New Reflections (Burnsmithers)

Part Two: Brave New World

Waylon woke to a silent morning. The rain had not repeated itself.
Still somewhat drowsy, he took his glasses off the nightstand and went about mechanically his normal morning routine: shower, brush, dress, eat, etc. in time enough to arrive at Burns' manor around half-six. The power plant opened at eight. Looking in the mirror in the bathroom, he dropped his razor as a headache clouded his thoughts. Waylon closed his eyes until the pain subsided. He had headaches in the morning occasionally, so he thought little of it.
Waylon hummed slightly as he drove through the embellished, monogrammed gates of the manor and parked his car. Approaching the front door, he took out his key to open it. He stopped for a moment as his headache returned full force, but only for some seconds.

The floors creaked as he walked inside the mostly dark manor, slipping the key into his pocket. It all felt quite normal.
As he walked towards the stairs, he thought ahead to the day, wondering if Burns would still be longing for his past so. He briefly thought of the photograph and smiled to himself. He glanced in the mirror on the wall on his way, making sure he was presentable.
His headache returned now, lingering as he climbed the stairs. He wasn't sure why; he thought the Advil had worked. By the time he reached Burns' door, he had to stop and lean against the wall, close his eyes, wishing he had taken the medicine with him. He could ask Burns for some, he supposed, but that would come later.
The door, as the floors had, creaked, and so Waylon opened it more quickly to avoid drawing the noise out. His headache dissipated. He wondered why he had had one again.

He approached the curtains past the bed, so he could open them before waking Burns, and he stopped, the curtain in his hand. He closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. He couldn't have seen what he thought he had.

Waylon turned and stared at the bed, pushing the curtain aside. In the semi-darkness, forms blurred and softened edges, but it did not distort the figure, still...
He shook his head and looked away. The darkness must have been playing tricks on his eyes. He went to the curtains, not realising his hand was shaking, and pulled back the drapes, filtering sunlight into the room. Then he turned back to the bed. He blinked. The figure hadn't changed, though a mass of brown hair obscured their face. Waylon frowned and approached the bed, but he wouldn't have to wonder any longer, because the person shifted, turned towards him in sleep, and Waylon stared again, not able to comprehend what he was seeing. The man, around his own age, perhaps younger, was slender, shorter than he, and had long brown hair. Something else about his appearance was very familiar- where had he- the photograph. The photograph they had looked at just the night before. This man was its spitting image.
"But- this should be impossible... it can't be him..." But then who else would it be but Burns? The photograph was still intact in his memory, reflected in his vision.
But now he had to wake Burns. Still incredulous, Waylon cleared his throat. "Sir, it's... morning."
Burns stirred and opened his eyes a bit, squinting at Waylon. "It's too bright," he said.
"Sorry, sir." He yanked the drapes somewhat closed. It was Burns? It was actually-
"I feel odd, Smithers," Burns was saying.
"Well, sir, er-" But he stopped as Burns turned his head, stopped, and gazed at his hair. Tiredness fell away and turned to shock. "Why, I haven't seen anything like this in nearly forty-odd-" he muttered. With a strength that hadn't been present last night, Burns hoisted himself up in the bed and threw off the covers. He looked down at himself, his expression one Waylon had rarely seen: one of awe.
"Smithers, look at me, it is as if I am young!" Burns slipped from the bed and hastened to his adjoining bathroom, where he was examining himself in the mirror, still in his nightclothes. His manner was almost giddy. "I do suppose my wish has been granted, eh?" He glanced across the room before stealing another look in the mirror and walking back to the bed, on which he sat facing Waylon.
"Your... your wish?"
"Yes! Don't you recall our conversation last night?"
"I... of course, but I didn't think... I didn't think anything would happen." He wanted to bring up the photograph. "That picture you threw in the fire- you look just like that-"
"Perhaps. Though I don't believe my throwing it in the fire was the sole reason this happened, if there is any discernible reason at all," Burns said.
"If there is any reason." He couldn't think of any logic that would support Burns' overnight rejuvenation. He didn't, however, want to invite the farcical possibility of magic. Not yet. "What should we do now?"
"Oh, there are so many things..." Burns seemed to be thinking about himself, still giddy from his discovery.
"Should- do you still want to go to the plant today?" It seemed trivial to bring up, but he felt it was something necessary.
"Yes, Smithers, I must see how the workers react." In fact, that was something Waylon was anxious about: the reactions of everyone else. The employees of the power plant would certainly spread the word and then everyone would know of Burns' appearance. It could have unintended consequences, especially for Burns. But he seemed set on going.