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The air inside the master suite of Burns Manor is thick with the scent of high-grade ozone, cedarwood, and the medicinal tang of the various intravenous cocktails keeping Monty’s 117-year-old heart beating. Waylon Smithers, now forty-three and wearing the faint lines of a man who manages both a nuclear empire and a century-old titan, works with the practiced precision of a pit crew. His fingers, calloused slightly from years of handling sensitive documents and antique figurines, find the hidden latches of the "Fred" suit.
The suit—a marvel of billionaire-funded robotics—is a heavy, hulking shell of synthetic skin and carbon fiber, designed to make the frail Monty appear a robust, average Joe. As Waylon peels back the neck seal, the mechanical whir of cooling fans dies down, replaced by the raspy, whistling breath of the real Montgomery Burns.
"Careful with the hydraulic stabilizers, Waylon!" Monty snaps, though a weary crack in his voice softens the bite. "I feel like a sardine being plucked from a tin by a particularly clumsy giant."
Waylon doesn't take the bait. He gently supports Monty’s spindly frame—a collection of translucent skin stretched over titanium-reinforced bone—and guides him toward the velvet chaise longue. "I’m being as careful as the law of physics allows, Monty. You’ve been in this rig for twelve hours. Your blood pressure is spiking, and your artificial kidneys are working overtime to process the adrenaline."
As he sets the "Fred" headpiece on a mahogany table, Waylon looks at his husband. The transition from the gregarious, beer-drinking "Fred" back to the predatory, skeletal Monty is jarring.
"You can't keep doing this," Waylon says softly, kneeling to unfasten the heavy boots of the exoskeleton. "This charade with Simpson, Carlson, and Leonard... it isn't sustainable. You’re seeing a version of them that only exists for 'Fred.' You could never be yourself around them, Monty. Not truly."
Monty scoffs, his claw-like hand trembling as he reaches for a glass of fortified electrolyte water. "Nonsense! We had a 'slapsie-dash' time at the tavern! I believe the modern parlance is that we were 'vibe-checking' and found the results to be 'straight fire,' as the youths say. I was one of them, Waylon! I was a 'regular guy'!"
Waylon sighs, a heavy sound that carries the weight of their eight-year marriage. "Monty, you’re being sensitive to the camaraderie, and I understand that. But there is a divide—a chasm—between a man who owns the sun and the men who work in its shadow. Especially in the sector of nuclear energy. To them, Monty Burns is the face of the 'grind,' the 'man,' the 'oppressor.' If they knew Fred was the man who denied their union dental plan in 2023, that friendship would evaporate faster than steam in a cooling tower."
Monty turns his head away, his watery blue eyes fixed on the portrait of himself that hangs above the fireplace. "I don't want to hear your logic, Smithers! For the first time in a century, I wasn't a 'ghoul' or a 'relic.' I've never felt so free! I was just a man named Fred who likes bowling and complaining about the price of eggs!"
The use of "Smithers" instead of "Waylon" stings, a throwback to their professional years that Monty uses as a shield. Waylon stands up, his shadow stretching long across the Persian rug. He feels a cold knot of insecurity tighten in his chest.
"Don't you feel free with me?" Waylon asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "After everything? The secret years, the wedding in Simpson’s garage, the nights we spent planning the future... is the approval of three men at a bar more liberating than the life we’ve built here?"
Monty stiffens. He loathes sentimentality; he views it as a "weakness of the humors," a Victorian sensibility that suggests a lack of moral fiber. He usually meets such displays with a demand for tea or a threat of hounds. But he looks at Waylon—really looks at him. He sees the way Waylon’s shoulders are slumped, the way he’s holding his own elbows as if to keep himself from shaking. Waylon is the only person who knows the exact frequency of his pacemaker. Waylon is the only one who knows that Monty likes his pillows fluffed with lavender but would never admit it.
"Oh, pish-posh," Monty mutters, though his eyes soften. "Don't get all 'main character energy' on me, Waylon. It’s unseemly."
Waylon moves closer, sensing the crack in the icy facade. "I’m not being dramatic, Monty. I miss you. I miss the man who doesn't need a robot suit to feel seen. I’m jealous of the attention 'Fred' gets. He takes you away from me for hours, and when you come back, you’re full of stories about Homer’s husband or Carlenny’s anniversary, and you forget that I’m right here. I’m your husband, not just your mechanic."
Monty lets out a long, rattling sigh. It is a sound of genuine, if reluctant, surrender. He realizes that in his quest to be loved by the "common man," he has been neglecting the only man who ever truly loved the monster. He reaches out, his thin, cold hand landing with a gentle pat-pat on Waylon’s sturdy shoulder. It is an immense gesture for a man who once tried to block out the sun.
"You're being a 'simp,' Waylon," Monty says, using the slang incorrectly but with a tone of deep affection. "But... I suppose 'Fred' has had his run. The costume is itchy, and frankly, Simpson’s conversation is like chewing on dry drywall."
He looks up at Waylon, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. "The batteries in my hip are low, and this 'free' man is quite exhausted. Carry me to bed, Waylon. And... perhaps tomorrow, we can ignore the world together. Just the two of us. No 'Fred' required."
Waylon smiles, the tension leaving his body. He leans down, easily scooping the frail, 117-year-old man into his arms. Monty feels like nothing—just parchment and spirit—but to Waylon, he is the entire world. As he carries him toward the oversized canopy bed, the "Fred" suit lies hollow and empty on the floor, a discarded skin that neither of them needs anymore.