Always wanted to do this.
Bob held the tiny infant in his arms, tears welling in his eyes. He grinned at an exhausted Francesca, and back down at his son. His new-born son. All thoughts vanished of Bart Simpson, jail, Springfield. Even life in Italy.
He finally had a family. A real, happy, loving family who didn't know about his seven failed attempts at crime. A beautiful wife that respected him, unlike Selma . . . But it wasn't important now. He wiped his tears away, and wiped away the baby's.
Bob sat down on the bed, lying next to his beloved wife. The doctor had left them to get the paperwork. "What should we name him?"
"I don't know . . ." Her voice was a dry rasp; two painful days in labor, "I have always like Clancy. It is American, but . . ."
Bob winced. Clancy Wiggum. "No. Please, let's not do Clancy. William?"
"No, I do not-a think William is good. The other children will re-name him Willy, that eez not-a good name. Mario?"
"Mmm…maybe as a middle name. Shhh, sh. Don't cry, little one."
"Oh," she reached over, kissing the baby on the forehead, "Cecil?"
His eye twitched. "NO."
"Hershel?"
"NO."
"Homer?"
"NO."
"Bart?"
"NO! Nothing American, please!" He half yelled, half whispered so the child wouldn't cry harder.
"Why don't you-a name him then? It eez father's job to name son, officially."
"Gino? I have always liked Gino."
"Gino . . ." She gazed down at the baby, who had now stopped crying, and was staring at his parents with wide-eyes. Then, looking back up at her husband: "Gino! Yes!"
The doctor came back in at that moment with the paperwork.
Francesca had left Bob with Gino while she was helping a friend. It was the fourth day Gino had been home; Bob had taken a couple of days off to help take care of him.
Gino's hair had already come off red and curly, not yet the shape of a palm-tree. But it was clear it soon would be; he had also most likely inherited the feet as well. He was wearing a blue one-piece, something that reminded Bob too much of Maggie Simpson's outfit she wore all the time. He had taken a liking to music, particularly the music sung by his father. And lullabies sung by his mother's opera-like voice.
But right now, he was in the arms of Bob, wrapped in a home-made blanket knitted by his mother. Bob still had a bit of trouble taking care of such a delicate baby. He had taken care of Cecil a very, very long time ago, and hadn't taken care of any baby since. The children on the Krusty show did not count, or when he and Maggie were sharing the bedroom a year ago.
They were in the nursery. "Well, I see that the works of Gilbert and Sullivan won't put you to bed."
He was replied by with a giggle.
"But you shall be put down a—what are you reaching for?"
Gino had taken his arm out of the wrap, reaching for a lock of Bob's hair. Finding this, he tugged down particularly hard for a new-born.
"Augh! Why you little—"
He stopped himself as Gino started crying.
"No! No, don't cry! Uh . . . Upon one summer morning, I carefully did stray. Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay . . .*"
Gino stopped crying, and then started back up again. Bob had forgotten the rest of the lyrics to the lullaby, if that's what it even was. He looked around, trying to find a favorite toy.
Finding nothing, he sat down, cradling Gino to his chest, rocking him a little. "Stars . . . in their multitude. A fugitive running. Fallen from God . . . fallen from graaaaace . . .**" Unlike Jolly Sailor Bold, he sung Stars with a perfection that even he hadn't thought he had perfected. It was with this perfection that he would sing in the Italian opera three years from now. But that's a different story.
Gino stopped crying, and slowly fell asleep gazing at his father with only a child's love. Bob whispered when he was done, "You are the only child who does not torture my soul. Who does not say, 'eat my shorts,' or comes into my life no matter what. You are my son, and nothing can change that, no matter what. You have my genes; I will be your father and friend in your lifetime. You and your mother will never learn of my past. Ever. We will not live as Jean Valjean and Cossette and Fauchelevent***. You will not remember this when you're older, but it's true. Hopefully, you won't even know who the Simpsons are. So long as they stay away from this place. So long as they don't find me, us, we will live a happy, long life in Salsiccia." He spoke this with a sort of madness, but it was all true. He loved his family, and the Simpsons weren't going to find them.
Ever.
I don't know if you can do that as a mayor, but I don't care. I just wanted something with Gino as a new-born in one of my stories.
*-Jolly Sailor Bold comes from Pirates of the Carribbean, as far as I know. Not mine.
**-Les Miserables is not mine; I own nothing.
***- Jean Valjean saved Fauchelevent from being crushed by a cart, and, since he was jobless, had ordered him to be a gardener. Two years later, Jean and Cossette met him and worked as said job (Cossette went to school in the abbey where the job was), they said Jean was his brother. They lived in the abbey until Fauchelevent died, and moved to Rue Plumet.
Does Bob remind anybody else of Jean Valjean? And Maggie kind of looks like Cosette . . . .