#i knnnow i can do better than that

[bluebellhairpin]

Sometimes I get an overwhelming urge to go back and redo all the commissions I've done bc. They look bad. Like ik I can do better now.

[nucleardonuts]

Short Burnsmithers Fanfic (Fluff)

     “Smithers! Where is my coffee?!” Mr. Burns barked. He stared at his watch- bah, five minutes late! How was he ever supposed to trudge through the work day under these conditions? As he silently groused to himself, Smithers entered the office, shakily carrying a small tray with a pot and cup of coffee.

     “Sorry, sir…” Smithers mumbled. Burns eyed him curiously- something was definitely off about this fellow today. His hair was a mess, his bowtie was crooked, and he had bags under his eyes to rival his own. Mr. Burns opened his mouth to speak, but was suddenly interrupted by a loud, awful-sounding sneeze from his assistant, who meekly excused himself.

     “What’s gotten into you?” Burns demanded. He suspiciously examined his sleepy-looking sycophant, who wobbled unsteadily on his feet for a moment before clumsily setting the coffee tray down with a loud clattering.

     “I’m sorry, sir,” Smithers muttered, sniffling. He sounded terribly congested. “I just have a bit of a cold…”

     “Well don’t you dare get any of your germy digits on MY desk!” Mr. Burns said defensively. “A cold could KILL me at my age!” Smithers awkwardly shuffled back a couple of steps, letting out a tired sigh. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He raised his wrist to blot at his own forehead, which was dotted with sweat.

     “Mr. Burns…” Smithers started hoarsely.

     “Quiet, you,” Mr. Burns said sternly. He stood up to get a better look at his assistant in better light. “Oh dear… Smithers, your face is as red as a ripe-harvested June strawberry.” He shook his head contemptuously. “I can’t have you working like this, Smithers- you’re too much of a liability. I’ll have to send you home.” He paused for a moment, glaring at Smithers, almost disdainfully. “Actually… I’m not even sure I trust you’d be able to drive. I’ll take you home myself.”

     Later in the car, Monty Burns kept up a stream of mostly one-sided conversation, as Smithers laid his head against the cool glass of the window. “You know, Smithers, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my long life, it’s that if a man doesn’t have his health, he doesn’t have anything. Surely you recall my bout with smallpox two years ago- why, the plant was shut down for days…”

     Smithers half-heartedly listened to his boss speaking- hearing him prattle on like this was almost soothing, in a way, and the assistant faded in and out of a light slumber. A bony finger prodding his shoulder signaled the arrival at their destination.

     “Thank you, sir,” Smithers said, sniffling a bit. He got out of the car and wobbily made his way to his front door.

     “Don’t come back until you’re less repulsive,” Mr. Burns said- and with those lovely parting words, he drove off. Smithers entered his apartment and changed into a wooly sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants with all the strength he had left. He laid his tired bones on the couch, and within a minute or two, he was snoring softly in a deep, restful sleep. His tiny dog, Hercules, hopped up and sniffed at his face, before curling up next to his stomach.

     It was a good six days before Smithers’ stubborn fever finally subsided. By the time he returned to work he was still hoarse and dark circles continued to present themselves under his eyes, but he had regained most of the spring in his step, quite relieved to be feeling back in the pink. To be on the safe side, he opted for a plush gray turtle neck sweater rather than his usual dress shirt and tie, but the joy on his face was obvious as he stepped into Mr. Burns’ office.

     “Good morning, Mr. Burns!” he said, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. As his gaze fell upon his boss, Smithers gasped, and Mr. Burns glared at him with icy, watery eyes.

     Mr. Burns looked like hell. The normally dapperly-dressed man sat hunched at his desk with a bathrobe over his usual suit and tie… and were those slippers he was wearing? Mixed into the sea of paperwork and memos on his desk were about a dozen or so used tissues, one of which Mr. Burns was currently using to dab at his reddened nose. He looked even paler than usual, and Smithers could faintly make out a thin layer of stubble on his flushed cheeks.

