NOW

Smithers showed up to work, Waylon Jr. sleeping quietly in small basket. Waylon Sr.'s worn satchel bulged with a variety of baby items. He set child and supplied down in the recently finished office, and looked up at Monty.

The expression on his face said it all.

"Oh, Waylon," Monty moaned, and came around the front of the desk. Waylon Sr. collapsed into his partner's arms, and Monty held him as tight as he possibly could. Though Waylon hardly made a sound, Monty could feel the man's shoulders shaking.

He tucked his chin over Waylon's head, and held the man to his chest. Waylon cried like he hadn't in years. All the stress, frustration and regret overflowing from his sad, hazel eyes. Monty didn't even need to ask. Clearly Roberta's treatments had not gone well. He resolved to hold Waylon for as long as it took, forever if he had to. "They're just tears," he said softly, stroking Waylon's back. "Let them fall."

After what seemed like eternity, and yet no time at all, Waylon straightened up. He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and blew his nose.

"Thank you, Monty," he said, the gratitude evident in his voice, "that's been building for a long time."

"I'm sure it has."

Monty stooped to gather Waylon Jr's bassinet and the lad's supplies off the floor. He slung the satchel over a shoulder, and guided Waylon Sr. to the couch across from the row of monitors. He motioned Waylon to sit down, then did likewise, setting the bassinet by Waylon's feet.

Waylon Sr. dabbed his eyes, and shook his head. "She'd been going for treatments, but doctors didn't think it was enough. She had - what did they call it? - a nervous breakdown." Waylon sat hunched over, elbows on knees. "Monty, what did I do?"

You did nothing wrong, Monty wanted to say, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He wished he knew what to say to reassure his partner. Instead, he shook his head and asked the practical question. "Will you be bringing your son to the plant every day now?"

Waylon shook his head. Charlotte's not quite due yet, and she's still willing to help out. She had a doctor's appointment herself today, so that's why Waylon's here."

Monty took a moment to consider the child. The boy had his father's light brown hair, and that face was definitely Waylon Sr.'s. The boy was small for his age, looking younger than his seven months would indicate. A pair of glasses, with a soft strap to hold them in place rested over his face. "Glasses already, eh?" Monty mused.

"He's farsighted, just like his old man," Waylon replied with a chuckle. "That's one thing he got from me at least."

Monty peered at the baby. "Oh, I'd say he's the spiriting image of you, my man. Look at that hair!" Monty smirked. "Why, he's got so much of it."

Waylon gave Monty a shove. "Careful there," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his tear-reddened eyes.

"Well," said Monty, still staring at the sleeping child as if he'd never seen one before, "I suppose we can find a place for the little tyke here. Why don't you go put his bottles in the refrigerator." Monty gestured to a small room off their main office. It was originally designed as private meeting room, but right now they'd been using it as a storage-and-break room.

"Oh, and Waylon, I've got something else that might cheer you up!"

Waylon paused, halfway to the side room.

Burns made a little dancing motion with his fingers. "Guess who's coming to visit!"

"I don't know," Waylon replied tiredly. "Can't you just tell me?"

"Mmmm… no, I don't think I can."

Waylon sighed. "Fine. Is it the Pope?"

Monty folded his arms across his chest in mock indignation. "No, spoilsport. Fuel for the reactors. Ripe, tasty uranium for our hungry Fissionators!" He tucked a hand coyly to his mouth. "Just like what some clever little architect requested, eh?" He threw his arms wide. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

"Uranium," Waylon said, deadpan. "You gave me uranium."

Monty shrugged. "Technically, I gave it to the reactors; but close enough."

Waylon tucked his son's supplies neatly into the spare room. "And Happy Valentine's Day to you, Monty," he added with a hint of a smile. "I finally finished sending out the last letter to our newly hired team. We are fully staffed-"

"Our reactors are fueled."

Waylon rubbed his hands together in delight. "When do we start pressurizing the first circuit," he asked, all strife momentarily forgotten. He wanted to be there when the reactors were brought online.

Monty smiled proudly. "Filling and pressurizing as we speak! In about half an hour or so, I'll fire up the primary pumps for the initial flow tests." Burns twirled a hand and gave a detailed litany of all the objectives he had lined up for the day.

"Monty," Waylon said in surprise, "those were my projects!"

