Nowhere, Kansas

Part IV - Future

"It's not the long, flowing dress that you're in

Or the light coming off of your skin;

The fragile heart you protected for so long

Or the mercy in your sense of right and wrong.

It's not your hands searching slow in the dark

Or your nails leaving love's watermark.

It's not the way you talk me off the roof

Your questions like directions to the truth.

It's knowing that this can't go on forever

Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone.

Maybe we'll get forty years together

But one day I'll be gone

Or one day you'll be gone."

* * *

He'd only been partially right: there's no staging of coups. (Although the minute Eli found out his mother had left, he declared that he would be handling all of the "mom jobs," which to his mind meant baking a mountain of chocolate chip cookies.) And they don't eat ice cream sandwiches for dinner. (Although one of Alex's favorite parts of being a parent is breaking the rules on occasion, so they do have ice cream sandwiches as a side dish with their grilled cheese sandwiches.)

"Dad," Eli says that night as they're clearing the dishes from the table, "you know what?"

"What's up, bud?"

"I miss Mom a lot."

"Me, too."

Eli smirks as he drops his plate into the sink, and for a second he looks so much like his father that Alex feels like he's in a time machine. "But I really, really like having ice cream at dinner time."

Alex grins like he just won a million dollars. It's no secret that the household always tends to run more smoothly with Izzie around – his wife is not just a superhero surgeon but also a superhero mother – but in spite that, Alex lives for the days when it's just him and his kids. He loves being the third member of their little club, a club that's all marker-stained fingers and serious discussions about which of the Pixar characters would make the best astronaut.

"I like it too," he tells Eli.

"Not me," Alexis declares.

Alex folds his arms over his chest and gives her a steely look. "You've got a lot of chocolate on your face for someone who doesn't like having ice cream at dinner time," he teases her.

She tips up her little nose at him and scoffs. It is a Cristina Yang face if he's ever seen one; he's going to have to stop letting them Facetime with her. "I prefer my ice cream at breakfast," she declares.

Before Alex can laugh or even react the twins are off on a stomping, roaring, giggling tornado, demanding they have ice cream sundaes for breakfast in the morning.

All he can do is laugh. The rest of the night passes in a buzz of Magnatiles and tooth brushing and bedtime stories; every so often Alex finds himself just sitting back and watching his children, marveling at these two perfect humans he and Izzie made.

How could he not want another baby, looking at them and knowing what possibilities lie in those tiny exquisite minds? How could he not want to create more of these extraordinary little people with their demands for ice cream at all hours of the day and night? Maybe a new baby would have his mother's smile or Izzie's hands, his temper or his sister's eyes. Maybe they'd grow up to be a surgeon or a poet or a judge or any other number of beautiful potentialities.