["she's been your sister for a long time now." four times robert takes care of quinn, (& one time he doesn't).]
[a/n: i really sorta really love robert. so. yknow. here ya go.]
to a pale, watery sky, wisps of dirty smoke, & the day
.
shaking in your clots/ and no, they are not cataloging your thoughts/ you got one kind of trouble, its the one that's on your back
—volcano choir, "dancepack"
…
1
The first time you see Quinn she can't breathe. Literally. She has a tube down her throat that makes her chest rise and fall, but she can't breathe. One of her eyes is bruised shut. She looks like Frannie, though, despite all of this and more stitches and tubes and wires.
Frannie starts to cry during the middle of the night. She gets progressively more upset and she thinks you're asleep; their mother is at home because Quinn has stabilized slightly.
Frannie walks out of the room then, lets go of Quinn's hand and walks out of the room. Quinn is very young and very hurt, and you think if she's conscious at all—she's still alive, and this is the most important thing—you think she is probably very, very scared.
You're hesitant to touch her because they rattled off such a long list of broken things, and her hand has scrapes on it, but you lace your fingers together anyway. You adore your big brother more than any human in the world but Frannie, and you think you really need Quinn to not die because no one should have to be in more pain than Frannie's already lived through.
It hits you that Quinn probably has, especially now.
You wonder how much of this she'd remember. The way they've laid her in the bed is very neat, swathed in fresh white bandages, but you think her recollections would probably be messy.
Things beep around you all of a sudden, and you panic because you don't know what they mean, and Quinn might die, and—
A nurse walks in calmly and switches an IV bag, smiles at you holding Quinn's hand.
Is she your sister? she asks.
Yes, you say.
.
2
She's sitting on your doorstep. For a few seconds when you're a bit farther away you think it's Frannie, but their hair isn't the same and then it hits you—Quinn.
Frannie is out picking up groceries and wine for a gallery show later that night, and you're heading home to change and then help her with whatever she needs.
And then there's Quinn. Who is cradling her swollen left hand, completely blown pupils.
The first thing she says to you is, I'm sorry.
It's okay, is what comes out of your mouth, although it definitely isn't okay. She's been getting worse, you know, and she's in her second year at Yale, and it's spring but Quinn is not recovering from a vast winter.
You get her inside and sit her at your kitchen island with a bag of peas on her hand while you call Frannie.
Quinn's here, you say.
What? Frannie says, and you wait while she thanks the cashier before you continue.
She's high, you say. And I think she has a broken hand.
Fuck, Frannie says, and you look over to Quinn, who is now sitting straight and still and completely unblinking.
I'm going to take her to the hospital.
Okay, she says, yeah. I'll—she takes in a shaky breath—um, I'll meet you there.
Babe, you say. I got her. She's okay for now.
Thank you, Frannie says, so softly, voice heavy and laden with tears.
You collect Quinn and get her in your car. She's moving robotically and you remember this a few times from when Frannie was using all the way back in undergrad. You know she's on some kind of downer—Frannie used to get despondent like this: Quinn doesn't talk in the car, and you don't try to make her.
You shuffle her into the hospital and someone puts her back in a room right away. You know most of her information and you start filling out forms in a little chair by the small bed she's in, and a doctor comes in and asks her, What did you take, honey?
She doesn't say anything. She doesn't really look scared, but she looks sad.
Quinn, the doctor says, it's really important that you tell us what you took.
She rolls her head lazily on the pillow toward you. She's trying to focus, you can tell, and she must think you're the safest option.
What'd you take, Quinn? you ask. You can tell me, it's fine.
She waits a few seconds, and then she says, Mandrax, very quietly.
The doctor nods and scribbles something down and walks away.
Frannie gets there soon, and she sits on the side of the bed and runs her hand through Quinn's hair, murmurs comforting things over and again.
They put Quinn on a few IVs, and they cast her broken hand. She seemingly gets more lucid after a while, and they don't want to keep her for the night.
Frannie looks torn as soon as you get her home, because her paintings are debuting at the gallery tonight. You say, I'll stay with her.
She swallows. Are you sure? I can cancel.
You can't, you say. You look over to the couch where Quinn is sitting and watching Discovery Channel passively. And yes, I'm sure. She's not too combative.
Frannie laughs sadly and wipes a few tears. You kiss her forehead and run your fingers along her cheek.
She leaves a few minutes later for the gallery and you sit down next to Quinn.
Are you hungry? you ask.
She nods slightly, not looking away from the television.
Bacon and eggs?
She nods again.
You offer them to her a few minutes later, and she eats without too much extra movement. You're pretty sure she's still coming down, and you wonder how much she took. You also have no idea how she broke her hand or how she got from New Haven to Boston.
Thirty-four minutes into a special about conjoined twins, she turns to you and says, Rachel broke up with me and I punched a wall.
Oh, you say. You don't bother to ask if she's okay.
I took shit, obviously. And then I took the train here because—
She's finally starting to cry, and she looks down at her hand in a yellow cast, and then up at you, and she realizes Frannie's not there, and she says, Oh God.
Hey, you say. Quinn, it's okay. We're family, it's okay. You're safe, you're okay.
