"We are not naming him Harrison.”
You looked over at your husband, who met your gaze with a half-hearted scowl.
“Why not?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow to face him. The two of you were sprawled across your king sized bed, your swollen, pregnant belly between your bodies. Harry’s hand idly stroked your stomach, feeling the slight movements of your unborn child. You two had just come from your latest ultrasound appointment, which, arguably, had been the most important one so far: you’d been told the sex of your baby.
A boy. After two daughters, - Jesse, from Harry’s first marriage, and Tessa, from your brief coupling with Eobard Thawne (disguised as Earth 1’s Harrison Wells, and that was a long story to say the least) - finally, you would have a son.
And all fathers wanted their sons to be named for them, right?
“It’s an old man’s name.” Harry crinkled up his nose. “It’s bad enough I have to live with it.”
“Oh, right, cause you’re elderly and all. I forgot.”
The retaliatory pinch to your butt made you squeal and squirm away from Harry’s hand, smacking at his arm. Harry merely grinned, his deep blue eyes shining behind his glasses.
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” Giggling, you rested your head on your hand. “You don’t want a Harry Junior?”
“God, no, not a Junior.” Long, strong fingers rubbed along the fabric of your shirt. “There’s only room for one Harrison Wells at a time in this world.”
“Which is hilarious, coming from you.”
Harry pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist as a yawn overtook you.
“We’ll figure out a name later. You need to rest.”
“Doctor’s orders?” you teased, settling back against the pillows.
“Sure. Doctor’s orders.”
It was some time before Harry brought up baby names again. On a slow, meta-free day, the two of you were working across the table from one another in the Cortex: Harry, tinkering with some machine he and Cisco had built, and you, typing away on your laptop, eager to get your reports submitted to your boss before end of day.
“Why don’t we name the baby after your father?” Harry asked out of the blue. It took you a moment to realize what he had said, but when it hit you, you couldn’t help but make a face.
“Glenn? Christ, that’s just as old as Harrison.”
“It is not!”
“Harry, we are not naming our son Glenn. That’s social suicide in this day and age. We’d be setting him up for a life of torment.”
“It’s sophisticated,” your husband argued. “It’s intelligent, it’s-”
“Old. And it ain’t happening.”
Across the Cortex, Barry poked his head out from Cisco’s workshop.
“I think you should name him Barry!” he grinned, taking a bite of his pizza. “You know, after your favorite speedster?”
“Jesse is my favorite speedster, Allen.” Harry muttered, not even looking up from his work. “Try again.”
The dejected pout on the Flash’s face made you laugh, clutching your stomach as Barry cried, “Okay, fine! Third favorite!”
At that, Harry looked up. A mischievous smirk spread across his lips.
“Jay Wells doesn’t have a very good ring to it.”
Barry’s offended shouting could hardly be heard over your raucous laughter, but, as funny as all this was, you two were running out of time. You were already five months pregnant; your son would be here before you knew it, and he needed to have a name.
In your desperation, you had asked for name suggestions from your friends on the Waverider, but, in all reality, you should have known better.
At least the variety was interesting.
(“We are not naming our baby Agamemnon.” Harry had scowled. “What the hell is wrong with Rory?”
“Oh, come on, babe, he’s just joking. Okay, here, what about Jameson?”
“Who’s that from?”
“Screw Jackson. That’s a stupid name.”)
That, in turn, had led you to seeking advice from your friends on Team Arrow, with slightly better results.
(“How about Greyson?” you had suggested, and Harry had mulled it over.
“I don’t hate it.” he’d said finally. “Who’s that one from?”
Still, you were nearing seven months pregnant, and your son had no name. As a last resort, you decided to ask the ones closest to you: your kids.
“I like Evan as a name.” Jesse said over the dining room table, and you wrote it down in your notebook, which was full of messy scrawls and crossed out name options. “It’s simple, easy to pronounce, and easy to spell. It’s a good name.”
And with that, there was just one person left to ask.
