Burns/Smithers, but it’s a rewrite
So ages ago, right, @hrgwin put up a picture and it utterly killed me, to the extent I wrote a drabble for it (picture and drabble together here http://rungian.tumblr.com/post/172003827747/hrgwin-they-got-kindnapped )
Turns out that I wasn’t satisfied with just that, so I wrote another ‘drabble,’ except this one is 3000 words long. Oops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Some people are bad influences and forced persuaded me to post it. So, uh
Burnsmithers fic beneath the cut
The first Burns knew of it was when he opened the front door of his mansion to greet the morning and was instead greeted by a huff of bad breath and the business end of a handgun being waved in his face. Before he could even think of letting out an indignant “what the devil?” a young-ish, scruffy man with a scarf pulled up over his mouth forced his way across the threshold.
“Get in the truck,” snarled the intruder, waving the gun at him and gesturing back to a windowless Transit van, “or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ brains out.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Burns, somewhere between taken aback and sneering contempt. “Are you actually trying to kidnap me?”
“Trying and succeeding, if you want to keep your face!”
In an instant, Smithers was between them, his hands held up disarmingly.
“We’ll come quietly.” His voice was calm, soothing. Burns glared at him, trying feebly to push him out of the way, but Smithers glanced back with an expression that stilled him instantly. The gunman watched them, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Who said anything about we?” The tip of the barrel twitched towards Burns. “He’s the only one of any value.”
“We’ll come,” repeated Smithers. “No need for threats.”
“Poppycock, Smithers, I have no time for childish buffoonery!” Burns brushed past Smithers, staring down his nose at the gunman with an expression of detached disdain.
“Do anything,” snarled the kidnapper before Smithers could move, “and the old man dies.”
Smithers froze as the gun was pointed once again squarely at Burns’ head, but Burns did not seem in the least bit perturbed.
“You don’t have the stomach,” he taunted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Smithers desperately shaking his head and waving his hands, but he was far too confident to pay his subordinate any heed. “Besides, where’s the sense? If I were to die, who would you hold to ransom? Smithers? He’s hardly worth anything to anybody.”
The ugly look that crossed their attacker’s face caused even Burns’ thin blood to run cold. “Or, if I kill you both now, grandpa, then who is there to stop me taking the money anyway?”
Suddenly, Burns realised he was staring down the barrel of the gun into the steely, determined eyes of a man who was not at all afraid to pull that trigger and snuff his life out. He swallowed nervously, bravado instantly gone.
“Now now,” he said, backing away a step or two, “let’s not be hasty. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement, eh…?”
He’d been shot before, he’d felt that pain before, ripping through his withered body – would he really die this time? Burns’ voice died in his bone-dry throat as he watched the finger squeeze insistently against the trigger, slowly – slowly –
Burns instinctively threw himself to the ground as the shot rang out, but the bullet he expected to tear through his flesh never came. Instead, there was a loud grunting from above him, amid the sounds of a scuffle. Hesitantly, Burns dared to open his eyes and peek through his fingers, half expecting a second shot to silence him for good, but instead –
Smithers had leapt in front of him again and was trying to wrestle the gun away from the intruder. There was a smoking hole in the ceiling; it seemed as though the weapon had accidentally discharged during the struggle, or maybe Smithers had shoved against him as he fired and thrown off his aim at the last moment. Either way, his assistant’s quick action had probably saved Burns’ life again.
Even though the gunman was far bulkier than Smithers, Smithers definitely seemed to have the advantage as he twisted the man’s arm around firmly and started striking both hand and gun against the wall in a valiant attempt to loosen the iron grip. For a moment, it almost looked like Smithers would overpower him. For one sweet moment, Burns could see an escape route for both of them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. He barely had a chance to curse his own stupidity. Of course there would be a driver…
The second kidnapper brought the baseball bat down on Smithers with stunning force, striking him hard in the temple and shattering his glasses. With a soft groan and a brief stagger, Smithers lost his grip on the other man and sank slowly to the floor, clutching at his head. Almost immediately, taking the barest moment to collect himself, the gunman recovered and started kicking cruelly at Smithers, who curled up into a foetal position, arms raised desperately to shield his face.
“You nasty meddling little bitch!” Kicks rained down into Smithers’ ribs and stomach, connecting each time with a sickening meaty thud and, occasionally, a quiet cry from the helpless victim. “I’m gonna beat the shit outta you! Didn’t your daddy never tell you, don’t be a fuckin’ hero!”
As he aimed another kick, this time at Smithers’ face, his companion grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.
“Woah, woah, hold up, man, he’s had enough. He’ll die if you keep kickin’ him like that.”
“So? No loose ends, right? Dead men don’t snitch.”
“Yeah but that don’t mean you should leave a stiff on the doormat. C'mon, let’s get ‘em shipped over for now, we can fret small shit later. He’s not gonna cause any more trouble now, an’ what’s the old guy gonna do? Gum you to death?
