator brought up as well. There was a table along the adjacent wall, covered in final drafts and plans.

When they'd first moved in, Monty and Waylon had pushed two desks together in the center, facing each other. This allowed them to pass paperwork back and forth, without the hassle of getting up. Efficiency in all things.

"Here's a few I've narrowed down. I'd say they're executive material." Waylon reached a stack of papers over to Monty's side.

Monty reached for them, and their fingertips brushed over one another's. Monty looked up, met Waylon's eyes. He felt his cheeks grow warm. He blushed, and looked away as he accepted the documents. This happened sometimes. Same thing with their shared foot space under the desks. Sometimes it was Monty who blushed and looked down, other times it was Waylon who shyly averted his gaze. It wasn't something either man talked about, lest discussing it make things too real.

Monty coughed and leafed through the papers. "Well, they seem smarter than the average mule, and this fellow here sounds twice as hardworking. Let's make a go of him. You said you called all their references?"

"Spoke to each one personally, Monty."

"Excellent. Well, if he's good enough for you, he's definitely good enough for me." Monty passed the paper back, and Waylon added it to his call-back pile.

THEN

"Professor Burns," a breathless voice called out.

Montgomery Burns heard footsteps rapidly approaching. The frantic patter of loafers on marble. He sighed inwardly. He hoped it wasn't one of his students trying to protest a grade. He wasn't in the mood for such things. Burns had been subjected to a very bad week. He ran a hand through his mid-length and rapidly greying hair. If he weren't completely grey by the end of this year it would be a no small miracle.

He muttered a brief prayer of sorts. Don't let me kill this poor bastard in front of the faculty.

Burns turned halfway, looking over his shoulder, and felt a slight wash of relief. It was his old student, and former laboratory coordinator: Waylon Smithers. Whatever Smithers had, at least it wouldn't be petty concerns. The man had graduated last semester, and was already teaching a few courses himself.

"Oh, what is it now?" Burns asked with only mild acidity. "I'm late. Walk with me."

Smithers fell into step beside Burns, trying to smooth his thinning hair with one hand.

"I've been thinking," he began, readjusting the satchel slung over his shoulder, "we could still make use of some of our records from the lab. A tragedy that we lost so much research in the attack.

"'We?'"

"Well, you, Professor," Smithers corrected himself, feeling his teeth bite down at the end of each word. His contribution had been substantial, if underappreciated.

Burns took no notice of his former student's ire. "Indeed, me. Pray continue."

"Well, in my spare time I'd been doing a few side studies in radiobiology. I've also been accepted as a graduate teaching assistant for the Nuclear Engineering and Architecture program. The radiobiology was just a hobby, trying to see if I couldn't improve on some of your specimens." He paused to switch the satchel to his other shoulder.

Burns narrowed his eyes. "You were tampering my precious germs? Blasting their harmless little bodies with your malevolent radiation, eh?"

"Well, yes and no," replied Smithers. The man straightened his back and looked Burns straight in the eye.

"Professor Burns," he began, "Nuclear engineering is only going up."

"Your point?"

"Sir, in your lectures you talked about your great grandfather's atom smashing plant, splitting them by hand with a hammer and anvil-"

Burns held up a hand to halt the younger man. "We'll have to continue this later, Mister Smithers. As you can see, we've arrived at my full lecture hall, and I am already late." With that, Burns turned and dismissed the younger man.

THEN

In his lecture, Burns mind wandered. Even as he presented his lecture on biochemical engineering, the idea of atomic potential had lodged in his mind. Nuclear energy. Perhaps the future lay in atoms, not bugs. Burns was never a man to stay in one mood for long, be it wrath or joy.

He concluded his lecture, and assigned a surprise essay to celebrate his good mood. Back in his office, Burns pulled out the files and few samples that had survived the "antibiotic bomb" some terrorist sect had detonated in his laboratory.

In a glass incubator, several petri dishes were stacked in isolation cubes. He took one out and examined it thoughtfully. On his desk a newspaper was open to an article about the growing commercial nuclear energy field.

Burns held the petri dish in his hand, leering over the fuzzy agar gel. "Ah, poor, little bacteria, the strong few who survived in the face of adversity." He waved a finger at the dish. "Well, my small friends, nothing lasts forever. I have a new plan now."

He picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew quite well: "Screaming Monkey Medical Research Center? Yes, I have an offer I don't think you can refuse."

Under the cover of darkness, the last of his precious little bacteria and home-grown viruses were quietly boxed up and transferred in a cash deal… for a great deal of cash. Montgomery Burns believed one should never look back. As his grandfather had taught him, family, religion and friendship were three demons one had to slay in order to be successful in business.

Attachment to anything, even something as trifling as a microbe, could muddy up everything.