#we love a big cuddly scottish sweetheart

[marril96]

The Name Game

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Rowena is tasked with picking a name for her and reader's daughter. The problem is, she kind of sucks at it.

Warnings: conversations about and references to child abuse.

Editor: @oswinthestrange

A/N: I would love to give huge thanks to @astroctye for helping me with names.

Read on AO3.

It should have been illegal for Rowena to name children.

It should have been illegal for her to name anything, but a special ban should have been imposed on her giving names to human beings in her care.

"We are not naming our daughter Raoghnail!" you said for the umpteenth time this morning.

The woman seemed insistent on your child, your precious little bundle of joy you were only a month away from meeting, bearing the worst, most ridiculous names you had ever heard. It was as if she were reading from a list of bad names as some sort of a joke — only she was dead serious, and would get offended every time you told her, loud and clear, that under no circumstances would you name your child any of her suggested monstrosities.

Rowena huffed, hands settling on her hips in a pose like that of a stern, no nonsense teacher about to tear into a badly behaving student. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips puckered up in a pout that was, despite the sheer annoyance dipped in anger on her face, as adorable as always. When she was genuinely, truly angry, Rowena could be terrifying. When she was angry at you, on the other hand, she was a cute ball of rage, a plush toy bomb in place of a real one that would've been here had her ire been directed at anyone else.

"And what's wrong with Raoghnail?" she demanded.

"It's terrible," you said and gave a casual shrug. When she first started suggesting names, you rejected them gently, but as she kept spouting more and more terrible ideas, your patience wore off. She was a big girl. She could handle rejection; she could handle it better than your daughter would handle being named Raoghnail, or Caillic, or Bradana, or any other ridiculous name Rowena thought was appropriate for a little girl.

"That's what you said for every name I picked," she said exasperatedly.

"'Cause they were terrible," you said.

Her pout deepened. You resisted the urge to smile. Pouting adorably should have been illegal for Rowena, too.

"I think you hate Scottish names," she accused.

Seriously? "That's ridiculous!"

"Is it? So far you've rejected every name I came up with!" she accused.

"I didn't rejected 'cause they're Scottish. I rejected them' cause they suck!" you exclaimed.

Rowena groaned, then took a breath to calm down. Her fists clenched at her sides in frustration. "What do you want me to do?"

"Come up with better names," you said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It should have been.

She glared. Giving it a moment of thought, she said, "How about Eithne? It is a lovely name."

"I bet it is, for those who can pronounce it." You barely resisted the urge to scream and stamp your feet like a tantrum-throwing child. You just wanted to give your daughter a name you could spell and pronounce properly. Was that too much to ask?

"There you go again!" Rowena exclaimed.

"I apologize for not being able to pronounce — and spell — your weirdass names," you said sarcastically.

She shot you a look that had most likely killed before. "Your lack of cultural education is no fault of mine."

You rolled your eyes. Very mature. "And your inability to name a child is no fault of mine," you retorted.

"I can name a child just fine! I've done it before!" she said proudly.

"Yeah, and he hated his name so much that he changed it," you said.

"He only did it to spite me."

You snorted. "No, he didn't." If anything, she kept calling him Fergus instead of his chosen name to spite him. "He really didn't."

Rowena's eyes narrowed. "If you are so much better, why don't you come up with a decent name for our girl?"

Because you wanted her to name her. Because you knew how much she was hurting over losing her son and you wanted to give her an opportunity to name her second child. You couldn't say it to her face. As sweet and cuddly as she could be, Rowena was an immensely proud creature. In her mind, compassion was pity, and that was something she didn't want. It was hard to get her to accept your help when she was injured; if she were to find out why you wanted her to name the baby, she would be livid. You wouldn't put it past her to refuse to name her out of sheer pride.

A nameless child, or one with a ridiculous, barely pronounceable name. You couldn't tell which was worse.

"I told you, I want you to do it," you said.

"Do you really, or are you just saying that to mess with me?" Rowena said.

You shot her an incredulous look. "Rowena, that's ridiculous!"

"Is it?" she inquired, suspicious.

"You know me better than that!" You loved to tease her and toss banter at her, but you would never do something like that. You knew how much this second chance a motherhood meant to her. You wouldn't make a mockery out of it.

