Epilogue

Smithers, an old man of 85, approached the coffin-like cryo-tube where Burns lay frozen in his bedroom beside the master bed. He peered into the glass enclosure at his beloved. For the last forty years, he had frozen himself a month or two at a time, alternating with months he spent up and about conducting his business and enjoying Smithers' company. He had insisted at first that this was so that he could prolong his life as much as possible so that he might live long enough for medicine to progress to the point of conferring him virtual immortality, but when Smithers had offered to freeze himself with him so that they would awaken together and not notice the other's absence, Burns had revealed his true motivation.

The truth is, Waylon, I don't want you to die alone. My other self, in the note he wrote, told me I would only live to 125. I don't want you to forget about me and re-marry.

Smithers entered the code to defrost the receptacle, to reanimate him without shocking his system. The process took a whole day. Ordinarily, he would fill the waiting time with mundane tasks like shopping or going to get the dry-cleaning back.

Today, he sat beside him, stroking the glass over his face, hour by hour.

"Monty? Can you hear me?" he said, seeing Burns' eyelids flutter. The defrosting had progressed to the point that Smithers had opened the glass covering. Burns opened his eyes fully and focused his pupils on Smithers'. "Good." He wrapped his left hand over Burns' and stroked the ring on his finger. "I love you," he said, curling his fingers around Burns' cold ones. Burns' eyes squinted at the corners as he smiled, eyes growing innocent and carefree. Smithers kissed him between his nose and cheek.

After another hour, Burns had fully defrosted, and Smithers helped him stand and change into a new robe and slippers, then led him to the dining hall, where they sat opposite each other on one end of the table as servants set a feast of Cornish hen, duck a l'orange, veal scaloppine with capers, and various vegetable sides and freshly baked pies before them. It was more than either of them could eat in a week, and it was the perfect way to greet a man who had not had solid food for a month.

Or in this case, a week.

As they dined, slowly whittling away at their bounty, Burns said, "You've hardly eaten anything. Are you feeling well?"

Smithers' silverware clanged, jolted by his startled hands. "It feels good to see you. Talk to you," he said, looking down to Burns' hands. "We should talk more tonight."

After they had had their fill, Smithers led them back to their bedroom for the evening. Glancing at the sky through the window, Burns said, "Why the devil did you unfreeze me in the morning? You know it takes hours, and now I'll never get to sleep tonight."

"I'm sorry, sir. I just couldn't stand to be without you, when you were so close to me."

Burns did a double-take at the window, noting the snow on the ground outside. "It's still snowing in May?"

"Actually... it's the second week of April."

"Then you unfroze me after only a week? For what reason?"

Smithers' lips crunched together as his jaw tensed. "I have pancreatic cancer. It's inoperable. The doctor gives me a year, at most."

Burns' eyes widened in dejected fear. "Waylon..." He fell into a hug, leaning against him, cheek on chest as his own chest heaved while he desperately fought off tears. "Oh, Waylon, no..." Smithers stroked the back of Burns' head, running his fingers through his hair and tickling the back of his ear. Burns clutched his bony fingers tighter around Smithers' shoulder blades, and a tear slid down the side of his nose, quickly becoming absorbed in the fabric of Smithers' robe as Burns pressed his face into him. "Waylon..."

They talked and cried for hours between recounting fond memories and making plans, until finally Smithers had to rest. "I'll still be here in the morning, and many more mornings after that."

"Yes. You had better be."

Smithers kissed the corner of his mouth and said, "Goodnight, Monty."

Goodnight! How dare he say such a thing? "Goodnight, Waylon." He kissed him straight on the lips. "I adore you," he whispered in his ear just as he fell asleep. He lay there awake, holding his hand for the next few hours. I'm going to lose him. He's been at my side for over sixty-five physio-years, and now I'm going to lose him. And I'll be all alone. Of course, it was precisely the outcome he had engineered to happen – it was the entire point of using the cryo-tube, so their deaths would be closer together. How can he have only eighty-five years? When I was eighty-five, I was still twenty years away from commencing a carnal relationship with him. And now we've been married for forty years – even if I've only been awake for twenty of those.

He went over their conversation in his mind. Smithers had rejected his proposal to stick him into the cryo-tube until a cure is found. No, Monty, he'd said. I've enjoyed my life with you. I have to die eventually, and I want you at my side when I do.

Then who will be at my side? He hadn't said that part aloud. Dying alone was his worst fear, and even to speak of it sent shivers down his spine. It was the final proof of his love, that he would accept his most dreaded fate to spare Waylon from having to face it. I'll be there for you, he'd said.

He tossed and turned, dreaming that their bed opened up in the middle and Smithers fell through, and he jumped in after him, but he could never catch up, no matter how far he stretched his arms down to catch him. He awoke to Smithers' voice saying, "Monty, let go of me. That hurts!"

Burns opened his eyes to see that he was holding onto Smithers' wrists, squeezing as tightly as he possibly could. He loosened his grasp. "Oh. I'm sorry." He turned around in bed to face away from him, and Smithers brought an arm around his torso and smiled.

