Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 2 - A Ride Home

My working day started out the same as any other. I left the apartment, walked to the tube station, sardined my way into heard of commuters on the rattling underground, and continued my journey by foot to the café. Scott's comment from the previous night dominated my thoughts, but as Mr Pellicci came to the door with his jangling set of keys, I disguised my pensive expression and pressed a smile to my lips.

Just like clockwork, he appears - Mr Americano. Except he's British and has the most wonderfully polite accent and voice. His appearance allows the first genuine smile of the day to meet my lips as he places his order and takes his seat besides the far window just like yesterday. He's wearing a leather jacket today with a black scarf wound twice around his neck, looking casual yet suave.

Suaaaaavvvve – the perfect word to describe him, a word that sounds as smooth as it's meaning.

"That bloke – isn't he from Harry Potter?" Joe asks, peeking his head from the kitchens. "Wassisname.."

"Alan Rickman," I say, quietly, sneaking a glance.

This particular morning, he barely gets a moment to himself before a crowd at the window interrupts him. My brows furrow, baring witness to the group of teenagers that are now giddily pushing and shoving each other in front of the door debating whose going to enter the café first. The bell tinkles after a minute. A short, brunette is pushed inside, inappropriately dressed for the cold weather.

"Oh my God, it IS him! It is! Look!" she squeaks with no sense of discretion.

The girl comes launching in with no sense of her surroundings accept the man in the far corner. Her one-track vision is set on him as though he's painted with a target. To make matters worse, she's pointing and flapping her hand. "Snape! Oh my God." She practically skips over to his table followed by five others who bounce in behind until his table is so swarmed I can no longer see him.

I serve the next person but all I can focus on is the unbearable squealing and pray they hurry up and leave. Not only must Alan feel like a caged animal in the corner, but now everyone else in the café is turning their heads. It doesn't stop. Really, it gets even worse and they rudely without asking take seats beside him.

"Oh God," Isabelle cringes. "Poor guy. Can't even have a quiet cup of coffee."

With my ears ringing, I step out from behind the counter whilst Isabelle serves the next customer.

"Excuse me girls, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," I say as polite as possible.

A few of them turn around scowling.

"Who are you?"

"The person with the authority to ask you to leave and let this gentleman enjoy his coffee in peace."

Giving me daggers, they slowly get to their feet whilst the actor sits there looking awkward but in agreement with my fair comment, as they leave his table with their autographed paraphernalia in hand.

"I'm really sorry about that, sir," I say. "It happens sometimes in here, not that I'm excusing it, but with..." I point toward the BBC Studios outside the window. "It kind of goes hand in hand."

"Indeed," he smiles. "No need to worry, although I do appreciate your intervention."

"It was so rude. I really am sorry." I apparently seem a lot more flabbergasted with the disrespect of the girls than he does. "I can offer you a place upstairs if you like...I mean..."

Oh God. Wrong words, wrong words...

"No need," he smiles, dashingly polite. "Thank you any way." He flexes his arm out to check his watch and announces he should be on his way.