The Maroon Shirt- A Burnsmithers one-shot

The Maroon Shirt

Monty shifted his feet on the ground, scowling at the signs of wear around the building.

He glanced now and again at the door, debating on the next step.

He raised his fist a few times, let it fall, and scoffed indignantly at himself. What was he doing?

With all he could muster, he rapped sharply on the surface, his knuckles stinging from the force applied. A muffled noise inside made him withdraw his hand, uncurled it, twisted it around his side and behind his back.

Why was he here?

Why was Smithers taking so long to open the door? Surely he would not wait so long for Monty, of all people.

He sighed, crossed his arms, tapped his foot.

He knocked again.

"Smithers- Waylon!" He stared at the handle, willing it to turn. "Open the damned door, would you?"

He wondered if Smithers even heard him between the walls.

"Blast, you don't have a knocker... cheap, plebian housing." Monty considered submitting his hand to another beating against the door. He didn't know how to get Smithers' attention otherwise. More shuffling from the inside. If he could hear inside so well, so could Smithers outside.

"... Sir?" Monty's chest rose and fell. He was entirely too warm in the sweater he'd chosen to wear today.

"Waylon, let me in! It is sweltering outside." The handle, at last, turned with haste, its brass flickering with the beating sunlight. A long creak.

Smithers stared down at him, clearly having just dressed, his shirt unbuttoned at the top and his hair askew. "Monty? What's wrong? I thought you didn't want me to come today."

Monty waved his hand. "No matter." He raised an eyebrow, glancing beyond Smithers' form inside.

"Oh-" Smithers reddened and moved aside.

Monty huffed and took the invitation. Smithers' apartment hadn't changed from the last time he'd been there, ages ago.

Monty seated himself on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. He should not have worn a sweater today. Perhaps....

Smithers closed the door and switched on another light in the room. "So, er..." He scratched his head. "What can I do for you?"

"Would you happen to have some article of clothing into which I could change?" Monty crossed his fingers, sat up, "I regret the decision to wear this."

Smithers' brow creased, but then he smiled as if it were amusing. "My clothes are all a bit big for you."

"You have nothing?"

"I'll go look and try to find something," Smithers resolved. "Do you... would you like a drink?"

"Not particularly. I'll take water, I suppose."

"Sure." Smithers poured water from a pitcher into a glass and handed it to him, his fingers rough, calloused, but gentle.

"I'll be back," he said, and disappeared, towards his bedroom, Monty presumed.

Once he was gone, Monty slouched, tracing the jutting lines of the glass and taking sips of the water, his mouth still dry. There was something odd, but relaxing, about the nature of his and Smithers' interaction- he could not pinpoint the factors, perhaps there was some domesticity- but it was just Smithers doing what he was told.

He waited for some minutes, growing impatient, and indeed rose from the sofa as Smithers' footfalls returned, and he sat down again.

Smithers carried a few folded articles. "These are the smallest shirts I have," he said, handing the pile to Monty, "I'm sorry if none of them fit you."