     “What did I tell you about keeping your germ-infested hands off of my desk?” Mr. Burns said sharply. He tossed the tissue into a nearby trash can, missing by about a foot. He retrieved a fresh one from a pink, flowery box from his desk, and loudly blew his nose. The poor man sounded even worse than he looked. A shiver made its way through his body, and he wrapped the bathrobe around his rail-thin frame tightly. “By god, Smithers, it’s freezing in here- close the blasted window!”

     “Uh… the window is already closed,” Smithers observed awkwardly. “Oh sir… I’m so sorry… this is all my fault.” He pinched the bridge of his nose anxiously. “I… what can I do? Do you need me to drive you to the hospital? Or call the doctor? I can-“

     “Cease your smithering,” Mr. Burns said. “I do not intend to, as you young people say, ‘wimp out’ on an honest day’s work due to nothing but a mere flu.” His breath hitched in his throat, and he burst into a loud fit of painful coughing. Smithers cringed. “Eh… no matter,” Burns croaked. He pulled a small orange bottle of DayQuil from the sleeve of his robe. “I’m a big boy- I know how to care for myself.” Smithers watched anxiously as Burns uncapped the bottle, and downed about five times the recommended dose as if it were water. A shudder raked its way through Burns’ slight frame as he screwed the cap back on and set the bottle nearby.

     “Um…. Sir, is there anything you’d like me to do for you?” Smithers asked.

     Mr. Burns considered this for a moment. He wiped the sweat from his brow, woozily rested his tired, stuffed-up head in his hands, and sniffled. “Hmm…” he groaned. The DayQuil had slurred is speech considerably. “Hot ttttea- extra honey. You knnnow how I like it.” He willed himself to straighten his back and groaned, rubbing his temples before attempting to tackle the large assortment of paperwork before him. He picked up his quill and stared at it in puzzlement, as if forgetting what it was at all.

     Smithers smiled warmly. “Right away, sir,” he said. He slipped out of the door and dashed to the employee cafeteria, and filled a big cardboard coffee cup with hot water, three herbal teabags, two lemon wedges, a splash of cream, and about half a bottle of honey. It smelled lovely, if not sickeningly sweet. The loyal assistant rushed back to Mr. Burns’ office as quickly as he could, drink in hand, prepared to do anything to ease the man’s discomfort.

     It was not entirely unusual to see a workaholic such as Mr. Burns dozing off at his desk, (it was practically a second home, after all,) but Smithers felt a pang of sympathy at the man’s flushed complexion and utter exhaustion. Mr. Burns’ head rested upon his arms, his face turned to the side. He snored softly, his breathing slightly wheezy and strained.

     “Oh, sir…” Smithers murmured. He made a mental note to escort Mr. Burns to the hospital after their shift had ended. Though Burns was as stubborn as an ox and laughed at the idea of sick days, he was still a frail man- with only one functioning lung, to boot. Smithers gently set the cup of tea down on the desk near the tissue box, and cast a worried glance at the feverish face of his stubborn old boss.

     “Hee hee… Heh heh…hee…” Mr. Burns chuckled about something in his fever-addled slumber, before coughing a bit. Smithers cracked a small smile, trying to imagine for the life of him what Burns could have been dreaming about. Smithers ducked out of the office and into the men’s restroom. He grabbed a thick stack of paper towels, soaked them in cold water, and wrung them out over the sink. He made his way back to Burns’ office, where his boss continued his odd little dream.

     “Hee hee…. Tarantula Town,” Burns mumbled in his sleep. “Oh Harry… don’t tell the others, but you’ve always been my favorite.”

     Smithers smiled sympathetically and laid the damp compress over Burns’ forehead. Just as he was about to leave the office, he turned to get one last look at his boss, who shivered, despite the plushy bathrobe that engulfed his small frame. With a pitying sigh, Smithers turned around and removed his jacket. He draped the olive-green jacket over Burns’ thin shoulders, before returning to his own office.