The ancient Greeks gave it its own name: storge.
Lying on the couch with a twin in each arm, Iris understands the Greeks' infatuation with words for love. Eyes closed, she does not sleep but basks in the moment, enjoying the company of her two little ones. She has always enjoyed children, freely picking up any sleeve-tugging toddler or spending an afternoon watching old Disney films with a friends' kids. There is something innately charming about them, small and inquisitive, bright and playful, puppyish and so full of personality that she cannot fathom what it is like to parent them.
It's one thing to watch a couple of kids for a few hours before returning to a child-free existence; it's another thing entirely to raise them. Before the twins arrived, Iris wondered how parents survived the day-in, day-out trials and tribulations of child-raising. Sometimes it seemed effortless and fun, like a day at the park; other days it was full of frustrations and miscommunications. She only experienced the periphery – listening to the parents' remarks, tempered with good parent humor – and so the concrete reality of raising kids evaded her.
Now that the concrete reality is her own, the task is both more and less daunting than she anticipated.
More, because the twins are so fragile, smaller than any human beings she has ever held before. In semi-delirious amusement, she likes to think that the universe gave her two arms so she could hold both at the same time. Sober, she is equally certain that two is the perfect number for Barry and her, that she needs no more to be happy, that these two are all she ever wants. Her two perfect babies.
Still, it is a demanding task, commanding every ounce of her attention at all hours of the day, waking and formerly non-waking. It helps that Barry can stretch a thirty-minute cat nap into a full eight-hour night; he has the reserves to attend to the twins most of the night, leaving Wally to watch the rest of Central City. He'll lie next to her in bed, letting her cozy up to him, until almost inevitably the baby monitor goes off. Kissing her shoulder, he'll disappear for a time, and she'll disappear into sleep that isn't deep, waiting, needing to know that her babies are okay. He returns before she even entertains the idea of dozing off, settling in against her and draping an arm around her belly, and she rests a hand over his and strokes her thumb against his wrist until she feels his breathing deepen.
Now, a week after bringing the twins home, her belly is flat again. Even though her body has adjusted to the change, her mind hasn't fully accepted it. At times, she finds herself ghosting a hand over the former curve of her belly where the twins are supposed to be, where the twins were safe, and knows that by bringing them into the world she has brought them into a place of great danger. This life isn't safe for Iris, either, but she wouldn't quit the lifestyle even if Barry did. This is her city; she has to do what she can to help it.
Humming softly, she strokes the twins' backs, aching to keep them safe. It doesn't matter if she gets hurt – she can even survive Barry getting hurt, has survived Barry getting hurt more times than either of them want to count, there are no scars to keep score – but her stomach tightens with dread imagining harm befalling either of her babies. She can't even actualize it, imagining only a vague, undefined apparition spiriting her little ones away. The emptiness inside her is so profound it brings burning warmth to her closed eyelids. She keeps them that way until she is certain she will not cry before opening them.
She hears the key in the lock and the click of little corgi paws before Barry opens the door, laughing softly as he greets Luke and Leia, sitting on the floor with them. "Hey, hey, kids," he whispers, knowing to keep his voice down, check to see if the babies are sleeping first. Iris watches him, amused, as their fur-kids clamber on his lap, putting their paws up on his chest, eager for attention. "Hi. Hi there. I know, I know, I was gone all day." He grabs Luke's head, his favorite boy Luke, and kisses his brow. Patting Leia's haunch affectionately before disengaging both dogs, he stands, idling over to Iris on the couch.
She can't rise to greet him, so he bows to her, kissing her. He tastes like summer, flushed with the outdoor twilit warmth that tantalizes, dandelions and a woodsy, crackling fire. For a moment, she almost wants to hand him the twins and find that mythical place he has been, to dance among the fairy light and dwell in a place where time doesn't pass. "Need anything?" he asks, pulling back to kiss her brow.
She closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the sweetness of the gesture, a little laugh escaping her when she feels paws up on the couch, Leia's big oversized corgi paws against her.
