Disclaimer: I have pulled the tag off at least one mattress, but I am nonetheless essentially a good person. Oh, and I claim no rights to psych, but I think you knew that already.

Rating: T

Summary: Just a fluffy little Lassiet about the difficulty of making a big decision.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

Juliet eyed Carlton, whose dark and silver head was bent over an open folder on his desk. They were supposed to have lunch in a little while and she knew he was going to ask her again.

Let's just talk about it, he'd say. Let's just talk possibilities.

Trouble was, she didn't want to, not yet.

He was seldom satisfied with that answer—and she'd already given it too many times.

She couldn't put him off forever, and in one sense she didn't want to; she hated for Carlton to be unsettled about anything. She loved him best when he was cool and collected and relaxed in a way he generally only was with her.

Being the source of his tension—in more ways than one lately—was unsettling to her as well.

He looked up, his vivid blue eyes focusing on her immediately. A quizzical expression on his lean face, he glanced between her and his watch. Ready? he mouthed.

Yes and no, she thought. Lunch yes. The conversation he wanted to have, no.

To his credit, he didn't bring it up until the waiter brought the check. After the young man left, Carlton sat back, sipped his iced tea, jerked his head toward the guy and said, "There's a possibility."

Juliet sighed. "No. Too short."

He blinked. "Too short?"

"I can't explain."

That muscle in his jaw started twitching. "You can explain, you just don't want to."

Juliet captured an ice cube from her glass and rubbed it across her forehead, and Carlton immediately relaxed as best he could. "You should take the rest of the day off."

"Absolutely not," she said with her sunniest smile. "If you're here, I'm here."

"You're with me no matter what."

"Back at you, baby." She squeezed his hand, and he smiled, and the bullet was dodged.

. . . .

. . .

"Why don't you want to talk about this?" he asked for what she thought might be the sixtieth time.

They were lying in bed, Juliet draped over his chest and planting idle kisses on his skin.

He stroked her hair, and the gentleness of his hand warmed her heart.

"I don't know. But we don't have to settle it now."

Carlton tugged at her until he could look into her eyes. "Sweetheart."

"Carlton," she said plaintively. "Just give me some time. I promise I'm thinking about it."

He started to say something else—or at least the light in his blue eyes darkened to an I'm going to say something else shade—so she slipped her hand across his abdomen and down under the sheets to where he was warmest.

"Unngh," is what he did say, followed by a deep sigh.

She worked a little magic, and he worked a little of his own, and after, they cocooned together in their own unique blend of afterglow.

He nuzzled her temple. "You're lucky I'm easy."

"Nothing's easy about you." She caught his hand before he could tickle her, and rubbed the silver wedding band on his ring finger. "That's why you're the most valuable prize in the cereal box."

Carlton growled, "I always knew I was surrounded by flakes and nuts."

She laughed. "Present company excluded?"

"Yes, present company exclu—well, I don't know. It is kind of flaky of you to not want to talk about—"

"Gaaaaaah," she protested, rolling away from him.

"At least tell me why." His tone was pleading, and when she didn't answer, he scooped her right back into his arms. "Juliet."

She sighed, the sound of it muffled against his shoulder. "It's big, okay? It's permanent. It's important and I want it to be right."

"I know it's big. I know it's permanent. And I want it to be right, too. But if we don't talk about it, we'll never make the best decision."

His consternation was evidenced by the tightness of his arms around her; Juliet squirmed a little until he once again relaxed. Putting herself up on one elbow, she studied his crystal blue eyes, trying to judge how much longer she could keep avoiding the conversation he so desperately wanted to have.

There was no anger in the blue, only frustration and anxiety. There was love—there was always love; in fact she had come to realize that love had been in his every glance at her for years—but there was a hell of a lot of anxiety swirling around it.

"I love you." She pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"I love you too." He moved his head so her next kiss found his warm mouth.

"This will get done."

"Soon?"

"Soon."

Carlton let out a breath as she climbed more fully on top of him, especially as one of her knees found its gentle way between his thighs. "Can we define soon?"

"Would you rather make definitions or whoopee?"

He didn't answer verbally, but he was no fool. She got the answer she wanted by way of what he did to her while he was silent.

. . . .

