The Real You

Late-night Phonecalls

I opened my eyes as the morning light filtered through the blinds, feeling a slow smile starting to spread across my face as I felt Alan's hand wrapped possessively around my waist.

He was still asleep, and I snuggled close to him, inhaling his scent. It wasn't the expensive aftershave he usually wore, and yet it was intoxicating all the same. A musky fragrance, it caused me to smirk, and I turned ever so slightly, my hair mussed and disheveled by the previous evening's exertions.

Now that I had the time to look at him while he was still asleep, I was happy to just watch him for a little while, without feeling like a complete stalker or creepy fangirl. The comforter was slipping down my shoulder as I propped myself up on one elbow, eyes greedily taking in the sight that was Alan Rickman.

Even now I had trouble believing this was real, that he was really here, with me. My eyes trailed the broad expanse of his shoulders, his head turned towards me as he slept peacefully. He lay on his side, one arm thrown casually across my waist, keeping me close, while the other was underneath his pillow, his chest partially visible to me, a slight trail of hair winding down the planes of his chest until the bed-covers hampered me from further continuing my visual exploration.

His face was more relaxed now that he was sleeping, the lines around his eyes and mouth, which were usually there when he was in a particularly brooding or dark mood, were now smoothed out. The prominent nose and aquiline features still held that commanding presence that just drew you in and demanded your attention. He always looked so stern, and it made him look older. My hand reached upwards on it's own accord, trailing the side of his face in a feather-light touch, not wishing to wake him. His hair was tousled from the night's strenuous activities, is expression calm and relaxed.

Watching his frame covered by the comforter I wondered briefly what I was doing. Would the age difference become an issue? Was I making a mistake by believing I could deal with what being with an older man entailed? He'd promised me he'd be honest with me, that, no matter what happened, we'd give eachother a chance to explain. But what when he met someone closer to his own age? Someone who shared more of his interest, who was more mature and experienced in the ways of life?

And, for that matter, what if I met someone?

I nearly snorted at the thought. It was ridiculous, really. I had always been headstrong and stubborn, sure of what I wanted in life. Certain of what I wished to accomplish. And right now that someone was Alan. The thought of seeking out someone younger, more carefree and....what? More vital? Was preposterous. I had never met someone quite like Alan. He was highly intelligent, very accomplished at what he did, very well-read, funny and sexy as hell. And despite the fact that I'd been fangirling all over him for the past decade, getting to know the real him had been quite a challenge, revealing an entirely different man to me in the process. He was calm and collected, with a slightly distant demeanor, and yet he was very charming and had a sharp sense of humor.

And he giggled. Finding out that the infamous Alan Rickman could have an occasional giggle was just as shocking as the fact that he had a naughty sense of humor.

Which made him my polar opposite inn some ways. I knew I was smart. I had worked hard for everything I had accomplished, and was particularly proud of my superior intellect and extensive reasoning abilities. And yet, I had a rather disjointed way of reaching conclusions, a flippant way of expressing myself, and a definite tendency towards letting my emotions run away with me. Alan was an artist, and I wondered if maybe we shared that unique and creative way of looking at things, he through his acting, me through the aspects of my personality that some found to be my weakness, but I had found to be my strength.