“… right, yeah,” said the gunman eventually, though it took a considerable effort. He had paused mid-kick and now lowered his foot, but not before nudging the motionless Smithers.
“C'mon, let’s go and get the truck ready. They’re not going anywhere.”
With one final kick at Smithers, the two attackers disappeared, leaving a stunned Burns alone with his assistant, who was lying in a slowly-expanding puddle of his own blood.
Smithers had come out of his ball but was now lying so very still. Burns dropped to his knees next to him and, with shaking hands, carefully pulled the remains of Smithers’ glasses from his face, gently brushing leftover shards away.
Smithers… was so pale. Blood was gushing from his nose, which was bent in a most unhealthy way, and was already crusting around his eyebrow from the head wound which had brought him down. A thick red bubble near the corner of his mouth rose and fell with each laboured breath and there was a worrying gurgling coming from his throat. Even now, Smithers’ brow was swelling, and there was the start of an ugly bruise forming around his eye.
“Smithers,” whispered Burns, as though the quiet summons would wake him. “I… I’m so sorry. I’m… please wake up, Smithers…” he swallowed, licking his dry lips. “I don’t – I don’t know what to do!”
Smithers’ body spasmed in a sort of retching cough, blood spattering from his mouth across Burns’ hands and arms. Panicking, Burns strained to pull Smithers’ head up on to his lap; it was all he could think of to stop his assistant choking on his own vomit.
Briefly, Smithers’ eyes flickered open. Burns’ heart rose with hope, but Smithers didn’t appear to be conscious, and with another exhalation that sounded far too close to a death rattle, his eyes closed again, his body limp and lifeless. If not for the slight unsteady movement of his chest with each breath, Burns would have sworn he had died right there in his arms.
There was nothing to listen to but the rasping sound of Smithers’ shallow breathing and the heavy footsteps of a returning kidnapper as a truck engine revved to life. Burns clutched at Smithers, refusing to leave him, no matter the cost.
Waylon awoke to the sound of birdsong.
Even without opening his eyes, he could feel the warmth of a sun shaft against his face, and the softness of pillows against his head and shoulders. For countless, seemingly endless minutes he lay there, content to listen to the sounds of spring.
Slowly, slowly, his eyes slitted open. Squinting against the onslaught of brightness after so long in the dark, Waylon blinked several times as his vision adjusted. Everything was blurry, out of focus – he didn’t have his glasses on, after all – but from what he could tell, he was in… yes, he was in a hospital room. From the size, it was one of those small private rooms off the ward where they put the seriously sick.
Why was he here? Was he sick? He felt… weak, but he couldn’t quite remember why…
Waylon rolled his head to the side limply and his breath caught in surprise.
Mr. Burns was sitting on a visitors’ chair at his bedside, his head tilted back and mouth wide open as he snored his way through a light sleep. The very sight of him brought memories crashing back – the kidnappers, the gun, the fight, the white-hot pain in his chest as his vision started to fade…
But why was Mr. Burns here…? Come to think of it, how did he get here? The last he remembered, they were being taken away… had Burns managed to get them out?
Almost instinctively, Waylon moved his arm to reach for Mr. Burns, but the instant he moved his left shoulder his chest came alive with sharp, relentless pain, intense enough to take his breath away. A loud moan of discomfort escaped Waylon as he let his arm fall back to the bed and waited for the throbbing to stop.
“Ah – wha - ?” Burns shot bolt upright, woken by Smithers’ whimper. He blinked once or twice, disorientated. His eyes were red and his cheeks sunken and hollow, but his gaze landed on Waylon’s bed as though he barely dared hope. “Ah… Smithers…? You’re awake?”
Slowly, Smithers nodded. Glancing down at himself, he saw that he was propped partially upright in his hospital bed. His chest and left arm both were swathed in bandages and fresh surgical gauze, a line connected his right arm to a medical bag filled with some unknown fluid which was slowly dripping in to him, and he was covered in bruises. Ha. He looked like someone had tried to use him for a piñata.
“Oh! Smithers, you are awake!” With a note of clear relief in his voice, Burns sat forward. “They said it would be today that the anaesthesia wore off. They said they’d call me, but I don’t trust those quacks to give you the attention you need, and I was right, wasn’t I? They’re nowhere to be seen at all!” His voice lowered a little. “Do you remember?”
“… a little…” croaked Smithers hoarsely. God, why was talking so exhausting? Why was he so short of breath? He tried to sit further up again, but sank back down with another groan as his shoulder screamed in protest.
Burns laid a hand on his chest, careful to avoid the bandages. Smithers could feel the thin fingers trembling against his skin. “Don’t try and move, you idiot, you’ll have the nurses sedating you again if you keep yelling.”
Carefully, Burns picked up a pair of glasses and the world slid in to focus as he manoeuvred them on to Smithers’ nose. “I found one of your spares in your work desk,” he offered by way of explanation. “Your other ones are too damaged to repair.”
“Oh.” Smithers paused, catching his breath. “How did you… how did we… escape?”
