Subj: Quentin Backstory -- 10
Date: 5/12/01 12:43:28 AM Central Daylight Time
From: DSRules

Quentin woke up and walked immediately to the washstand, splashing the ice-cold water on his face.

It was no use. The dream stayed with him.

He splashed water on his face again, rubbing it into his tousled brown hair. He stood and shook his head like a dog, spraying water all over his room.

He walked to the mirror and inspected his bloodshot eyes. Then he opened the hidden panel in his room, pulling out a brandy bottle that he'd hidden there. As he screwed the top off, he briefly considered digging out the snifter. "Ah, to hell with it." He cursed as he took a big swig.

He felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading through him, and steeled himself to deal with the dreams that had plagued him during the night and, seemingly, the previous day.

In his dream, Daphne had moved into Collinwood. She'd injured herself somehow - it seemed to Quentin that she'd broken her hip -- and she'd needed to move to Collinwood so that the family and staff could watch over her while she recuperated.

And he'd wanted to watch over her. Being in the same room with her, he felt like he had back in Boston, on that rainy afternoon, when they shared their first kiss, and almost had shared so much more . . .

He felt himself becoming aroused by this memory of a memory, and it angered him so, that he wished he *had* used a snifter, if only so that he could throw it against the wall.

Instead, he took another gulp of the brandy, wiping the residue from his lips onto his wrist after he did so.

The familiar taste of the liquor centered him, and after a few minutes, and several more drinks from the bottle, he felt that he'd shaken the residue of the previous night's disturbing dream.

His hands shook as he hastily dressed for breakfast. He put on a shirt and trousers, shoes and socks, then threw his waistcoat over his shirt, stepping into the hallway, shirt untucked and waistcoat unbuttoned.

He paused to tuck his shirt in, and noticed that in his haste, he'd buttoned it incorrectly. He quickly unbuttoned it, and had just lined up the first button with the appropriate buttonhole when he heard a door close behind him.

He turned around and saw Daphne, seated in a wicker wheelchair, staring at him.

{Oh, God, no.} Quentin felt his heart sink. {It wasn't a dream?}

Daphne's eyes flickered briefly over Quentin's bare chest peeking out from the opening of his shirt. Was it distaste on her face? He couldn't tell. "Quentin." Daphne spoke his name without inflection.

Quentin resisted the temptation to cover his naked chest, choosing instead to unobtrusively puff it open farther. If it bothered her, so much the better. "Good morning, Grandmother." He bowed deeply in a move that, if he'd been a woman, would have amounted to flashing his cleavage to her.

Daphne seemed unaffected by Quentin's blatant display of his masculine charms, which only served to anger him further.

"May I escort you down to breakfast?" he asked in a smooth, unruffled tone, which belied the turmoil going on inside him. He had a horrible thought that the only thing that would stop his heart from pounding so rapidly would be to physically remove it from his chest. And that would do nothing to stop his palms from sweating or restore the saliva to his dry mouth.

Daphne blinked at Quentin. Since her injury, she needed to be carried down to breakfast, and she had a sudden, unsettling image of Quentin carrying her down the stairs, and she feared that if she were ever that close to him again, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from making a fool of herself and kissing him with all of the love for him that she held in her heart.

Surprisingly, Daphne was able to keep her tone even as she responded. "No, thank you, Quentin. I just rang for Sandor and Magda. They'll be coming to bring me downstairs momentarily."

"You can't let him carry you." Quentin surprised himself with the vehemence of his response. "I'll do it."

He wheeled her the few feet to the edge of the stairs, and for a moment, Daphne actually feared that he might push her down the steps, but instead, he walked around to her side, scooping her effortlessly up in his arms and carrying her gently down the steps to the foyer.

Amazed at his own audacity, he carried her into the dining room, placing her tenderly in the seat at Edward's right hand.

Daphne's brown eyes met Quentin's blue eyes and a look of affection passed between them. An affection that they each had thought long dead.

Quentin wrenched his gaze from hers. "I'll go into town and hire someone trustworthy to carry you, Grandmother." He told her as he walked out of the room.

"Mr. Quentin." Sandor huffed as he descended the stairs, his wife by his side. "I came to get Mrs. Collins, but her chair was sitting abandoned at the top of the stairs."

Quentin suddenly was overwhelmed by jealousy at the image of Daphne's tiny form being carried in the arms of that fool.

"That's because she's already downstairs, eating breakfast." He snapped. "And don't worry about it in the future. I'll be going into town to hire someone else to do that duty for you. Just go upstairs and get her chair for her so it'll be ready when she's done with her breakfast." He instructed Sandor brusquely as he turned on his heel and stomped out the door.

{That brandy just didn't do it.} He thought as he paused on the doorstep. {First, I'll get a drink. Then, I'll start looking for assistants for Daphne.}