Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 3 - Switch Up

We walk for about a minute until his silver BMW comes into view. Such a car could only be driven by a man like this. He walks to the passenger side, sheltering me with the umbrella and opens the door with chivalry. I have a moment to myself whilst he walks around the bonnet and gets in the other side. My stomach practically lurches onto the dashboard as I smile to myself.

I'm in Alan Rickman's car. Oh God...Scott. I can't let him see me. He'll flip. He won't understand that it's simply a ride home.

Mr Americano gets in, places the umbrella in the backseat and as he does I catch that glorious whiff of patchouli and sandalwood in his coat and scarf. Mixed with the leather of his car, it sends me into a hazy daydream where we drive for miles away from reality. Rebecca, get a grip. Ok. Nice man. Nice car...Oh god my hair. I reach up and touch the mangled mass that looks like a fucking hay bail. It would be rude to pull down the mirror and check, right? Yes. Don't pull down the mirror.

His seat is arranged differently than mine to accommodate his long legs. His tall stature and broadness make me feel small in the seat next to him, but I quite like it. Why? God knows. I just know I don't regret getting in the car with him.

"You didn't have to do this you know," I say, looking over. He has the profile of a roman emperor, his aquiline nose so very fitting to his demeanour. The smooth rich depth of his voice going hand in hand with his masculine features.

"No matter," he smiles, starting up the engine and heating the seats that hug me like a comfort blanket.

"Where do you live?" he inquires.

"Uhh, well I...well you can just drop me at the Hammersmith and City line stop. It's really close from there."

"Nonsense, in this bloody weather. I'll drop you at your door."

"No, no...please..."

He glances over, with a raised brow, and slowly turns the wheel into the next road. He looks slightly suspicious of the way I answer.

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes," I say, my eyes fixated on the windscreen wipers fighting against the pelting rain.

A silence lingers between us. Subconsciously I'm pulling in my bruised lip and I don't realise until I can see him glancing over at me.

Alarm bells! Speak! Must divert attention. Anything. Say something. Do NOT speak about Harry Potter.

"So, what are you working on at the BBC?"

Better.

"It's...well, I'm contracted not to talk about it but..."

"Oh it's ok, I figured, that's why you've come to the cafe for over a week now."

If this car seat could tip me back right now or perhaps eject me from the sunroof, that would be GREAT.

"Nice little café, Pellicci's. Authentic," he admired. "It was recommended to me by a friend of mine who works at the BBC Radio Theatre."

"Oh that place is beautiful. I saw Phantom of the Oprah there."

"You enjoy the theatre?"

"Yeah!" I chime as if it was supposed to be obvious to complete stranger.

We flow into natural conversation where he tells me a little about his experiences with the BBC theatre. As it turns out, he is very involved and had held several seminars there, among other places.

"You were theatre trained?" I ask.

"I was indeed, and..." he gestured to me.

"Oh me? Oh no. I mean, a little in back in university but...well..." NO. Don't tell him how you dropped out because you fell in love with Scott and upheaved your entire life to London. Don't even go there. "Well, I prefer the writing part really."

"Ahh you're a play-wright." He seemed to enjoy saying these words and our brief glances meet before he turns back to the road.

"Well..." I chuckle, "I mean, take it with a pinch. It's an escape." I say on autopilot. It's only when he looks again that I realise he had possibly combined the word escape with my puffy lip and done the math.

Feeling vulnerable and foolish, I sit back in the beautiful cream leather, looking away from the face of suspicion and focussing on his relaxed hand wearing a Rolex that turns the wheel into, disappointingly...Hammersmith and City.

"Well, this is me," I say, as he pulls up beside a park. It's still belting it down outside and I can already envision myself running like a drunken monkey down the road as he smoothly pulls away from the curb like James friggin Bond.

"Take my umbrella, please," he offers, turning in his seat.

"No no it's fine. You could fit a small colony under there. It's really close."

He's laughing at my joke now. "Are you sure you don't want me to take you to your door?"

"Absolutely."

Awkward moment. Guy drives girl home, girl barely knows guy, guy barely knows girl. Rain beating on the windows, the bleary lights from oncoming traffic dancing in the darkness through the windscreen almost set the scene for romance. What am I thinking? I start to chuckle. Just go.
I reach for the door handle.

"Thank you so much Alan, I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it."

"See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he nods in a gentlemanly fashion as if he were to tip a top hat.

I step out of the BMW, shut the door and smoothly he pulls away.

And I walk. Soaking wet through in the rain until my socks squelch in my flats. Commuters pass me by, powerwalking to his or her destination, the heavy downpour beating down upon black umbrellas and into puddles which slosh around my feet. And I smile. There is no drunken monkey, no urge to escape the downpour and sprint the rest of the way home, but a feeling that renders me carefree, dreamlike. A feeling so forgotten it feels...

New.

.......

My bubble is burst the moment I turn the key in the lock. Back to reality. The unpredictability of how the night will unfold after Scott's morning text message makes me feel like a different woman within seconds. Although, relief greets me like a warm blanket when I realise he isn't home yet, and so dropping down my bag and grabbing some clean clothes, I head for the shower. Thoughts of Mr Americano wash over me as smooth as the soap bubbles that caress my skin, and for a moment I am back in his car.

BANG BANG BANG!

"Open this fucking door!"

The ferocity of Scott's fists cause me to almost hit the deck of the porcelain shower. I turn off the water and hurry out, heart pounding, knowing what's coming. He's banging again, his voice loud but muffled behind the obstruction that protects me. I quickly grab a towel, throw it around me, and reach for the handle with as much reluctance as grasping a red hot poker. The door flies open the moment I turn the lock and in falls Scott, throwing his arms out.

"Well Beck I hope you're fucking happy...Because of your FUCK UP, I didn't get the paperwork in on time. Some fucking INTERN with his head up my boss's ass hands it in before me. An intern! What do I look like now!" He slammed the side of his fist into the bathroom door, making me jolt in fear, fist balled around my towel.

"Don't you fucking look down when I'm speaking to you! Do you hear?!"

A hard slap comes into contact with my ear that sends it ringing. I stumble.

"I am looking at you!" I exclaim, through winced eyes.

"You know I need this fucking promotion! What do you think are the odds now?! What do you think are the odds! Looks real fucking good now doesn't it!"

The persistent ringing in my ear sends me dizzy, his words to follow, spitting from his mouth like bile, now muffled as though I'm under water. I stand there; gripping my towel to my chest until the moment he retreats.

And then, I break. I've almost become accustomed to picking up the pieces silently now, as I place my hands either side of the sink to take my weight, my eyes close as that old familiar place envelops me – darkness.