A/N: Well, this is a one-sided, sad!fic about Smithers never being able to truly love Mr. Burns the way he wished he could. It came to me after a tubing trip I took with my bff, her mom, her sister and her sister's friend. It was really fun and I had an awesome time, except for the weird sunburn I got on my knees. Not my back, not my arms, but my knees. Screwy, eh? With a mixture of watching The Simpsons in the hotel room and listening to Sinatra on the way home, this little story was brewed. It is sad, I have to warn you, but it wouldn't be the same -or good- if I made it two-sided and happy. No flames, reading and reviewing is much obliged. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Frank Sinatra owns Time After Time, Matt Groening owns The Simpsons, I own the Merlot...JK.

Time After Time...At Least

After a long and stressful evening at the Plant, Waylon Smithers retired to his small, one bedroom apartment, just as he's done for many years. Kicking off his loafers and hanging up his coat in the hall closet, like all the other evenings.

He sighed and thought of what tomorrow might bring. The same, old thing, he pondered.

His sock-clad feet padded across the cool tile of the kitchen that resided in the cozy little living space. Taking out a glass and some '97 Azalea Springs Merlot, he poured himself a hefty glass of wine and took a swing, quickly refilling the air space in the glass.

Finally, after three extra sip refills, he decided to put the bottle back into its place in Smithers' wine chiller, to prevent drinking it any further, at least, before tomorrow. You see, tomorrow would be Waylon Smithers' 46th birthday and he'd chosen to save the remainder of the alcohol for that lonesome day.

He could spend it with some friends from the Village, but it wouldn't be the same. Not without him. The entity of his passions and desires, the apple of his glass-concealed eyes, Monty Burns.

With that thought, Smithers slumped onto his bed, but not before lighting some candles, causing a soft glow to encompass the room. He sipped at his stemmed glass and leaned over, clicking on his stereo which happened to have a Frank Sinatra: Greatest Hits CD within it. He skipped a few songs, not feeling up to listening to certain ones.

When he heard the enchanting, soothing words Time After Time, his hand froze and would not allow him to change the song by any means. He sat back and listened to Frank's charming vocals; his loving words. After another long gulp from his wine, he started to actually listen to the words and what they were saying as they drifted calmly in the air. They filled his heart with an achy feeling, one that was often a reoccurring one; one of a bitter reassurance that he'd never get to feel this way about his object of affection.

As the song reached closer to its end, Waylon's eyes began to water, filling the gap between hsi eye lids and blurring his vision of the room. The candles' flames became stretched and morphed into starbursts of yellow light. And as Mr. Sinatra sang the last verse, power and passion thick in his voice, Smithers' warm tears rolled down his flushed cheeks and soft sobs escaped his lips. The final trumpet sounded and the disc changed songs, a more up-beat rhythm now echoed through the bedroom. Smithers switched off the stereo and downed the last of his beverage; his tears still falling onto his white button down, his soft, depressing coos still dripping from his mouth.

He threw the newly empty glass against the wall, cringing as it made contact and shattered, and curling up in his bed; his back to the head board, his knees up to his chest.

His sobs grew louder, more sorrowful. He felt as if the world was falling to sharp, jagged pieces upon him. All the painful truths and reminders drove thousands of poison-tipped stakes into his heart. The one he loved would never love him back, and he'd continue to suppress his feelings day after day, again and again, for as long as it took to keep things the way they always were, as they should be. It was hurtful, but true, and he couldn't change that, not in ten million years and certainly not now.

He rarely expressed his pain in these sort of break-downs before, but the lyrics of Sinatra's song just triggered something in him that caused an sudden and new outbreak of feelings, it was the straw that broke his emotional camel's back. His cried filled the whole apartment; he kept asking -out loud- why this happened to him over the course of his time with Mr. Burns and why it had to hurt him for so long. The apartment held no response, no answer; only agonizing silence. I'll always love him, his heart whispered; it wasn't an answer but it was at least something, at least.

His crying subsided and he felt all of his energy fall through his feet. Rolling over, he rested his head on the nearest pillow and sank into an uneasy sleep, full of unfulfilled fantasies and images of the man he'd never hold, or touch or make love to.

He'd go through these thoughts, these dreams on a daily basis, and through these –seldom- break-downs throughout the year, feelings and words bursting out of their shell within him in these durations of time. Voicing how horrible this all really was. But time after time, he'd tell himself that he was lucky enough to at least be in love with some one. At least.

Fin

Well, it was sad, but I liked it. I love Smithers sooo much, I hate to see him not be happy. 3:

ScrewMilk-GotSlash
aka
SlashyKing