New Reflections (Burnsmithers)

Part Eight: Conflicts in Contact

"That office, if one could call it such, sounds as dysfunctional as I would have thought," Burns said of the Enquirer's work environment after Waylon had informed him of the news, "and you'll return... Monday? I'd prefer it to be earlier, but very well..."
"That's when the editor in chief is supposed to be there, Paul. I could get some answers from him."

"Do you have any idea who this 'Tim Dall' is?"
"No, sir. I'll find out."
"See that you do. If he did indeed write that... article..." Burns scowled.
"I understand."

"Oh," Burns continued, "It had slipped my memory, but there is an event to which I was invited, weeks ago, before the... change. I remembered it after I read that egregious article, as I was considering what my associates might think of me in light of it, if they happened to read it themselves. However, I ought to attend. It is in a few days, this weekend, in fact, so any fever I have now should be gone."

"What sort of event is it?"

"They all start to blur together into a homogenous social calling, after so many. I think it's a fundraiser of some kind, a gala... it's just outside of Springfield, on the lake, some socialite's mansion."
"Do you, er, want me to come with you?"

Burns raised an eyebrow. "Were you making other plans?"
"No, I just didn't want to assume..." Waylon twisted his shirt, flustered.
"So you say."

"But," Waylon said, gathering his bearings, "I also didn't know if you wanted me to come, because of the article. I thought you might not want to go yourself, either."

"I think it could reflect worse upon me if I am not there at all. I can put to rest the wild rumours they may have concocted about us, and your presence will assist in quelling them." He looked up at Waylon, who stood beside the bed. "Do you agree?"

"I suppose so."

Throughout the rest of the day, the sky became grey, turning darker; the forecast called for severe thunderstorms. Rain fell, scouring the earth in constant, pouring sheets of water, accompanied by winds that thrashed the trees, howling in its aerial path. Day turned to night, grey to black, and a thunderstorm began. They'd eaten dinner in Burns' room, listening to the increasing cacophony of the weather.
Now, well after the meal had ended, the wind and thunder seemed to be in a competition of sorts, vying for which could be loudest. It was about 22h, and Burns had changed into his nightclothes already. Settled in his bed, he shivered as the weather clashed amongst itself outside. "Smithers, get me another blanket."
Waylon carried in a blanket from the closet and handed it to Burns, who seized it and hastily draped it over himself, atop the duvet.

"Do you need anything else before you go to sleep?" Waylon asked, "medicine? Water?"

Burns covered his mouth with a hand, yawning. "No."

"Okay, then, let me know if you do... Goodnight, sir."

"Yes..." Burns reached over and turned off his lamp as Waylon reached the door, "goodnight."

Waylon had been ready, in theory, to go to sleep himself, but found it a difficult prospect to realize. The storm kept him awake, rather than lulling him into unconsciousness with a dull patter of rain. This one was too massive, and too sporadic, encroaching. He felt as if, at any given moment, a tree would crash through the window, or even a wall. He twisted in the sheets, not able to stay in one position for long.

He wished, laying there on his side, pressed against the pillow and mattress, that he were beside Burns instead, where he wouldn't be alone. In the guest room, unable to fall asleep, the storm irate, he felt isolated, removed from reality, in some perpetual, chaotic, darkness. Sounds of the thunder and wind enveloped him. Lightning brought false flashes of light that flickered in front of the window. Every time that the thunder slowed its tirade and he became blissfully used to its absence, a new, energised peal shook the placidity, jumpstarting his heart. And if he were reacting this way, how was Burns handling it?