Big oversized corgi paws, to match Luke's big oversized corgi ears. Barry picked out Luke four years ago as a service animal, an emotional support dog, and Luke was perfect on his own, but fate decided that he wasn't destined to be a solo act. Two years later an elderly resident in an adjacent apartment building passed away without endowing her corgi to anybody, and rehoming quickly turned into permanent adoption. Ever since they brought her into the family, Leia has always been a bit keener about Iris than Barry. Barry doesn't mind – he's got Lukey, and Leia enjoys him well enough.
Leia successfully hops up onto her feet, and Iris does laugh, just a soft sound that stirs a little inquisitive noise from Dawn, and "shh, shh, shh," she chimes, Luke whining at the base of the couch, up, up, up.
Barry obligingly lifts his fur-kid around the middle before scooping up Leia, holding them both under his arms like two sacks of grain. "Coffee?" he offers, and Iris nods without taking her attention from Dawn, shh, shh, shhhhh.
She's barely conscious of Barry leaving, fully aware of the little human against her chest, soft and maybe a little scared but so utterly, entirely dependent on her. It takes her breath away, the sheer degree of helplessness. She is this baby's entire world – Don's, too. Don sleeps uninterrupted, and Dawn settles after a few moments, breathing softly against her collarbone once again.
Despite herself, a tear slips down Iris' cheek. She cushions her cheek on Dawn's downy hair and croons a familiar old tune, a lullaby she remembers like a music box, a melody without words. She's almost asleep herself when she feels a warm gust of air, concurrent with the windows opening as Barry lets in the evening cityscape, traffic like crickets, far below them. The twins don't even stir, but she shifts slightly, her back sore. Amused at her own discomfort, she wonders when she grew old enough to grow stiff from sitting on a couch.
Barry sets a piping hot cup of Jitters coffee next to her on the coffee table, kissing her once again before leading their fur-kids out onto the balcony with a cup in hand.
Part of her wants to join him, to be young and untethered again, to laugh late into the night over a bottle of champagne that warms her laughter and deepens Barry's. She wants to sit out under the stars they can barely see, her head on his shoulder, Luke squiggling his way onto Barry's lap, one of her hands tangling in his soft, ginger fur. She thinks about those howl-at-the-moon evenings, when everything was perfect where it was, and I never want this to end was a sincere feeling.
But with the twins cradled in her arms, she does not miss those lonely nights, those colder nights. There is a beautiful rhythm to her life, now, even if it's unexpected, arrhythmic at times, exhausted laughter and frustrated groans and interrupted intimacy because sleep is just so sweet. She can hear Luke and Leia's paws clicking, Barry shushing them half-teasingly, half-amusedly, laughing unreservedly when Luke nearly tips over his coffee in his excitement. Iris doesn't reach for her own, thoughtfully ensconced in a thermos to keep it hot for her, enjoying the aromatic coffee.
When it begins to rain lightly, she closes her eyes, listening to the sound and Barry and the corgis basking in it. She doesn't fall asleep, but she dozes for a time, blinking when she hears a whimper nearby. It's Don, stirring, little fists clenching and unclenching. Drawn to the burgeoning distress, Barry – drenched – reappears at her side, holding out his arms.
Iris lets him pick up Don because it's easier than balancing both. Barry bounces a little on his feet, crooning wordlessly to Don. Don keeps making little discontented noises against his shoulder, but at a lower volume, already quieting down.
Watching Barry with their baby fills Iris' chest with the same warmth that holding Don does. She loved Barry before the twins, loved Barry like she had never loved another human being, but God does she love him now. Whenever parenthood daunts her, overwhelms her, this great terrifying thing without an instruction manual despite all of the books, so many books, she looks at him, equally unguided but somehow still steady, confident, joyful.
And she finds joy, too, letting him take Dawn after a beat, bopping along gently. Sitting up, Iris stretches slowly, indulges in her coffee, and watches her husband dance with their children.
What escaped definition before is so clear to her now:
It's love.