Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 4 - Exchanges

Enjoy Chapter 4! I'll be adding an update real soon.

I'm sure you're familiar with the expression 'not quite themselves.' It's usually a comment one makes on the odd occasion in reference to themself or someone else. One might perhaps describe it to friends or co-workers as an 'off day.' I used to be one of those people at the beginning, before Scott became emotionally and physically abusive. 

Now, I am the embodiment off 'off days,' the representative for not being 'quite myself.' Sometimes I forget who that person was before Scott came into my life. I wonder if she's still alive in there, buried beneath the surface perhaps, desperately trying to pick up and assemble the shattered pieces. It's as if each time she tries, the next blow causes her to drop them all over again and she's back at square one.

Another day at Pellicci's finishes and I count my tips before I leave. I made an extra £38 today. Not bad. 'Save it for a rainy day,' that little voice of mine says. Is that metaphoric rain or actual rain? I mean metaphorically that's every day right now. Thoughts drift from rain to carrot cake, or perhaps black forest. An important decision when I skipped my afternoon break to help with the rush of customers. Screw it, I decide, I'm getting both. I deserve it.

I bid goodnight to my co-workers and head out the door, turning right to head up Charles Street North to head to my favourite Patisserie.

"Rebecca..." I hear.

Mr Americano?? No. Definitely not. I shake my head and keep walking, but now I hear footsteps behind me picking up a pace. Not something anyone wishes to hear on a dark night in London. I turn around.

"Rebecca."

Mr Americano. It IS him.

"What are you doing here?" I smile. At least, I try to; somewhere behind the startled deer look I'm giving him. Apparently the dashing man in the long black coat turns my brain to mush.

Smooth. Hello would be nice. How are you. Geez Rebecca.

"You finish at five," he says as if I'd suddenly become oblivious to this. His hands are in his pockets looking effortlessly relaxed and casual as if talking to an old friend.

"Urr...."

Some sort of impish language follows my incompetent use of the English language. Maybe if I shake my head like a number eight ball it may help. And I do. I shake my bloody head like a number eight ball. "Umm, yeah."

"Hammersmith and City I believe is..." he swivels and points, displaying his sharp features, "that way."

His dry humour makes me smile.

"Well, if you must know, I was just heading to get a bite to eat and then I'll be on my way home."

Yeah, just going to fill myself with a FAT WAD of cake, pick up a bottle of wine and drown my sorrows.

"Are you meeting someone?" he asks.

"No, urr I was just..." I sigh comically. "I have a sweet tooth. I missed break. I need cake. I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"Well why ever not? I have a sweet tooth myself. Perhaps you could show me this place?" He says suggestively, yet cool as a cucumber. Quite the contrast to my smile as my insides squeal, tap dance and explode in confetti.

"Umm, sure. I was heading to Crown Street. There's this nice little patisserie there."

And then, just like that I find myself walking side by side with Alan Rickman.

Sliding my hands into my pockets, I look around, weary of my surroundings, of faces, oncoming cars... I try to focus on his words but I can feel Scott's eyes on me. Embedded. What if he sees us? 'It's nothing' says another voice inside. It could be just a friend...a supervisor, an assistant manager to Mr Pellicci. Rebecca! Don't be crazy, it's Alan Rickman as clear as day. I may as well walk around in a bloody Hogwarts robe and an owl on my arm!

I'm shoulder height to his tall broad frame – the perfect height to fit snug under his arm. Erase that thought. Then, I ask him the most brain dead question I can think of, being as I can't think at this moment.

"So, what's your favourite kind of cake?"

Lame, but believe it or not, it became the subject for the next few minutes as we debate between fresh cream or custard.

"Scone or Scon?" I question him.

"Does this determine whether I continue along this path with you or walk the other way?" he asks with scepticism.

"It certainly does," I answer, smugly.

He turns to me dramatically, almost stopping, drops his head and says, "It's a scoooo-ne."

"Correct!" I laugh as if he passed a test. "Atleast, I think so."

Flowing into easy conversion as I carefully avoid the subject of who he is, I find myself laughing more. The most I have laughed in a long time. For the first time I notice his wittiness, the kind that comes with intelligence. Whoever said 'laughter is good for the soul' wasn't kidding. For the first time in a year I do believe I felt mine stir.

Moments later, we head back in the same direction each clutching a paper bag and a cup of coffee which he insisted on paying for. Does it look suspicious, like the end of a coffee date perhaps?? My paranoia is amped. My eyes wonder and I subconsciously touch my face, thankful that the other side of me is shadowed by his tall stature. Scott doesn't leave until six, relax, I tell myself, but what if someone else sees us and it gets back to him?