"Balderdash," Monty said with a laugh. "It's the least I can do to help out an old friend in his time of need. Relax and take it easy today. Let old Monty handle that scutwork for you, eh?" He looked into the bassinet and wrinkled his brow. "You'll have enough on your plate once the wee chap wakes up. I'm sure I know how to prime the an old 'atom mill,' eh Waylon?"

THE FINAL THEN

Smithers tried not to cry out as Roberta squeezed her hand with all her strength. He had to be strong for her. He coaxed and encouraged, as she gritted her teeth. You can do it, he cheered, almost there!

With a final grunt and a gasp Roberta bore down amid cheer from Smithers and the attending nurse. The doctor said nothing, the lower half of his face obscured by a mask, but his eyes crinkled warmly. Congratulations, Mrs. Smithers, he said, pulling the mask down around his neck. It's a boy!

The next day, Smithers bounded into the impromptu office he and Burns shared, his face radiant with delight. He could hardly contain himself. "Monty," he yelled, "Monty!"

"Good lord, man, have you gone daft? You're prancing and mincing like a complete buffoon. Sit down and be still!"

"Oh, I couldn't if I tried," Smithers replied, trembling with excitement. "Guess what?"

"I couldn't imagine," replied Burns abstractedly, not looking up from his papers.

Smithers grabbed the man by the shoulders and beamed radiantly. "I'm a dad!" He whooped, doing a giddy half dance. Burns found himself being dragged from his chair and caught along for the ride. He tried to politely detach himself from Smithers' grasp.

"That's all very well and good, my dear man," Burns replied, suppressing a smile, and brushing off his coat. "I dare say I'll be expecting the time-honored custom of being presented with a barrage of photos to commemorate each trivial milestone?"

Smithers sat down on the desk and laughed. "No," he said mirthfully, "I would never subject you to such an offense."

"Smart man," replied Burns, allowing his face to show a hint of amusement.

"I did bring one though." Smithers reached into his wallet. "Look. It was taken just after he was born." He passed the small photo over to Burns.

Burns took a pair of reading glasses off the desk and slipped them on. He peered at the photo, squinting thoughtfully.

"Well," Smithers asked, bouncing up and down on his heels.

"He's all red and wrinkly," Burns remarked carefully. "But I'm sure he'll pink up nicely." He handed the photo back to Smithers. "Have you decided on a name, then?"

Smithers nodded. "Roberta and I had those all picked out before he was born. Mary for a girl, James for a boy."

Burns clucked his tongue. "So little James Smithers, eh?"

Smithers rubbed the back of his neck and blushed. "Actually, Roberta changed her mind and didn't tell me. She named him Waylon Joseph… Junior." He rubbed a hand over his moustache, feeling his cheeks redden.

Burns smiled. "Like his father, eh?"

"When the nurse asked her what name to put on the certificate, she blurted that out before I could stop her." He looked both proud and bashful at the same time.

Burns tented his fingers and regarded Smithers levelly. "It's a good name," he nodded. "I approve."

In the July afternoon, just days after Waylon Jr.'s birth, the Smithers family sat in the grass of their back yard as the sun dipped slowly towards the west. Smithers held Waylon Jr. in the crook of his left arm while a tired but content Roberta coiled around his side. She was reading the child a story, though not one that might typically be expected. Roberta did have a great love for the classics. She was reading the babe a Shakespearian play, doing the various voices as she went.

Smithers had laughed.

"'Set him before me; let me see his face,'" she quoted with the stately tones of a Roman emperor. "Then sneaky Cassius said 'Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.'" Again in the tone of the emperor she read: " 'What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again.'" Roberta ticked one of Waylon Jr.'s tiny hands. "And the Soothsayer said 'Beware the Ides of March!'"

Smithers chuckled and gently lifted the book out of her hands. "Perhaps we could start him on something a bit more cheerful. A Midsummer Night's Dream perhaps? I know you want the boy to be familiar with the classics, but Julius Caesar has such a grim ending."

Roberta laughed, and made a snuffling sound with her nose against her son's neck. The tiny baby wiggled and touched her face. "Don't worry Waylon. He doesn't even know what it means," she said playfully, dancing her fingers on Waylon Jr.'s little chest. "He just likes the rhythm. 'Beware the Ides of March,'" she repeated, tapping her fingers in time to the words.

Waylon Jr. wiggled his tiny clenched hands, and nestled in deeper against his father's chest.

Beware the Ides of March.