. . .

Carlton looked at his watch, and then over at Juliet, and then at the calendar, and then at Juliet, his lovely, serene wife—who was far too serene for his liking.

He knew he shouldn't push at her (especially during the workday). He knew she wanted him to leave her be. But so much time had passed since this non-deciding started, and with each passing day—week—month—he became more obsessed with the need to have the discussion and make the decision.

There had been many stops and starts. He'd catch her off guard, get her to offer an opinion in a roundabout way—have time to make at least a mental note of where she stood—but then she'd clam up and refuse to go further.

Sometimes she said he already had his mind made up and this made it harder for her to 'discuss,' but other times she said she understood he was as undecided as she was, and she was all sympathy, and then she'd still clam up and refuse to go further.

Sometimes she just gave him that look, or touched him in a way designed purely to make him crazy wanting her, and hell yeah that would get him to change the subject, at least for an hour or two, or if things went especially well, three or four… frequently they both ended up too exhausted to talk at all.

Moaning, gasping and sighing, they were always good at.

She got up from her desk to speak to Miller at the copier, and Carlton shamelessly ogled her: the curve of her backside, the smooth calves, her golden hair. He was allowed to ogle his wife, he reminded himself.

… as long as he didn't get caught.

Chief Vick cleared her throat as she approached his desk. "Detective?"

"Chief." He stood up, which was unnecessary and which he knew she would think was unnecessary, but at least covered his mild embarrassment at having been caught in the actual act of having lascivious thoughts about the woman who was his wife everywhere except in the workplace, where she was Detective O'Hara, and don't you forget it, buddy.

"Everything all right?" Her smile was subtle… and knowing.

"With what?"

The smile widened. "That's what I thought. Any progress?"

Carlton hesitated. "With what?"

Chief Vick laughed. "That's what I thought, too. Carry on." She went off to get coffee, and he sank back into his chair.

If the Chief had figured out they didn't have this matter settled, then it wouldn't be long before those lower on the food chain did too.

Which would only mean one thing.

They'd want to help.

He rubbed his face hard. That's it, he thought. Even if it costs me jewelry, a new car and a freakin' investment in a time-share, I'll get her to talk to me about this. Tonight. That's it.

. . . .

. . .

Two months later.

Three a.m.

He was worn out, and so was Juliet. She was trying to make it seem effortless, but her strength was fading.

Carlton took a deep breath, hoping to steady himself. "We have to decide, sweetheart, and it has to be now."

"No," she argued. "We still have time."

"Juliet. Your definition of time needs some adjustment."

She squeezed his hand, grinning. "Time slows down when it's most important."

"It's not slowing down." Carlton felt his jaw setting into a line from which it might not relax in the foreseeable future... like eighteen years.

Juliet let go of his hand so she could stroke that hard line of his jaw, soothing him, which was just like her, dammit. "Breathe."

He wasn't supposed to be irritated with her, not now, but all the same he was. Still: squash the impulse to snap. Squash it, Lassiter.

She took a deep breath, increasingly tired. "We have time," she repeated, with somewhat less conviction.

Carlton rested his head against her shoulder, and she patted his head lightly.

"I know you don't need reminding," he said with exquisite and perhaps even marginally believable calm, "but you're in labor. Your contractions are three minutes apart."

"You're right. I don't need reminding." She put one hand on her belly and breathed deeply.

He covered her hand with his. "Our child shouldn't come into the world nameless."

"Our child is not nameless," she insisted. "We… just don't… know what that name is yet."

Before he argue the point, another contraction overtook her, and he did what he could—which felt like nothing—to help her through it.

In a bit, when she was gasping but relaxing, he said, "We had nine months to get this settled."

She ignored what he suspected was fairly obvious frustration in his tone. "Carlton, choosing a name is an important task. It couldn't be rushed."

"Nine months isn't rushing." Jaw tightening again.

"Technically it was only eight months, since I didn't know I was pregnant right away."

How could she be so cheerful about this now?

"Eight months isn't rushing."

"Well, it didn't help that we couldn't agree on anything."

