Chapter Text
Waylon Smithers stared at himself in the cracked and faded bathroom mirror. His own reflection distorted by the water stains and smudges left behind from countless barely washed hands. The cold, condescending stare he normally wore to work was missing, typically reserved for all the incompetents Mr. Burns left under his supervision. Today, he felt more defeated than ever.
A weak fluorescent bulb buzzed loudly above him like a swarm of insects and cast a sickly, yellow hue onto the cracked tile. The color flattened everything, draining vitality from his skin and exaggerating the pallor beneath his eyes. Shadows clung to the creases of his face, and the grime caked between the tiles seemed to swell in the dim light, growing outward like a mold.
He exhaled quietly and shook the cold water from his hands, droplets splattering against the sink and mirror, some landing on the cuffs of his sleeves. With a firm and final twist he shut off the faucet. The rusted pipes groaned in response, their metallic cries echoing off the empty white walls. Below, the steady drip from the corroded piping beneath the basin of the sink continued unabated, joining the mess that had overtaken the floor. A dark, murky puddle had crept across the cracked tile under his feet, soaking up bits of paper, soiled tissue, and any other detritus that it caught in its wake. It seeped slowly to the distant drain in the center of the restroom. A putrid smell hung in the air, making Waylon gag every so often as it would waft by him, and he was done trying to guess the source of such a stench. Something like piss and sweat mixed with something rotting. He didn’t want to know.
He turned, careful not to slip on the muck-slick tiles. The floor squelched when he shifted his weight and he felt it stick to his shoes when he took a step back from the sink, away from the puddle lapping at his feet. He carefully surveyed the sorry state of the power plants employee restroom with the dispassionate eye of someone who had long since abandoned hope for improvement. He was certain no one had cleaned the bathroom in months. Technically their employees were supposed to rotate who cleaned it once a week. They fired their janitors months ago to cut costs and increase profits after a bad season. “Too many people switching to ‘clean energy’” Mr. Burns had complained. But this restroom could be considered a study in institutional neglect. Mold speckled the corners of the ceiling, one of the two urinals had a plastic garbage bag taped over it, a stained “out of order” sign hung crookedly from one of the stalls. A cockroach darting across the floor was the final straw and Waylon turned on his heel and pushed the door open with his elbow, escaping with what little stomach he could keep.
Under normal circumstances, Waylon Smithers would never have found himself in this decrepit excuse for a bathroom. On any other day, he’d have used the executive washroom: a pristine, almost sacred space tucked away behind reinforced doors and layers of security measures. Accessible only with a special keycard and, on occasion, a biometric scanner Mr. Burns had installed after a brief scare about union spies. The executive washroom had imported marble counters, a sink that ran hot and cold water, a toilet that played classical music when you sat down, and towels so plush they felt like clouds. It was truly an oasis of opulence in a building otherwise indifferent to hygiene or dignity.
But today wasn’t just any other day. It was Christmas. And that executive bathroom might as well have been on the moon. Mr. Burns was absent today, attending a lavish holiday function on the other side of town. A party that Waylon should have been attending with him, standing attentively at Mr. Burns’ side. Waylon had laid out his best tux two days ago, had the limousine’s route planned, and had memorized a list of guests' names and conversation points to help Mr. Burns navigate the social terrain. As he always did for his boss.
He’d been in the middle of helping Mr. Burns get ready when they noticed the message on the answering machine. It was a call from one of Mr. Burns’ financial consultants at the bank. Something about a critical error in the payroll system, an unresolved discrepancy that could halt bonuses and send shockwaves through the already disgruntled accounting department. Burns had insisted Waylon go sort everything out immediately. The mere thought of missing a decimal point on Mr. Burns’ personal bonus had him in quite the panic, and before Waylon knew it, he was behind the wheel of his aging Volvo, speeding toward the plant like it was solely his responsibility to hold the entire world together. He hadn’t even remembered to grab his extra set of keys, the set that held the keycard to the executive bathroom, before he had rushed out the door.
"You're too eager to please." That was what Julio always told him. Despite the sass and the smirk, Waylon could still hear the hints of genuine concern underneath it all, in a way that kind of annoyed him. His friends were always giving him some kind of crap about his affections towards his boss. Julio and Grady had offered him an invitation to Shaun and Barry’s holiday party a few days ago. They always threw a huge party with loud music and tons of people. Lots of Springfield’s gay community weren't exactly connected to their roots so to say. Shaun and Barry always made sure anyone that didn’t have family to be with, knew they were welcomed with them. Part of that was a huge shindig they threw on Christmas night every year. Waylon always got an invitation but had never actually gone. Though he was always flattered by the invite, there was always something else to do.
