Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 13 - Steamy Submission

[Rated M] Mature readers only. Hottest one yet! 

Alan and I barely make it through his door when he suggests we go back out. It was a beautiful night and he didn't want to waste it, and it wasn't wasted, not one second. Every step we took, every laugh that we shared walking arm in arm, left me smitten.

The Christmas lights that sparkle above us loop though the bare trees of winter, gleaming in the darkness like a thousand wishes.

If I only had a single wish, it would be to make everything so much simpler than it is. My mind drifts off, and because I'm simply me, so do my feet.

"Oh fuck." Ice!

Alan grabs me and straightens me up with a throaty chuckle. His smile is to die for, and just like that I want to screw him senseless.

"Not bad reflexes for an OAP."

Oh Christ, did I just say that?

"Sturdier legs than you I see at the pinnacle of youth."

Laughing, he looks me up and down, squeezing me tightly to his side. He was so refreshingly easy going, and despite his aloof demeanour at times, had a wicked sense of humour and loved to laugh.

We stroll through a park, surrounded by the bare trees of winter. Warm glowing torch-lights illuminate the whirling pathway around unoccupied park benches. Beautiful. Listening to that wonderful voice of his combined with the ambience of the winter night all becomes terribly romantic. It's impossible not to be consumed by it.

I could love him, I hear my conscience whisper.

I glance up to his side profile with this very thought, taking in the details, his aquiline nose, the curve of his lips, the way his silvery hair blows in the chilly night air. He looks so handsome in his long black coat with a matching scarf wrapped twice around his neck. He catches me looking, and smiles, pulling me close.

"So tell me, Rebecca, how far are you with this screen-play of yours?"

"Oh I...urrr," (cue nervous laugh) "Well, it's not finished yet, but I have at least half."

"Any chance you might let me read it?"

"You really want to read it?" I smile, flattered.

"Absolutely."

"I'm not a professional."

"That doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. What matters is what's up here..." he taps me on the head, "...and here..." he put a hand to my chest. "Heart and imagination are first and foremost at the core of a great story. Great stories aren't born from degrees; if that's the 'professionalism' you're referring to. A degree will teach you the structure for good story telling, but really, good story telling comes from a place beyond that. Look at Joanne – never studied to be a writer..."

"Joanne?" I ask.

"JK Rowling."

I laugh out loud. Obviously.

"Ohh, well I am no JK."

"No, you're you and you will only ever be you. You shouldn't base your worth on the success of others; it's the number one cause of a downfall. It can be vicious and you don't want to go thinking along those lines. Every good storyteller has something unique to give. You will find your own stamp."

Touched and inspired, I can feel myself swooning. In a matter of minutes, Alan showed more interest in my play script than Scott had done since the day I proposed the idea. I remember that day - 'sounds good,' was his answer. He was more interested in whatever else he was doing. He never really cared for my aspirations.

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