Waylon could have run from Burns' bedroom. Who was he to think it had been a good idea to tell Burns how he felt? At least, he should have waited until the next day, or when Burns was in a better state of mind and body.
You actually love me? It is not just an infatuation?
How am I supposed to respond to that?
Go back to your room, Waylon. We will continue when I have a clearer head and am not still half-drunk.
The immediate, and now prolonged, uncertainty of Burns' response, to be resumed in the morning, only made Waylon doubt himself. The chasm of ambiguity swallowed his fear and waning self-confidence. Deep, awful fear, what Burns must think of him now. Worthless.
An unwanted headache invaded his depreciation as he looked in the guest bathroom mirror. Waylon shut his eyes, turning away into the adjoining bedroom. His phone sat on the nightstand. He stared at it, feeling as if there were something he was supposed to do, for Burns... Burns had wanted for him to find someone to look after the plant. A mechanical task to disengage him from his thoughts.
Though it was rather late to do so, Waylon contacted a few trusted administrative higher-ups, so that the plant would still be under competent management while Burns recovered from his fever for some days.
Fatigued, he finally crawled into bed, a mess of emotions and anxieties, and went to sleep. He woke a few times from some fading dream that he soon after forgot.
Now, at around ten-thirty, Waylon stretched and lay in the blissful space of quiet solitude before reality reared its ugly head and bombarded him with memories of the 'conversation' he and Burns had had. How could one even call it a conversation? An anticlimactic confession.
Maybe, some part of him thought, things would go better when they spoke again. But Waylon had no concrete idea of how Burns would act. Fear overwhelmed his speculation. Burns could say much worse than simply 'No', which would be a welcome form of rejection. An amalgam of every worse scenario ran through his mind, in which the narrative followed a pattern:
How dare you come to me, and tell me such drivel. You will never be more to me than you are. Get out.
Such could be irrational, he supposed.
Burns' door was still ajar when Waylon approached it.
"Waylon. Come inside and stop stalling in the doorway."
Burns faced the far wall, sitting in bed and supported by a few pillows. His eyes flicked towards Waylon, conveying nothing.
Waylon fidgeted with his hands, standing some feet from the bed. Burns coughed, his expression weary and complexion pasty.
"Sir, we... don't have to talk about the... last night now, you should rest. I'm sorry that I said anything..."
Burns exhaled. "I am resting," he said, "and I said I wanted to finish our conversation." He rubbed his temple. "My head is clearer, but some parts of last night are a blur even still. It hurts."
"I can go get you something to help the pain."
"Not yet. Stay." Burns regarded him. "I told you how I didn't know how to respond to your confession. I still do not have a concise answer. I... will try to tell you what I think." Waylon opened his mouth, but Burns continued, "Waylon. I value you as an excellent, loyal, assistant to me for so many years, and as my... companion, my... friend, beyond that." He spoke slowly, as if struggling to get the words out.
"I suppose the initiative for your unrelenting devotion and consistently impeccable work is your... love of me. I must admit, I do not pretend to understand why you feel this way- clearly it is deep-set, and you aren't simply taken by my looks, past or present."
Waylon almost smiled. "I love you, Monty, not just your appearance, if I did, then I wouldn't have... fallen in and stayed in love with you."
YOU ARE READING
New Reflections (Burnsmithers)
Fanfiction[Complete] One day, Mr Burns wonders what it would be like if he and Smithers were closer in age; if he, Burns, were younger. The next morning is as usual until Waylon discovers Burns has undergone a drastic change overnight- one that affects them b...
