New Reflections (Burnsmithers)

Part Four: An interlude and an affliction

The wound on Burns' face closed that next morning, so he'd taken off the bandage. Over the following days, he and Waylon continued their daily routines of going to the plant, and Waylon was content to spend more time with him in the absence of any girlfriends. His stays at the manor increased, as they settled into a routine again. The problem with a routine was that it was static in its repetition, leaving Waylon with little hope he and Burns would grow closer than they already were.

In Burns' office one particular afternoon, Waylon was sorting through some documents, mostly expense reports, disorganised throughout a string of manila folders in a dusty bankers box. The point was to archive them and enter pertinent information into a spreadsheet eventually, and he could have done it in his own office, but Burns didn't seem to mind him staying. After Waylon had retrieved the box, Burns had looked his way as he was exiting and asked, "Where are you going?"

"My office, sir."

"You will have to come in here again anyway, if you're archiving those blasted expense reports, for the other boxes."

"Oh, right." There were about ten other boxes on a shelf, some so full of papers and packets that the sides were bursting. He set the box he held onto a table, glancing at Burns, whose head was bent over several sheets of paper and a book. A fountain pen twirled between his fingers. He pushed a hair behind his ear and turned a page in the book.

"Smithers, get to work," he said, his gaze not wavering from his own work, "the reports will not archive themselves. Sit down."

Waylon had obeyed and sat himself at the table.

Now it was well into an hour of their shared placidity, focused on the mundanity of archiving, and Waylon had acquired a paper cut, but such was trivial.

A hunger had been growing in his stomach since the small breakfast he'd eaten that morning. The clock read almost two.

"Sir?"
"What?"

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" Waylon knew Burns hadn't; neither of them had moved from their respective work.

"No." Burns set down his pen and sat up in his chair, stretching. "Have you anything for me, or for yourself?"

"Er... no, I didn't bring any food."

"No? Rather unprepared of you, but I suppose we'll have to rely on ordering from some restaurant."

"Sorry, sir."

Burns dismissed his apology, shaking his head, and opened a drawer in his desk. He reached into it and extracted a few paper menus. "No matter. I've not ordered out for some time." He held aloft the menus in his hands as one would a deck of cards, able to view them all at once. Eventually he laid them on the table and picked them up individually.

"I don't think I have tried most of the cuisine listed here- Smithers, have you had Vietnamese?"
"Many times."

"Mm... look at it, will you?" He tossed the fold-out menu at Waylon's table. Adjusting his glasses, Waylon opened it in front of him. "Oh, I've been here before. I liked it. I had the chicken and shrimp rice noodle soup last time. Er..." He scanned the dishes. "They have roast quail; you might like the lamb or chicken..."
"Surprise me, you know what my gastronomical preferences are," Burns said, "choose something a bit different, however; I daresay in this state I could withstand those dishes more laden with spices."

After cooking for Burns many years over, he had indeed become well accustomed to his tastes, but his request still surprised Waylon.

The person on the receiver told him the food he'd ordered would be ready in forty-five minutes, but they didn't want to deliver to the nuclear plant, so Waylon conceded to retrieve it himself, instead of choosing another place. The restaurant wasn't far. He relayed the news to Burns, who nodded. They continued to work, the scratching of Burns' fountain pen lulling Waylon into a tranquil quietude, making even his task seem relaxing.