Waylon smiled and explained, almost boastfully, that he would be accompanying Mr. Burns to a private Christmas party across town for the Springfield elite. An exclusive gathering hosted by one of Mr. Burns’ obscenely rich, vaguely criminal business partners. Despite the party itself, he was overjoyed to spend it with Mr. Burns. If anything else, coming to this party almost made him feel needed by his boss in a way he'd only fantasized about.
Julio raised an eyebrow and laughed “Waylon, honey, that just sounds like work in a tux,”
Waylon bristled. “It’s not work,” he insisted a little too quickly. His eyes darted to Grady for unfound support. “It's like..” he paused “a plus one”
“Mmhm-” Grady clearly wasn’t on his side here either. Both of them eyed him suspiciously. Grady leaned against the kitchen counter, grabbing an apple from the bowl. He gave him a look that was somewhere between amusement and pity. “Ya know, it's one thing to work on Christmas but it's your birthday too, Waylon!” Grady adds, his tone dramatic “You’re throwing away two perfectly good excuses to bail and come party with us at once!” Grady says between bites of apple.
“You know Barry is making a spiced rum cider this year? And his gingerbread martinis are to die for! You’ll be missing out!” Julio pushes, leaning over Grady’s shoulder to slide a glass of wine to Waylon. He takes the wine then continues.
“There will be drinks at the party with Mr. Burns, and really, I can't just leave him to go alone. Who knows what could happen. I need to be there with him, i-”
Grady reached across the counter, grabbing Waylon’s hand, and cutting him off “Come on, Waylon. Just one year. Skip the plutocrat parade. You deserve a night for you.” Waylon swirled his glass, took a long sip, and told them he would think about it. He knew how it sounded. Noncommittal. Empty. They exchanged a look, subtle and wordless, but not unnoticed by Waylon. They both knew this was just his polite way of saying “no”.
“Hercules ran away…” Waylon tells them, easily changing the subject and taking another long sip of wine. Grady and Julio gasped in worry, assuring Waylon they were sure he was somewhere nearby and that he couldn’t have gone far. They suggested possible places he might’ve gone to. Grady suggested the dog park or that deli on 3rd. Julio joked that Hercules might be out searching for his pup charming. He didn’t really wanna talk about how the dog walker left the door cracked and he hasn’t seen his sweet little yorkie since yesterday morning, but getting to vent a little was better than Julio and Grady continuing to push at him. He missed the warm little spot Hercules would make on his ‘too-big-for-one’ bed, or his yappy little barks excited to see him home again. But he did his best to put all that aside and keep distracted with work and the big week ahead of him. A “well see” was about as close as anyone could get when it came to separating Waylon Smithers from Mr. Burns’ side anyways.
At least… until work gets in the way. Then Waylon finds himself muttering bitterly as he roams from one frigid sector to the next, clutching a clipboard like a weapon as he marches down dimly lit empty corridors. Collecting time sheets and pay stubs, all the remnants of this clerical fire he was left to extinguish alone. On Christmas. While Mr. Burns was off as his ‘exclusive’ party. The decorated halls mocked him, the employees' way of making the plant more festive felt like salt in a fresh wound. This wasn’t what tonight was supposed to be. It wasn’t what he’d planned for.
In another version of this evening he would’ve been sitting in the back of a limousine beside Mr. Burns. They would be drinking 400 dollar champagne out of crystal glasses. Champagne that tasted awful and definitely wasn’t worth the price tag but Waylon would have swallowed it with a practiced smile, fixed Mr Burns’ tie, and made sure everything went perfectly. Who else would make Monty Burns feel protected, pampered, and more important than anyone else in the room.
And then there was the other possibility. He could’ve been across town at Shaun and Barry’s house. He could be in the kitchen now, shoulder to shoulder with Julio, helping make cocktails, teasing Grady about the awful sweater Julio had begged him not to wear. They would have clove ham, eggnog, those scrumptious deviled eggs that Shaun makes, and maybe, if he got lucky, someone might have remembered that the lord wasn’t the only one born today.
Sharing your birthday with one of the most celebrated holidays in the world meant Waylon grew up knowing everyone would be too swept up in holiday cheer and merry whatever's to remember to throw a Happy Birthday his way. Waylon never mentions it. He's usually content spending the day with Mr. Burns, and whatever he feels like doing. He doesn't consider his standards high, but he would have at least liked to have the day off. At least something akin to ‘off’ would’ve worked. Like the party, that was fine!
As a child, he'd pretend not to notice, smiling through the overlap of red-and-green wrapping paper with birthday wishes hastily scribbled in the margins of Christmas cards. His mother, though, had always made time to celebrate with him. When he was a child, she would bake him a cake and wrap one or two of his gifts in a silver wrapping paper with soft blue stripes, the words happy birthday scattered across the foil. It had always been just her and him.
