"Sam, I'm sick."
"There's still cough syrup in the medicine cabinet from when Jamie had his cold. You could-"
"No, Sam...I'm sick. Sick-sick."
He looks up from his waffles, his eyes like those of a frightened animal-wide, with an awful, glittering sheen to them. She remembers it from the few times Russell took her and her sister hunting with him.
It's terror and grief all rolled into one, along with the simple, ancient desire to run, even though you are frozen to the spot, even though you know there really isn't anywhere you can go.
"No," Sam says flatly.
"Sam..."
"No."
He stands, shoving the chair against the table so forcefully that his plate jumps. He won't look at her.
"I have-" Quinn forces the words out, even though they're scraping through her throat, all sharp edges and bitter tastes. "I have a year. Maybe a little more."
She watches as his shoulders slump, and his head drops. One hand moves to cup his eyes, even though his back is still to her. She is about to stand up, about to go to him, when he turns to her and drops to his knees, burying his face in her lap.
The kitchen lights turn his blonde hair into rays of sunshine, which is, of course, fitting for Sam. His warmth, his light, his generosity, his love...it seemed like all she had to do was stretch out her hand to him, and he'd led her from a place of loneliness and self-loathing to one where she finally felt safe and precious.
After a few minutes, Sam lifts his face and cradles hers between his hands. "I'll go with you," he says, and he's crying, and his pain knifes through her like it always has.
"Baby, no."
She gently peels his hands away from her face, threading their fingers together so that she can't tell where she ends and Sam begins.
"You can't do that," she continues. "You know you can't. Our son needs you."
Quinn's memory drags up similar words-"I need you. I needed my mom."-and she remembers vowing, years ago, that the family she started would never be like the one she was born into.
She hopes that her son, her beautiful little Jamie, knows how very, very much he is loved. He certainly couldn't have grown up in a house more different than she had-Sam isn't anything like Russell, wasn't cold or remote in any sense.
No, he's the one who snuck Jamie pieces of candy before dinner, who cajoled and kissed Quinn into letting him open just one of his Christmas presents early. He's the one who built a treehouse in the backyard, even though it was mid-July and sweltering.
They had a ritual, every night, that Quinn always watched after she kissed Jamie good-night and told him she loved him, although she wasn't sure if either her son or her husband knew she was there.
"Who are you?"
"The Han Solo to your Chewy."
"And?"
"The Robin to your Batman."
"Yeah, and?"
"The Bucky to your Captain America."
"And what does that mean?"
"We're best buds, forever."
"Forever."
Sam is crying in earnest now, and she feels her face warping into a similar expression, less because of her own grief and more because she simply can't stand to see his.
"I don't understand," he says, "what I'm supposed to do without you."
"You're going to teach him how to be a kind, compassionate, patient and loving man, just like his father. You're going to teach him how to play the guitar and how to speak Na'vi and how to do all those ridiculous impressions-"
He laughs, weakly.
"-and you're going to tell him what the right person can do for another, that it's possible to save someone from themselves because you love them so much."
She grips his hands fiercely and he returns the pressure, and then he's pulled her into his arms and kisses her.
"Don't you ever, ever forget what you've done for me, Sam Evans," she says, once they've broken apart. "Don't you ever."
They're still wound around each other like a vine to a tree when Jamie comes down for breakfast, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He latches on to Sam's leg first and peeks up at his parents.
"Hey, buddy," Sam says, disentangling himself from Quinn and hauling the five-year-old onto his hip.
He points at Quinn, enacting the second part of their ritual. "Who's that?"
"The Rosie Cotton to our Samwise Gamgee."
"And?"
"The Mary Jane to our Peter Parker."
"Yeah, and?"
"The Guinevere to our Lancelot."
"And what does that mean?"
"We're going to protect her and take care of her, forever."
Sam manages another smile. "Forever."
/\\\/
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, scout?"
"I miss her."
"Me too."