A/N: I went to a funeral yesterday. For someone who died way, way, way, way, way too early. A baby. A little tiny person that didn't even experience the taste of his first birthday cake. And it's stupid and it's wrong and I can't get it out of my head.

So this drabble was born. I'm embarassed by it, because it's so depressy and mopey. But I'm proud of it too, simply because it is exactly one hundred words. It took forever to edit it to that word count, so I am basking in the tiny little flame of success.

Anyways, here we are:

Grief is isolating, because it feels contagious. This is not spoken, but it is fact. Sadness is percieved as a fatal virus; no one gets close to her, for fear of contracting her disease. Isobel understands and doesn't blame anyone for allowing the thought to cross their mind. Because death is a cruel reminder that we are not untouchable; no one wants to acknowledge this.

But tonight Isobel is being held by warm arms. A body occupies the spot where her lover's ghost usually rests. His touch is familiar and safe and lovely.

She is infecting him. He doesn't care.

A/N: Just in case it wasn't clear, that was Izzie/Alex, at some point after the death of Denny.

By the way, there will be more of these, a'la TehFuzzyPenguin's Addison masterpiece (The name escapes me. Sorry!). They won't be as good, obviously, but they're fun to write.