ALAN - An Alan Rickman fanfic

Chapter 6 - Awake

Chapter 6 here we go! I hope you're having a good weekend, and if you're not, I hope this chapter turns it around :P

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Talk about throwing a spanner in the works of our evening. I didn't expect to be going back to Alan's place under these circumstances. I take his advice in trying to stay positive, but knowing I have years worth of work in sketchbooks potentially damaged, I don't rest easily. Everything is irreplaceable.

It's late. 11:15pm to be precise. Alan and I head to West Village where he has an apartment on the seventh floor, but before we do, he pops to get a few groceries.

"I'm still living that life where you go home and open the fridge and there's half a pot of yogurt and half a can of flat Coca-Cola."

"You're as a bad as a student," I tease.

"Owh those days weren't much better. You'd be horrified if I told you. As you can see by my trim waistline, I've spent the last few decades making up for it."

"Your sarcasm isn't working," I laugh. "You look great for your age."

Alan raises his brow with a smirk.

"It's...the lighting."

Even at a time like this, he manages to make me laugh.

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse things here and there. It was a case of drop and dash this morning," he warns as he undoes his apartment door. Fancy building.

"I don't mind. You should see my apartment at times. It's like a paper bomb has gone off."

"Owh that's nothing. That's an artistic constitution of mess, which is actually rather fulfilling if I remember...being surrounded by papers...brilliant ideas, some not so much..."

I love the way he thinks - always able to tune in to my artistry.

I walk into a beautiful open plan space typical of a high-class NYC apartment - fresh and bright. The kitchen has a large island in the middle and links onto a seating area with stools, a large living room space to the left of it with comfy looking chairs and a long sofa that tells me Alan is a man who enjoys company.

Courteously, he makes tea for us and tells me to make myself comfortable, and I do, walking around the living room admiring the art on the walls.

"The Grand Canal...?"

"It is. Venice."

"Did you do this one?"

"Noh-noh. It's by an artist named Leonid Afremov."

I marvel at the colours, particularly the reflection in the water when Alan places a hot cup of tea in my hands.

"It's rather beautiful, isn't it?" He observes. "I bought it a few years ago now - the original. "Come, I'll show you a few others."

Artwork lines his entire apartment and his bedroom, which he offers me for the night while he takes the couch. Alan goes above and beyond to make me feel welcome and comfortable - fresh fluffy towels and one of his shirts are placed at the bottom of his bed. It's beautiful, high rise, large with plenty of cozy white pillows. I have the pleasure of using his beautiful ensuite shower too to temporarily wash away my worries.

Alan's shirt is slipped over my shoulders - it's smooth cotton grazes the tops of my bare thighs with nothing underneath but my lacy black knickers. I pull back the bed sheets and bury myself into the cozy duvet. His alluring scent is all over the pillows, the top of the duvet, intensifying the surrealism of the moment, prolonging the ache - the need of having him with me tonight. His bed is fit for a king, and in my case fit for a perfect place of self pleasure as I reach between my legs. I cannot help myself engulfed in his private space, drifting away with his aroma.