"It's not about agreeing. It's simply that I refuse to put the six billionth Kylie, Caitlin, Molly, Amelia, Sam, McKenzie, Peyton or Max in the world, along with Tyler, Taylor, Jake, Zack, Kyle, Riley, Logan, Liam—"

"I was never campaigning for those." She pushed her hair behind her ears. "I do kind of like Amelia, though."

"I also don't like—"

"And yes, you unilaterally ruling out names is us disagreeing."

"Juliet," he sighed, leaning in and caressing her forehead. "Please."

She reached up to kiss his face. "How about John for a boy?"

Well, that was easy.

Except… "I thought you said John was too short."

"I did? When?"

"When we were in the restaurant and I saw the waiter's nametag."

"Oh. Well, I'm pregnant, sweetie. I'm legitimately brain-fogged. But right now I like the sound of John Lassiter. Middle name?"

Was this finally happening?

"You choose." When she eyed him with surprising glee, he amended, "Tonight."

Juliet laughed. "Well, it won't be Frank."

"Deal. Three more down, five billion to go."

"Three?"

"Frank, Carlton and Shawn. Gus too. Four down, then."

"Now hang on; I kind of like Carlton as a middle name. John Carlton Lassiter. It sounds nice."

She clenched his hand suddenly in anticipation of another contraction, and he cursed himself for causing her this pain—for all of two seconds, until he remembered the delightful thing they'd done together to lead to this night; then he concentrated on soothing her instead.

When it was over, she lay back panting, and he still thought her beautiful, even with shadows under her large dark blue eyes.

"I can live with John Carlton," he said. "What about a girl?"

Tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear, she said wearily, "I don't know. You like old-fashioned names, but you rejected Molly and Amelia. And I'm not going for Mary, Myrtle, Martha, Gladys, Bertha or Prudence."

He grinned. "Penelope?"

"Barbara?" she countered. "There's an old-school name."

"No. Did you know it means 'stranger'?"

"Than what?"

"Smartass. Anyway, no, because the other kids would call her Barbie and next thing I know there'd be some damned Ken sniffing around."

Juliet laughed despite her exhaustion. "Even worse, he'd be anatomically correct. I suppose you don't want Minnie?"

"No, because I don't trust Mickey. Delilah's out too."

"Why? As long as we keep her away from scissors."

"And Tom Jones," he muttered.

Casting him a puzzled look which reminded him that sometimes twelve years was a significant age difference, she added, "Bathsheba and Jezebel are also off the table."

Carlton smirked; at least she was considering possibilities. He'd have preferred a different setting than a hospital bed with her in labor, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Bella—" she began, and when he started to object, raised her hand. "I was going to say no, because that sullen little pasty-faced Twilight chick ruined a perfectly nice name for all eternity."

"Agreed. Holly?"

"Or Jane, if you want really old-school. Wait... Holly?"

"Or Maura. I always liked that name. With an AU, not an OI."

"Hmmm. Bridget." She yawned. "Holly Bridget Lassiter."

He was encouraged, but didn't want to scare her by agreeing too easily. "Holly Maura."

"Ethelene Euphemia."

"Don't bail on me now," he warned her, squeezing her hand. "We're close. Holly Juliet Lassiter."

She smiled, squeezing back.

"John Carlton for a boy, Holly Juliet for a girl," he prompted, afraid he was losing her again.

"No, I like Maura better."

"Holly Maura?"

"Maura Holly." She looked up at him, so tired and so lovely. "Maura Holly Lassiter. John Carlton Lassiter. But we're not calling him Johnny or Jack."

"Deal. And it's John with an H."

"Right."

Carlton kissed her forehead. "Thank you. Thank God."

"Honestly, I don't know what all the fuss is about," she said tartly, laughing at his instant outrage. "You don't see any baby around here, do you?"

"I will soon enough." He bent to kiss her again. "A beautiful baby with my beautiful wife."

"As long as you still think I'm beautiful when I start screaming my head off again in a few seconds."

"I'm tough, O'Hara. Bring it."

Except he wasn't tough where she was concerned: he was putty.

He was in fact helplessly besotted with this woman, and would always be, and their child would only strengthen the circle they'd already made.

So when the baby came squalling into the world later, he shed tears along with his wife—and the fact that they'd only chosen the name that very night was immaterial.

The love was all that mattered.

. . . .

. . .

E N D