“Tessa?” you scooped your toddler up off the floor and settled her on your knee. Your firstborn daughter, the apple of your eye, had little idea that she was going to be a big sister soon. It was hard to believe that only a few years ago, it was her you’d been carrying in your belly, and now, here she was, growing up so fast, and you had another baby on the way. Her curls were pulled into two adorable pigtails on either side of her head, and her eyes, big and blue, just like her father’s, gazed up at you as she waited for you to talk. God, when had she gotten so big?
“What should we name your little brother?” you asked her, playing with one of her pigtails.
There was a long pause as your daughter seemed to consider the question, rattling it around in her little brain, before she looked up, with all the seriousness a three year old could muster.
Harry’s laughing could be heard all the way from the kitchen.
(In all fairness, you should have known better than to ask a toddler.)
“How about this?” Harry had suggested one night, as you two prepared for bed. “We come up with a list of good names, and when he’s born, we look at him, and whatever name we think fits, then that’s his name. Deal?”
Well, boy, that moment had arrived.
Exhausted, breathing heavily, and covered in a sheen of sweat that had your hospital gown clinging to your skin, you allowed your aching body to relax against the lumpy mattress for the first time in a few hours. The sound of your son’s cries filled the delivery room, louder than all the beeping machines and chattering doctors, and you wondered if you had ever heard anything so beautiful before.
(Maybe with Tessa, but most of her labor was a blur.)
From his place at your bedside, Harry grinned, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His dark hair stuck up in various directions from him constantly running his hands through it during your labor, and you wanted to reach over and smooth it down as you always did, but you just didn’t have any energy. The wrinkles around his blue eyes and the dark circles underneath them seemed more pronounced than normal. Your labor had taken just as much of a toll on Harry as it had on you, but he, ever the devoted husband, hadn’t left your side for an instant.
“He’s here,” Harry muttered into your hand as he kissed it again. “He’s here, [Y/N]. You did so good, I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Language.” you scolded quietly, with a half-hearted smile.
By the time the nurse came back with your baby, all swaddled in a little white blanket, you were on the verge of passing out, yet you still held your arms open to take your son. He fit so snugly into the crook of your arm as you cradled him against your chest, like the space had been carved out to fit his body, and you decided, as you stared down at him, that he was the most perfect little thing you had ever seen. A soft blue hat covered his head of little dark curls, and as he yawned for the first time, he blearily opened his new eyes - a stunning blue, just like his father. He looked so much like Harry and his side of the family. Hell, he even looked like Harry’s father, Isaac, who had passed before Jesse was born.
“Should I get the name notebook?” Harry asked, peering down at you as you held his son, but you shook your head.
“I know his name,” you said softly, running your knuckle over your son’s soft cheek. “His name is Isaac.”
Your husband sucked in a quiet breath. Isaac. That name struck a chord with you. It was simple, easy to say, and yet, it meant something. Harry had been so close with his father before he had died: they were both brilliant scientists, and devoted family men, and when he had died, Harry had been devastated. To name his only son after the father he loved and missed so dearly, to secure his father’s legacy through this child: it was hard.
But it was perfect.
“Isaac,” Harry cooed, taking the little blue and white bundle from your arms. “Isaac Wells. That’s perfect, [Y/N].”
You couldn’t keep the smile from your face as Harry pressed a gentle kiss to Isaac’s forehead.
“Hello, Isaac,” he whispered, settling into the chair by your bedside. “Do you know who I am? I’m your daddy, and that’s your mommy over there.”
You had never seen Harry look so amazed, so totally infatuated as he did when he looked down at his son. People usually saw Harry as a gruff, emotionless man, one who was cold and rude, but none of them had ever seen Harry with his children. The way he melted around them, how he did Tessa’s hair in the morning or worried after Jesse as she honed her speedster skills, it was like he was a completely different man. That gruff exterior was just a facade: this was the real Harrison Wells.
“We’ve waited a very long time for you,” you heard Harry say to Isaac as you closed your eyes and relaxed against the pillows. Let Harry have Isaac for a bit: you needed to rest before all the visitors came flooding in to see the new arrival. “We love you so much. Isaac Wells…welcome to the world, little guy.”