Burns made a face. “It appears that federal agents become involved in kidnapping cases, and they have, aha, a rather higher degree of competence than our local constabulary. You’d left quite a clear smear of blood on my doorstep. Apparently, it wasn’t that hard for the cadaver dogs to track us after that.”
Once again, Burns couldn’t quite meet Smithers’ gaze. “… from the blood at the mansion, they were fairly convinced there’d be at least one body.”
For several dragging moments, they sat in awkward silence, the only sound the laboured wheeze of Smithers’ breathing.
Finally, Burns’ head fell into his hands. “I’m… relieved.”
“You had me… frantic, Waylon. You… you saved my life, but you so very nearly lost your own.”
Burns made a noise which could have been a strangled laugh, or possibly a cut-off sob. “That bad? Two black eyes, a concussion, broken nose, dislocated left shoulder, four broken ribs – one fractured, three cracked – punctured lung, ruptured spleen… God, Smithers, I’m – I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t been such an uppity fool…”
Waylon was silent. Five broken bones and one dislocation… no wonder he felt as though he had been run over by a tank, and that was before he even touched on the organ damage and the bruising. A punctured lung! That certainly explained the trouble he was having catching his breath!
“You saved my life,” said Burns again. “… thank you.”
“Of course… I’d do anything for you.” Waylon managed what felt like a smile, though through his bruised and swollen face it probably came out looking more like a grimace.
“Yes, yes, because I pay you and it’s your job. But for God’s sake, Smithers, I don’t pay you to die! What would I ever do if you left me?”
Smithers’ chest hitched as he let out a shuddering, painful breath. Burns saw it and buried his face in his hands, eyes downcast toward the floor.
“I stood right by, Smithers… you jumped in front of that man for me as he was about to shoot me, and I just stood right by and watched you – I was too much of a coward to even tell them to stop! I know I’ve treated you ill in the past, but I have never been so in your debt…” his thin frame shivered in what might have been another suppressed sob. “Ask me, Waylon, ask me for something, anything – let me make this up to you…”
“Anything…?” asked Waylon softly.
“Anything,” said Burns, still staring down at the polished linoleum.
Smithers looked up at the ceiling in silence, his brow furrowed as though he was trying to reach a decision, or possibly search for courage. As the seconds passed, Burns watched him keenly and, finally, those gentle eyes came back down to meet his.
There was a dragging silence.
“Mmph!” Burns sat upright, no longer meeting Smithers’ gaze. “I’ll – I’m going to fetch the nurse, Waylon. There’s – it’s – you’re still a bit confused.”
As he rose from the chair, however, Burns was stilled by Smithers’ hand closing around his wrist. He looked back at his assistant, whose face was scrunched with pain from the movement but who still clung on gamely as though his very life depended on it.
“Anything,” said Burns again, almost desperately. He couldn’t be hearing this right, Smithers must still be concussed, or disorientated from the anaesthetic – Smithers must think he was someone else – there was no way –
Burns stared helplessly as Smithers’ hand fell away from his wrist. “Don’t you want money? Don’t you – you don’t want a new house? I can move you out of that poxy little apartment you still squat in! Don’t you want a new car, or a – or a –”
He tailed off. Smithers was still watching him tiredly. Burns found he couldn’t hold that gaze for very long. The guilt had gnawed at him for the whole while; he’d already been responsible for the death of one Waylon Smithers, after all…
“You just want me to kiss you?” he managed finally, his voice cracking just the smallest amount. The unspoken why? hung heavy in the air.
Well, he certainly sounded sure. Burns grimaced. Maybe Smithers really was still reeling from that blow to the head? Why would he want to be kissed by Burns? Why would he want to be kissed by Burns?
“And you’re sure there’s nothing else you’d rather have?”
“Is it… that repulsive…?”
God, Smithers sounded so sad. Burns’ hand hovered briefly over one of the bandages before he gripped the bridge of his nose.
“It’s… damn it, Smithers, I don’t know. I’ve never even thought about kissing you!”
Smithers closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered eventually. Burns only just heard it. “I shouldn’t have asked…”
Something ached inside Burns, right where his heart would have been if it hadn’t shrivelled with cynicism decades before. What was he doing to this man? To poor Smithers, who had always supported him along the best path; Smithers, who quietly obeyed his every reasonable command and gently chided his unreasonable ones; Smithers, who unhesitatingly tackled a man with a gun for him…
“You’re a damn fool, Waylon,” mumbled Burns as he leant over his assistant’s bedside, “but I’ll be damned if I’m not one too.”
Waylon’s eyes flickered open just in time to see Burns’ face, with his heavy-lidded eyes and slightly furrowed brow, in the instant before his mouth was captured and the taste of Burns’ lips filled his world. Burns pressed a little closer and raised one hand to hesitantly brush his fingers against Smithers’ cheek. In that moment, as he closed his eyes fully to commit as much of this wonderful feeling as he could to memory, Smithers knew that, despite the pain and the injuries and the worry, he was very much the happiest man alive.
