disclaimer: Still very much not mine.

a/n: God, I love Jade/Beck. Haha, I actually have a few more little drabbles on them- I wouldn't be adverse to turning this into a drabble collection, if you guys are into this one and would like to read more. It's fairly random, I'll admit (but hey, the original is from the mind Dan Schnieder; of course it's random xD), but let me know if I should post more and I shall. Feel free to gives any ideas you'd like to see. :D Enjoy & please review!

Most weekends, she sleeps with him in his RV— one of the only upsides to both of them having parents who don't really care what they do so long as the cops aren't involved —and it's when he's forcing her (again) to accommodate his love of board games (that even a thousand of her sarcastic remarks can't kill, dammit) and they're halfway through The Game of Life that the subject of names comes up. Jade's little plastic car has, literally, no more room for all the stick-kids she's piled up, and she's glaring.

"Can't I just leave one or two on the road to die of exposure?" she asks again.

"We do not leave children in roads, we love and nurture them."

"Yeah, yeah," Jade mutters, trying to poke her car along without letting her six children fall out. "This is ridiculous. If I ever have this many kids in real life, I'm just going to call them one, two, three, four, five, and six. Or maybe A, B, C, D, E, and F."

Beck looks at her skeptically. "I don't think the government would take too kindly to that."

"Whatever."

"I'd name my kid something cool," he decides, tilting his chin to indicate it's her turn to spin. Jade does so with an audible groan, which he ignores. "Like… like Bartholomew. Or Ploxy."

Her eyes go wide. "Oh, your poor children."

"What?"

"Those are disgusting. 'Ploxy' isn't even a real name!"

"It is in some language," Beck defends, finally looking down to see where her car landed. "Oh, look." A grin blossoms on his face. "Twins."

"What?" Jade looks from him to the board as though one or the other is playing a horrible trick on her. Then she stuffs her hand in the bag, grabbing at two more stick figures. "What is this, like, eight? Wow, I am some kind of whore."

"Be nice."

"To myself?"

"Shh." He presses a finger to her lips; she snaps at it, which is admittedly kind of hot, then slams her kid-filled car down on the board. "What would you name your kids?" he asks. "For real?"

His finger is still on her mouth, which may be why she looks distracted and mutters without thinking too long: "I don't know… probably Anne. Or Mary, or David or something." Her eyes snap to his, glaring. "Not 'Ploxy.' God, that sounds like some disgusting vitamin supplement."

But Beck's already cracking up. "I figured you'd go with Ruby. Or Gem. Or… Diamond or Copper or something."

Jade gives him a droll stare. "Yes, because I really am that cliché."

He spins the wheel again and then leans over the board to kiss her, lingering so long the spinner's gone silent by the time he pulls away. "It's better than sounding like the Pope," he points out, sliding his plastic car around a bend. "Really, 'Mary'?"

"Better than Ploxy. Christ." But her face is starting to flush, so, quick as lightning, he kisses her again.

"Mary Oliver," Beck muses, their foreheads touching. "I guess it sounds nice."

And she's smiling the way no one at Hollywood Arts has ever had the pleasure of seeing her do. "It's a'ight."

Beck finally pulls away, sprawling back and grinning. "But we're so naming the next one Ploxy. Boy or girl."

"I will give it up for adoption," Jade threatens, the half-smile not quite gone from her face.

"I'll make sure they give you extra drugs during labor, so that way you'll be knocked out when the birth certificate shows up."

"Cruel." She grabs the nearest thing to her, one of his pillows, and flings it at his chest.

"Or maybe… Zinc."

"I hate you," she says, but she's laughing.

"I love you." Lunging forward, he manages to knock most of their game askew and push her onto her back. "Even if you name like the Pope." He kisses her cheek, her neck, and even without looking knows she's rolling her eyes.

"You better be glad I'm not the Pope," she tells him, arching when his mouth reaches her jaw line.

"What for?" he manages, because the way she tastes always distracts him.

Her legs wrap themselves around his waist. "The Pope's celibate, idiot," she pants, clinging to his neck.

But after a year and eleven months, even Beck Oliver knows an 'I love you'when he hears it.