Rowena took a breath, letting your words sink in. "What do you want?" she asked. It took all strength she had to keep her anger at bay. Her teeth were grit, hands still balled into tight fists; her already pale knuckles were as white as fresh sheets.

You sighed. It was a start. "Give her a nice name—" you put special emphasis on nice "—the rest of us peasants can spell and pronounce."

She chuckled at that. "You are a peasant."

"So are you," you pointed out with a chuckle of your own.

Rowena gasped dramatically. "How dare you? I'll have you know, I am a lady." She gave a small, equally dramatic bow and clasped a hand over her heart. Give her a ridiculous gown and curl her hair, and she would fit perfectly in a badly written and even worse acted historical movie.

You couldn't resist a laugh. "Sure you are, sweetheart."

"Och, such rudeness!"

"You deserve it."

"You are cruel, Y/N. Very cruel. What am I doing with you?"

"You love me," you reminded her.

"I'm starting to think I've made a horrible mistake," she said.

You shrugged. "It's too late now," you said, pointing to your swollen stomach.

"Aye," Rowena agreed, lips turning downward in mock sadness. Not a moment later she grinned, and you joined her with a smile. Banter was good for the soul. "What do you think of Euphemia, for the wee one? Or Agnes?"

You sighed. "If I was giving birth to an eighty-year old, sure."

She frowned. "They're both easy to spell and pronounce."

"They're also granny names," you told her. She stared. You sighed again. "Can you seriously imagine a cute little baby with a name like Agnes or Euphemia?"

"Yes," she said without missing a beat.

She's from a different time, you reminded yourself. You needed to stay calm. Exploding at her about her horrible naming practices would do neither of you good. She was almost four hundred years old. Of course she preferred names from her era to modern ones. Besides, it was your idea that she be the one to name your daughter. As noble as your intentions were, you'd brought this on yourself.

"Well, I can't," you said.

"That sounds like your problem, dear," Rowena told you.

"It'll be our daughter's problem, too, when she comes home crying after being teased for her ancient name."

"Anyone even looks at her wrong, and they're dead."

You couldn't argue with that. You'd experienced bullying first hand; you would die before letting your daughter go through it. You baby may end up with a silly name, but she would be loved and protected. Her mothers would make sure of that. She would have a long, happy life. Her experiences would be different from your and Rowena's. She wouldn't suffer a day in her life. The two of you had sworn on that.

"Let's try to prevent it by giving her a normal name," you said. Though, you were more than aware, your definition of normal was far, far different from Rowena's.

As she'd proven when she, after a few moments of thought, said, "Morag?"

Much to her frustration, you couldn't hold back a fit of laughter. Morag? Morag? Seriously?

Rowena looked like she wanted to strangle you with her bare hands. "What now?" she hissed, tone laced with threat she didn't even try to mask. Her patience had run out; you were on thin ice.

Not that you cared. As scary as she could be, you could never be afraid of her.

"Morag sounds like an elf from some fantasy RPG," you said. A picture of a tiny, milky-complexed, red-haired, freckled girl with pointy ears large enough to serve as wings formed in your mind, and you laughed harder. You couldn't help yourself; the name was ridiculous, and the imagery even worse.

Rowena growled like a pissed off cat and stomped her foot. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shot you her meanest, sharpest glare. If her previous one hadn't killed, this one certainly had. It was too intense not to be deadly.

"I'm sorry," you said through laugher.

"No, you're bloody not!"

She was right. "I can't help that it's so funny." You pressed a hand to your mouth in an attempt to stop it, but to no avail. The name was ridiculous enough as it was; the image in your head, though, was what did you in. You were certain, whenever you heard that name from now on, a Dumbo-eared ginger child would be your first association.

"You're impossible," Rowena huffed. Then she muttered under her breath, "Bloody child."

She should have gotten used to your childishness by now. After all, you'd gotten used to hers.

"Any other suggestions?" you asked when your laughter had finally died down. The corners of your lips twitched, aching for another fit, but you kept it under control.

"What's the point? You insult every name I pick," Rowena said. "I'm starting to think you only said I could name the child to make fun of me."

"That's not true."

"It sure looks like it."

An ache pulled at your heart, deep, throbbing. You hadn't meant to hurt her. The names were terrible and ridiculous, and you may have laughed, but you hadn't meant her any harm. Reaching for her hand, you took it into both of yours and squeezed. "I'm not making fun of you," you said gently, honestly, straight from the heart. "I swear."