Suddenly, now sitting in Alan's car, (which the night previous seemed a bold jump) became ideal, as if someone had thrust a stick into the whirling cogs of my mind and stalled them temporarily. It was the perfect cover. We were in a parking lot.

"Do people not recognise you when you're out and about?" I ask, clutching my coffee. Alan put's his in the holder between us.

Hand is dangerously close to knee.

"Those girls in the restaurant...I'm so sorry about that." I sigh. "The same kind of thing happened when Coldplay came in, except the girl was frapping over her frap and then she spilled it all over customers. It was bloody awful."

Alan winced, but gave a throaty chuckle.

"So...do you...get recognised I mean?"

"Sometimes. Other times not. If you mean can I walk freely around London, then yes. When you've lived here all your life you learn to familiarize yourself with the short cuts, the alleys and hidden nooks..."

"Oh of course. I thought, well...what with, you know..."

No, don't say Harry Potter. Do NOT talk about Harry Potter, even though one had quite CLEARLY slid into conversation about the boy with the scar on his forehead!

He clocked on immediately. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I mean it helps that I don't wear that black wig and robes in public, but occasionally...the ones that really look..." he furrows his brow and mimics their expression.

I chuckle in response.

That's it, move on. Steer the broomstick AWAAAY from Hogwarts.

"Your lip looks much better this evening," he comments.

"Ohhh, oh yeah." I'm nervously looking away now.

"You're not in danger of it happening again, I hope."

My stomach knots. Oh God. I can feel his eyes on me, and all mine can do is dart around the glove compartment. Sip of coffee. Another sip.

"It's all my fault," I laugh, knowing instantly how fake it sounds.

He knows. Another sip of coffee.

"Rebecca..." there is an air of severity and concern in his tone of voice. I can feel his eyes on me.

My insides churn, brutally mangled in guilt. I suddenly feel vulnerable, exposed. The heated seats of his BMW begin to make me feel hot - too hot - and all within seconds. I panic.

"It's just...something silly that's all," I say, sounding impatient.

"And that bruise beside your ear...I didn't see that there the other day."

Silence. Stone silence. The sudden dryness in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.

"It's nothing," I brush off.

"You know you sh..."

"I said it's nothing, please."

Alan's eyes wonder, his lips purse with a slow nod. The creamy leather of his car seat creeks as he sits back against it, and suddenly I feel guilty. Rude.

"I'm sorry." My voice is weak. "I just need to get home. I can walk. You don't have to drive me. I'm sorry, that was terribly rude of me." I reach for the handle, but he starts up the engine.

"I'll drive you."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" I ask, aware immediately how rude it sounded. Again.

"Right now? No. Tomorrow, yes. It's my last day in the city for a few days."

A part of me didn't like hearing this. It made my stomach twist.

"Why were you waiting for me tonight?"

"Well...you told me you finished at five o clock. I happened to be leaving the Studios then, my car was parked close by, and well...you've been a brilliant barista, which subsequently has saved the poor folks at the BBC my morning decaffeinated wrath, and here we are..."

Logical, slightly convenient, but sweet...and it did make me chuckle.

"I do serve a good cup of coffee, I'll admit." I smile downwards toward the cup I'm clutching.

And, thankfully from there the conversation seemed to take a diversion. That was until we stopped at Hammersmith and City line. A street lamp lit the darkness above us, beaming down into the windscreen, illuminating his features. His eyes, though hooded, have an almond shape that drew me in. It was in the patisserie I noticed his eyes were hazel, now in this light they seemed to glitter with amber tones.

"I wont be here for a few days," he says, turning to me, "but if you like, I can give you my number. If you need someone to talk to, please...don't hesitate."

"Ok..." It's about all I can manage before I pass him my phone and his typing in his number.

Alan Rickman is typing in HIS phone number in MY bloody phone. My stomach feels like it's just burst into confetti again.

"Keep this number private."

"Of course," I assure him. I ask him if he wants mine, but he tells me to text it.

Then, with compassionate eyes, he wishes me a good night. "Take care, Rebecca. I'll talk to you soon."

"Bye Alan, have a safe trip."

Car door closes, Mr AmeRIKano drives away, and I'm left with a feeling I never want to part from. I find myself taking slow, measured steps home staring at his digits, a smile playing about my mouth.