She's breathing fast, and you remember Frannie freaking out a few times.
You hesitantly touch her shoulder, and she hugs you tightly, so you bring your arms around her back. She smells like sandalwood and lavander and honeysuckle, not like Frannie's spices and vanilla and oils. For some reason this difference is comforting to you—something about if Frannie made it out of some hell you can't understand, maybe Quinn could too.
I'm so sorry, she says. I'm so sorry, Robert.
It's going to be okay. You tell her this so many times until she stops crying and eventually falls asleep on your shoulder.
When Frannie gets home she runs her hand along Quinn's cheek where there are obvious tear tracks.
Rachel broke up with her and Quinn punched a wall and then get really high and came here.
Frannie puts her head in her hands, sits down heavily next to you on the couch.
Jesus Christ.
She told me to tell you she's sorry for ruining your night, you say.
Frannie smiles, just slightly, and kisses you gently. You collect Quinn gently in your arms a few minutes later, put her in the guest room where Frannie tucks her in.
You get ready for bed just like always with Frannie, because she needs the routine and the comfort, and your heart aches for both of them, because you think maybe they're humans that weren't always meant to be alive.
You wake up the next morning with your wife sprawled across your chest, and when you go out to start coffee, Quinn has made breakfast and left flowers and note of apology, but she's gone.
You allow her this.
.
3
You spend nights on the roof of your apartment building with her sometimes after Frannie's asleep and you hear Quinn sneak out.
I won't tell her, you say. As long as you don't jump.
She nods.
You come to understand—like you did with Frannie—that they do not choose this. Quinn tries. Quinn is absolutely brilliant at school; she writes and reads and is stunningly gifted. She has good days. She laughs. She talks about political theory with you at length over wine. She and Frannie goof around in the studio. There are days she is so bright.
But you know, even without any shred of understanding, that something in her brain is off-kilter. That Quinn cannot do anything about it on her own, not more than she's already trying to do.
There's a long scar on her wrist, and you know more than anything, that the fact she's staying alive has more to do with wanting to be here for Frannie and her mother and her daughter and her friends than it does with wanting to exist.
I'm sorry this is happening to you, you tell her one night.
She looks at you with the saddest eyes. Thank you, she says.
Her voice is heavy enough to fall all the way to the street, where it shatters and bleeds out for minutes.
.
4
You accidentally walk in on her just before her wedding. You thought Frannie was in that room, and you're trying to bring Frannie her bouquet she'd forgotten outside on the balcony, and she's a bridesmaids so this is important—but instead it's Quinn, her wedding dress half on, struggling but refusing help.
She starts laughing when she sees you. I mean I know your wife and I sort of look alike but the point of this day is to solidify how gay I am, despite how cute you are, Robert.
You grin. One of your favorite things of the past five years was watching Quinn heal and grow, because you really do love her as your sister.
I'd say you look beautiful but you don't actually have your dress on, you point out.
She huffs, brushing back short blonde curls that are constantly falling into her eyes. You wait a few seconds and watch her continue to struggle before she says, Please help me.
You laugh and walk over to her. She's managed to get her right arm in the right position but her dress is sort of twisted around and half-zipped. She rolls her eyes when you raise your eyebrows at her boobs, and she smiles when you finally get it on correctly and do the clasp. You've gone swimming and running and to yoga with her enough times to know her scars and the tattoos on her back and ribcage, and usually you don't talk about them.
But today she looks in the mirror and for a brief second her eyes flash with something hesitant, and she and Frannie both still struggle with food sometimes, and so you rub along her shoulder blades once and say, You're beautiful.
She hugs you and you're pretty sure some of her makeup transfers to your tuxedo but you don't care. Thank you for everything, she says.
You shrug. You've been my sister for a long time now, you say. Plus what straight guy doesn't like hot lesbians?
She laughs and steps back and wipes her tears.
Let's go get you married, you say, and she smiles.
.
5
Quinn had stayed home with Lucy. Frannie was in the studio and you and Rachel went to pick up Indian food for dinner—it's two days after Christmas, and they're spending this holiday with you at your brownstone in Boston. Rachel is four months pregnant and you think it's cute how paranoid Quinn is about everything, making sure everything is as safe as possible for Rachel.
You get home and you put the food down on the island while Rachel goes to the bathroom, and then you see Quinn and Lucy, splayed out on the floor in front of the fireplace, an open Harry Potter book on the floor near Quinn's right hand, Lucy's head on her chest. It's a lot of pale skin and blonde curls and you know that Lucy has been so healing for Frannie, but you know she's been so healing for Quinn too.
Rachel comes out of the bathroom and you motion for her to be quiet. When she walks over to you she looks like she might cry, but then she smiles instead. Frannie gets home then, and she laughs when she sees them, messy sleepers.
I have no idea how that's comfortable, Rachel says.
You laugh.
Frannie asks, Do I sleep like that too?
You nod. You take up about eighty percent of the bed, babe.
She sighs, and you put out her arm and snuggle into her side.
They're kind of sweet, aren't they? Rachel asks.
Frannie smiles.
They are, you say.