That was until Montgomery Burns had stepped in when Waylon was a teenager, gave him an apprenticeship, and helped support him through college. Waylon’s mom always talked about it like it was something Mr. Burns felt like he owed Waylon’s father. She never even wanted Mr. Burns to support Waylon, she resented that man for her husband's death. But Waylon took a shine to Monty. A shine that seemed to get brighter every year. And Waylon never really left Mr. Burn’s side after that. But Waylon had slowly grown more and more distant from all the people around him.
Waylon adores his mother. He really does, but now, as an adult, that same day passed by in a blur of obligation and distraction. She was always so good at making him feel special. But now he struggles to remember to call, or remembers after midnight, when it's far too late. He can already feel the guilt seeping into him, cold and slow. He pushes it aside, trying to return his mind to the task at hand. Checking off names and tasks with robotic precision. Despite his attempts to keep himself busy and preoccupied, he still felt a dull ache in his chest that grew heavier with each passing minute, his anger simmering just below the surface.
The day dragged on endlessly, each minute ticking by slower than the last, and the dark cloud he felt looming over his head remained. He wondered again if he could make it out of here early enough to catch his friend’s party. He leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh, his eyes drifting again toward the blinking red digits of the wall clock. It was late. Far too late to even think about meeting up with Mr. Burns, but he might be able to salvage some of the night. He could stop by Shaun and Barry’s, just for a drink or two, catch the tail end of the party before everyone scatters. Feeling a shred of hope returning, he wraps up the excel sheet he’s checking through and moves on..
An email here, a fax to the bank there, shuffling printouts into neat and orderly piles. He looks around, satisfied enough to know everything else could be easily taken care of on Monday. He grabs his coat and his bag from his desk, his pace quickening as he strides through the dim halls of the power plant and out into the cool winter air of the parking lot.
It had started snowing at some point, leaving him shivering as he trudged to his car. He checked his watch, trying to mentally map out his route to the party.
He pressed a button on his keys, unlocking the Volvo, but when he grabbed the handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was completely iced over. He tugged harder, the cold, slick ice freezing his palms, but not giving way. He desperately tried to scrape and hack at the ice with his fist full of keys, but it was too smooth to make much of a difference before his already chilled fingers became numb. He slammed his open hand against the hood in fury. Pain exploded through his wrist, and he immediately recoiled, gripping his hand as he doubled over with a strangled whimper. He stood there, teeth clenched against the cold and the ache, heart racing with frustration and self pity. He looked up at the plant one last time, teeth gritted in annoyance, and he turned fast on his heel, storming across the vast, empty parking lot in a huff.
His breath curled in the air and he tugged his jacket tighter around him. The nice suit he had worn was a wrinkled, wet mess. The dress shoes were killing his feet and he debated just catching the bus and going home. But a far more stubborn part of him refused. He still had time. He exited the parking lot and stepped out past the chain link fence and onto the sidewalk, the security guard at the gate nodded to him, barely looking up from his newspaper. Waylon continued down the narrow sidewalk. The bus stop was just across the street on the corner. He knew the route well enough. Twenty minutes on the 47 and he’d hopefully be walking through Shaun and Barry’s front door in time to catch a game of holiday trivia.
Waylon stepped off the sidewalk, the sound of his shoes scuffing the icy pavement breaking the silence. He checked the road quickly, and crossed the first lane. But as he stepped into the second, the world stopped. There was no time to react. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash, the shine of headlights barreling around the corner. Moving way too fast. He didn’t even have time to flinch or scream before-
Blinding light. A heavy thud. The wobble of metal before a crunch, then a dull thump of his body rolling over the front and landing hard on the asphalt.
Waylon was flung over the hood like a ragdoll. Limbs twisting, landing in directions no one's limbs should ever go. He lay in the street in a heap. Motionless. His head was facing an unnatural angle and blood was pouring from his nose and mouth. His glasses, flattened, laid a few feet away, utterly destroyed. One of his shoes had made it onto the sidewalk yards away. The party. The bus ride. Mr. Burns. His mother. All of it vanished. Snuffed out in the space between one breath and the next.
-
Then, just as suddenly, everything is back. The headlights are replaced by a dull yellow light overhead that buzzes like flies over a carcass. Waylon stared at himself in the cracked and dirty mirror. His reflection distorted from water stains and smudges left behind from countless barely washed hands. He’s confused. His mind can't wrap around what just happened or where he is. He curtly turned the faucet, eyes darting around suspiciously. This wasn't- he was just- how is he- He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, wiping his eyes with rough fingers. Unable to process what's real and what isn’t. He stepped carefully away from the mirror, and hurried out of the bathroom.