Rowena looked down to your linked hands, then her eyes met yours. She nodded in acknowledgment of your words. "Why do you want me to name her if you don't like any of the names I pick?"

"Because…" Because this is your second chance. You didn't want to say it to her face, but what choice did you have? It was either honesty or her thinking you were messing with her. She had to understand. You needed her to understand. If that meant accusations of pity, so be it. You would convince her you weren't pitying her. Somehow. "I know you feel bad about what happened with Crowley." You took a breath. "This is your second chance at motherhood, and I wanted you to give our baby a name as a sorta new beginning."

Rowena's expression shifted from mild irritation to full on comprehension. Green eyes slightly widening as your words dawned on her, sudden and heavy as a flash flood, she stared straight into yours, straight through yours, as if she was looking into your very soul. You felt almost bare under her gaze; a part of you was glad you told her, glad to have finally lifted the burden off your shoulders, but you were still worried. Did she think you were pitying her? Was she going to scream at the top of her lungs until you got it in your head that she didn't need anybody's pity, especially yours?

"Please, don't be mad," you said, a tad panicked. "I didn't mean to imply—"

"I know," Rowena interrupted before you could finish your sentence. Her voice was as soft as silk, as tender, as lovely. Her features matched it, all traces of annoyance gone as if they were never there. She brought her free hand to your cheek and gave it a gentle caress. You leaned into her palm, leaned into the warmth of her touch. A sigh of relief left your lips. She wasn't mad. A small smile spilled over your mouth at the realization. "My lovely lass, thinking of me."

"Someone has to," you said.

Rowena chuckled. "I suppose."

"You deserve it."

"That is up for debate, but I appreciate the sentiment." You wanted to argue, but she raised up a forefinger, instantly silencing you. "You didn't have to do it, darling. Getting to be a mother again is more than enough for me."

"I know, but I still want you to name her."

"Are you sure? We both know I'm not very good at thinking of names." She chuckled as she said it, and you laughed along.

"There's bound to be a good name in that pretty little head of yours," you said.

"Lots of them, but you keep rejecting them." She grinned. "I'm serious, Y/N. You are more than welcome to pick a name for our wee one."

You shook your head. "I want you to do it."

"You're under no obligation—"

This time you cut her off. "I know. I'm cool with you choosing a name."

"You rejected most of the good ones."

If those were the good ones, you didn't want to know what she considered bad names. "Keep trying. There'll be a name we both like."

She pondered on it for a moment. "Maybe…"

"Yes?" you asked, mentally preparing for another monstrosity. Precaution. Who could blame you?

"Wynda," Rowena said. "It's quite rare. I doubt most people even know of it."

Wynda.

It certainly wasn't as bad as her other suggestions.

Wynda. Wynda. Wynda.

An image appeared in your head, one of a tiny ginger baby, then a toddler, then a preteen. The child was happy, her smile as bright as Rowena's.

Wynda.

You imagined whispering the name gently, imagined calling it out in the crowd.

Surprisingly, it was nice. It fit. It rolled off the tongue easily; no need for pronunciation lessons. The spelling was just as easy. There were no mean nicknames you could think of that other children could use to taunt her, no rhymes or similarly named fictional characters someone could compare her to as an insult.

While odd, and certainly rare, the name was perfect.

"I love it!" you said with a wide, happy grin.

Rowena frowned, surprised. "You do?"

"Yeah, it's perfect!

"You really like it?"

"I do!" you said. "It's a bit weird, but good weird.

"Finally," Rowena said with a loud sigh. "You're one picky lass."

"One of us has to be."

She rolled her eyes dramatically, then smiled. "It's settled then. Her name is Wynda."

"Yup!" You looked down to your swollen stomach and gently rubbed it. "Our little Wynda."

Rowena clasped her hand over yours. "Our little princess."

"We'll spoil this girl rotten."

"Of course we will! She's the daughter of two powerful witches. She deserves nothing but the best."

She did. And she would have it. She would have the happy life that you and Rowena never got to have. As her parents, you owed her that much.

Wynda MacLeod would be the happiest, most loved child in the world. It was a promise you would keep even at the price of your own life.

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