In the following months, they traveled to New York City and took in every show playing on Broadway, then jetted off to a tropical island, where they spent their days enjoying the sand, the sun, the sea.

They had been on their island getaway for four months, and it was a typical day: They awoke to the sun shining through sheer curtains, Smithers would stretch his arms and yawn, then cheerily say, "Monty, get up. It's beautiful out," and room service would arrive with their breakfasts, though Smithers would usually leave half of his uneaten. "Let's go fishing today," he said, reaching for his fishing pole.

"What is the point? You'd hardly eat anything we catch."

"We'll have fun fishing, even if we don't catch anything."

"You're getting so thin," he said, tracing an index finger across Smithers' waist.

"You're a rather svelte man yourself."

"I've always had a slender frame, though. You, though, you should be sturdier than this." He grabbed his sides and pulled upward. "I can almost lift you."

He chuckled and said, "Well, I guess I won't have to worry about putting on too much weight at the holidays."

"Oh, stuff it. Can't you shut the hell up and be scared for once?"

Smithers furrowed his brow. "I'm just trying to have a positive outlook and enjoy the time I have left. I thought you wanted me to be happy."

"Yes, but are you happy? Are you really?"

"What do you want me to do? Do you want me to spend all day in bed, bawling my eyes out? Just give up and die?"

"No, but –"

"Do you want me to lie here in a drunken stupor? Get by on daytime TV and Valium?"

"Maybe I want you to be scared with me. But no, you have to be Mr. Cheerful, and I have to tiptoe around my fears to avoid the guilt of bringing you down with me."

"Has it occurred to you that I am scared? I'm scared to death, of – well, death. But I don't want to waste time moping about the inevitable. That's time I could be spending with you." He embraced Burns, laying his head on his shoulder.

"This all reminds me of when I saw your father die – both times. I knew what was about to transpire, but there was nothing I could do about it but watch."

"That was different, though. My father died young."

"Waylon," said Burns in a dulcet tone, "to me, eighty-five is young."

"Point taken. But my real point is, there's nothing tragic about my dying. You've given me a wonderful forty-year marriage. For decades, marrying you was a hopeless, outlandish fantasy. You've fulfilled my deepest longings and much, much more. My life has been full, and I want to make it even fuller."

"I do, too, but..." Smithers caressed the back of his neck. "Oh, God, am I going to miss this." Smithers nibbled at his ear. "And that." Smithers brought their lips together and kissed him deeply. "I'll miss you."

"Well, I'm not gone yet." He reached to the floor where Bobo had fallen and handed him to Burns, who clutched his teddy against his chest.

Burns kissed him and said, "Forget about the fish. Let's stay here awhile and... fulfill a few more fantasies."

"I like the sound of that," said Smithers, loosening the belt to Burns' robe.

"Just a moment," said Burns, taking a little throw pillow and covering Bobo's eyes. "Now we may proceed."

Mr. Burns awoke in his bedroom, clutching Bobo tightly against his chest. "Smithers?" He looked around, scanning the bed for Smithers for a moment before he remembered and squeezed Bobo as tightly against his chest as he could. "Oh..." It had been only a few days since Waylon had died in his arms at their estate, and his presence consumed Monty's dream life. The weight of 125 years tugged at his skin, his bones, his tendons, in ways he had never noticed before. Even opening his eyes proved a chore. "Bobo..." He shut his eyes once more.

The next thing he was aware of was the sensation of being suspended in space, as though empty space extended infinitely above and below him. Next, he heard a big, booming voice beckon him. "Hello, Monty."

It wasn't Smithers. Who then? "Bobo?"

"No, Monty," said the large man in sandals. "I'm not Smithers. He's Smithers," he said, pointing to the side. Nearby, he saw Smithers as he appeared around age thirty-five.

"Waylon," he said, breathlessly. "This... you can't be... I must be..."

"Dreaming?" said God. "No. You redeemed your soul with one selfless act of love. So instead of eternal damnation, I'm letting you two spend eternity together in your preferred forms."

He turned to Smithers. "Waylon, you look..."

"So do you," said Smithers, cheeks flushing.

Burns looked down at himself, noting his body seemed more limber than he remembered, and God handed him a mirror. His jaw dropped as he saw that he appeared as he did in his late twenties, long flowing brown hair, thin yet toned body, and skin that was supple and smooth.

"My God," Smithers said in euphoric admiration.

"Yes?" said God.

"Oh, not you, I meant – he's just so – so astonishingly beautiful." He reached out and ran one hand through Burns' hair and the other down from his shoulder to his forearm, feeling his muscles as he went. "And so strong." He looked him up and down. "And tall."

Burns marveled at Smithers' youthful form. "I haven't seen you like this for fifty years."

"I haven't seen you like this except in tintypes."

"So... eternal youth in paradise, eh? No officials to bribe, no customers to gouge, no one to set the hounds on – Egads! What will we do to pass the time?"

Smithers took him gently by the crook of his arm and said with a sly smile, "We'll think of something."