Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 20 - Hold Me Tight

[M content] Enjoy! Another update next week. 

Isabelle's face drops heavily, pale like flour laying eyes on my swollen battered self at her apartment door. I run away with myself explaining, until somewhere I realise time is precious and I come to a halt, begging her to drive me to Alan's. She is insistent that I head straight to hospital, but I refuse.

The thirty minutes it takes to drive from Isabelle's to Alan's is spent spewing my hatred toward Scott, howling in anger for the loss of my play script, my phone – my property – my life. I can not go back there now. It's only when we approach Alan's road that I attempt to consciously breathe and calm myself. As we pull up to his house, my eyes draw immediately to the warm glow emitting from the gap in the curtains. It greets me like a beacon of hope. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. This is it.

"What if he hates me, what if he doesn't wa-"

"Rebecca, he's not going to, but if you want me to wait, I'll wait."

Lugging my bag from the foot well, I open the car door. My foot hits the concrete with uncertainty. One step seems to form in front the other approaching his door, though I do not feel it for the take over of nausea and apprehension. My trembling hand presses the bell and I wait in darkness, wrapping Isabelle's jacket round my shaking body, turning back just to see if she's still there. My eyes waver to the ground, victim to the porch light that is no doubt casting an awful spotlight upon my battered face of blue and purple bruising. My stomach hits the ground like a tonne weight the moment the hall light switches on, then he opens the door.

"Alan..." I sob instantly.

His neutral expression turns to horror in a split second and I'm pulled into his arms, tears falling in abundance. My heart pounds mightily against his warm chest, his comforting arms spanning my back, coiling tighter. Nothing mattered more to me than his acceptance and to receive it had me choking on my tears.

"Shh-sh it's ok," he comforts me, "Inside."

I enter before him as he gestures to Isabelle, who I see standing outside, her car door open, looking emotional herself.

And then, behind his closed door, we are alone.

Alan leads me through to the living room and stands before me, placing his thumb and fore finger to my chin, gently turning my face in examination.

"What the hell has he done to you? Come on, we need to get you to a hospital."

Three large steps and his car keys are jangling in his hand.

"No. No, I can't," my voice shakes. "I promise, I'm fine, just maybe some ice...I don't want to go back out there and I think...I think he may know what kind of car you drive."

Alan takes the hand that pushes through my hair and leads me to the kitchen where he places me upon a bar stool, opens the freezer and takes out a bag of something.

"How's the pain? Have you taken anything?"

"Not since this morning. It's..."

"Above your eye ok," he pre-warns and cradling the back of my head in his hand, he gently places the bag to my brow.

"Ahh. Still sore." Wincing, my eyes press close at the unpleasant bolt of pain around my socket and temple, but terribly thankful of Alan's aid nonetheless.

"You should really see a doctor. I think this is beyond a bag of peas. When did it happen?"

"Yesterday night. I just...I..." my face contorts threatening to spill tears. "I don't even know where to begin."

Alan's hand rubs the back of my neck. "Take your time."

"I didn't send that text."

"...and I didn't reply to it."

The eye that isn't covered looks up to him. Alan told me the text didn't sound at all like me and that he sensed something was off.

"I've been the worst person." A tear runs down my cheek. However do I begin?

"Judging by your injuries I have a hard time believing that."

"Those are just the ones on my face," I mutter.

The frown between Alan's brow deepens in inquiry. He removes the cold bag and slowly my jacket. Just to twist and remove my arms from the sleeves hurts like hell. In ways, it hurts even more so the day after the infliction. He takes one look at the bruising on my collar-bone and arms and questions why I didn't call the police. He said nothing when I told him Scott had destroyed my phone, but I could sense all the time he was thinking, analysing.