Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 1 - Mr Americano

So thrilled to say that this fic has often sat around the top rankings of #alanrickman! And has had #1 spot a handful of times. THANK YOU everyone!

PROLOGUE - 

Trapped in an abusive, unfulfilling relationship, Rebecca Stone finds herself strangled in a web of her own lies and deceit in order to keep seeing the new man in her life. An unlikely pairing; one she cannot deny, seduced by his velvety voice and chivalrous charm. 

Struggling to find a way to escape her relationship, she finds herself at the wrath of an obsessive control freak who is willing to do whatever it takes to make her suffer when he discovers her secret.

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WARNING  - this story does contain sex from Chapter 9 onwards. [Rated M for steamy sex/abuse topics/language. Mature readers only please]

In this fanfiction I've written Alan as himself. 

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Central London.

Whether a resident or a tourist, the odds of being swept into a human tidal wave are inevitable. Have you ever noticed how everyone always seems to be walking toward you as though you are the only pin waiting to be struck down in an alley by a thousand bowling balls.

"Excuse me...sorry there...pardon me...sorry..."

Another day, another battle through the early morning rush hour that burst from the doors of the London Underground onto the concrete of Wood Lane tube station. As I hit my Oyster hard on the Underground gate I wonder how the hell London managed before this system. No, in fact, I remember how it was – "Excuse me, could you help me please? My card won't let me through." Cue the snotty balding guy sauntering over on his own watch as if I didn't have somewhere to be. Thank God those days are over.

I whip out my phone and delete the current song on my playlist, hitting the mini trash can icon. If only I could erase the person the song reminded me of with a click of a button. My mind drifted at the thought, before it took a diversion, settling on the tasks that lay ahead for the day.

E Pellicci – an authentic Italian café outside the BBC Studios. It's been my work place for almost three years now. The money isn't great, but it keeps me afloat, mainly because here we get to keep our own tips. The bell above the door tinkles as I walk in. The calm before the storm – empty chairs, unoccupied tables and a silent stereo system greet me – one that is exclusive to jazz music of my bosses taste. A friendly face appears from around the corner, it's Isabelle my co-worker with a box under her arm on her way to restock the condiments.

"Morning ...." She smiles, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. Isabella – a short, freckled brunette whom over the time we've known each other has a developed a knack for knowing what I'm thinking. I suppose the bruises have been a contributing factor, even though I always tried to cover them. Apparently, sometimes not well enough.

"Morning Isabelle," I greet her.

We exchange general chit-chat before Mr Pellicci enters front of house and checks his watch – a not-so-subtle way of telling me I need to step on it and put on my apron.

And my day begins like clockwork. The bell tinkles above the door, crockery rattles as each order is assembled of tea cups large and small, coffee spouts hiss as lashes of milk filter into silver jugs and the sound of chatter fills the air to the backdrop of jazz music.