It is nighttime when Izzie hears the sound – comparable to a million marbles falling onto the rooftop out of nowhere. A flash of light, a resounding boom: a particularly heavy storm is impending. Next to her, Alex shrugs – he is always next to her; she has been home four days, and he still can't leave her side.

He's never been a fan of rain. It reminds him of the torrential downpours that drown the cornfields of Iowa, on cue, every spring, but to her it means something different entirely – magic and atonement and cleansing and rebirth.

Her hair grows in short brownish tufts, and she involuntarily winces as she stands, but her chapped lips curl into a wide grin while she schemes.

She pulls lightly on his hand.

[He is so afraid she might break, he sometimes has to will himself to move.]

"Would you like to dance with me?"

He's shocked, really. "Dance with you? What the hell, Iz? I'd do anything for you, but that's a little random."

She smiles, as if she'd expected that response.

[She did, of course, word-for-word.]

"I've always wanted to dance in the rain." A ghost of playfulness still tugs up the corners of her mouth, and she looks up at him hopefully, knowing he can't resist her – hasn't ever been able to. He sighs, his Alex act – always looking like he doesn't care, when in reality there's nothing else he'd rather be doing.

[Or, perhaps more importantly, anyone else he'd rather be with.]

The air is surprisingly warm, and the grass squelches beneath their feet as raindrops pour down from the inky sky. A light giggle escapes her lips, so rare since the funeral that Alex isn't quite sure he actually heard her laughing.

Tentatively, she lifts her arms above her bald head and twirls in an unsteady circle, not quite sure of herself. He watches, enraptured – Izzie's movements have always fascinated him. When the lightning flashes he can see the weariness of her face contrasting with her sparkling eyes, and he loves the fact that despite being weakened from cancer ravaging her body, Izzie still manages to live, really live.

A faster spin, a wobbly jump – the laughter pours from her mouth like music now. Her eyes float shut, and she tilts her head skyward.

She can see Denny and George – they are imprinted on the back of her eyelids, mementos of the dead – but she can feel Alex. His rough hand grasps hers, and she senses heat radiating from his muscular body. Her husband is alive and healthy, and that alone is enough to get her through her best friend's death.

So she squeezes his hand and they waltz to unheard music, the wedding dance they never got to have, and when they finally go inside he carries her over the threshold (dripping mud and grass and water onto Meredith's carpet) just like a bride and groom would. Because the things that are supposed to happen never really do.

--

[A/N: A little plotbunny created from some nighttime dancing of my own. :) HUGE AMOUNTS OF LOVE AND CREDIT go to my darling -EHWIES, who betaread and basically made this pretty and readable. :D Reviews make my life, as always.]