LeMoose Salon

Please Don't Kill Me

Wed, 17 May 2006 22:45:17 GMT

Now that you are all reassured that I have indeed, reemerged, and am not in fact dead; I have to request that you don't kill me. Or pelt me with rotten fruit. *ducks, narrowly missing a pineapple* Really, now that's not just fair.
Ok, I deserved it. I would like to thank xstuck_in_dragx and ajat for taking the time to e-mail me, politely asking where the hell I was. I have no good excuse I'm afraid; all I can say is I slipped into a Snape-daze for a few weeks and then before recovering completely, I was cruelly forced to take a multitude of achievement examinations. *sighs*
I missed you guys very much--antisocial nerd, snowapples, ajat, stuck in drag (that name will always make me chuckle), glove_love, and much thanks to liana liggins.
I haven't abandoned this story--I enjoy it too much. Once hell week is over at school, I'll take the time to revise my last few chapters for some of the errors I remember some of you guys being kind enough to point out, review some of Ajat's splendid ideas, and start writing the next installation. I'm thinking there's about four more chapters to go and the story will be finished.
Then we'll see what happens. :) Again, I love you all so much and thanks for staying true! I hope you'll find it in your hearts to forgive this errant author. ^-^

Subtract a Day

Sat, 04 Feb 2006 02:19:04 GMT

I apologize for the longer-than-usual wait, but I'm fairly certain that what I've written for chapter seven will make up for it. :D It's a bit more introspective than the previous chapters, but it gets more fun at the end!

Without further ado, I present you:

May 18th, 2006

Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman was having a thoroughly enjoyable soak in the tub. However, as with all famous thespians and silver-screen stars, he didn’t feel the slightest bit comfortable unless he was multi-tasking every second of the day.

Even at night, before his youthful dopamine had fully kicked in, he would flex medicine rubber in his hand to relax him. Flex. Try to fall asleep. Flex. Look, I’m doing two things at once; I’m not completely useless.

Again, that had all changed. He had been keeping in touch with his therapist, Jane Davenport (they had another scheduled appointment for the 21st), and she had gratuitously informed him of a few things to expect when one’s biological clock has been unexpectedly reversed.

One. Weight loss and gain of elasticity are the most prominent changes. Hair growth and an increase in pigments were also to be expected.

Two. But the aforementioned didn’t happen gradually. They happened overnight, which was why Alan frequently found himself shaving a year’s worth of hair growth off of his face in the morning, and snipping off his now-darkening locks in the evening.

Three. Jane warned that once he hit his mid-to-early thirties the biggest hormone surge yet would occur. Alan had already experienced (unnervingly) his first hormone surge on his forty-eighth birthday.

It was very disconcerting waking up to tented sheets for the first time in twelve years.

Another powerful hormone surge would follow one he hit his early twenties, and he would probably have to be restrained and straight-jacketed, rather than being unleashed on the world as a newly-minted seventeen year-old. If he even reached that age.

Four. Sleep came in cycles. At birth till the toddler years, it was a fitful, disturbed rest. Young children died during the night and then miraculously came back to life in the morning. Older children seemed to have stable sleeping patterns.

With the onslaught of the teen years, sleeping was akin to a celly battery being recharged. There was still some activity, but it was an uninterruptible process. It wasn’t until the twenties that sleeping patterns would finally—and permanently—stabilize.

At least not until post-middle-age. Which Alan Rickman had attained before some apple-scented deviant decided to haunt his dream and wreak havoc on his telomeres.
Point was, Alan was now forty-two, and had taken it upon himself (with some friendly, unobtrusive advice from Jane Davenport of course) to keep track of his birthdays. It wasn’t just his sleep patterns that gave away his increasing youth.

His weight loss hadn’t gone unnoticed by the director of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

At first, he had been very, very frightened when David Yates had requested his presence for a man-on-man meeting in the director’s office the previous day.

“Just take a seat there Mr. Rickman,” the now-a-contemporary-of-Alan man had waved ambiguously toward a pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs.

Alan had complied, but with dignity. Steepling his fingers, he glared at Mr. Yates, but not unkindly.

“You had something to discuss with me?”

Mr. Yates suddenly started coughing. He took a sip of water from the pitcher that was left on his desk by a benevolent assistant.

“Well, yes, in fact Mr. Rickman, as the director of this production—as a director—we are entitled to certain…responsibilities.”

“Yes?” Alan prodded.

“Hmm…do you recall the beginning of the year—in February—when we first started the filming and I asked you aside, to have a little run of the mouth?”

Alan’s jaw clenched. Yes, he did, in fact remember.

“Yes,” he responded tersely.

“Well, ah, you’ve done splendidly. A bit too splendidly. The nutritionist and fitness instructor is getting suspicious and Irene’s threatening to sue for “statutory abuse”…really, I don’t know where she gets those ideas. The gist of it is, you look perfect. Don’t get any thinner.”

“Pardon?” Alan had actually shown up to work that day with a padded belly stuffed under one of his new suits for the first time. “I haven’t really been losing that much weight…”

“What a foddering falsehood. We all know that there’s a padded belly under there—I didn’t direct Sex Traffic without taking something away with me, after all. Point is, if you lose anymore weight, it’s off to the dietician with you.

Now Alan,” he continued, leaning over the desk with almost-genuine concern in his eyes, “I hope you didn’t take offense to our…previous discussion. I’ve told you again and again, they really don’t mean any harm, poking fun at your ‘pudge’.”

“I really hope you’re not going to bring up that mockery of a website again.”

“Now, now, you have to admit, it is a bit amusing. But Alan!” Mr. Yates startled Alan by lunging across the table, grabbing his wrists, “You have to keep repeating the mantra to yourself: Bananas are good. Bananas do not make a mockery out of my self. Bananas trim my lithe waist.”

“Yes…I—I will.”

"And don't let an internet site with a tabloid picture of you shopping for bananas and several, merciless, degrading photo galleries with captions laced with debauchery stop you!"

"Er, all right."

“Good! Now that we have that settled…and Alan?”

“What?” Alan growled, then extremely bad-tempered.

“I’m—I’m worried. I’m not sure what to make of you.”

“What the ruddy hell are you talking about, man?”

“It’s not obvious to others, but having spent my lifetime in the movie industry, directing…you’re wearing make-up—a lot of make-up, and let’s face it. You’re not a professional cosmetic artist.”

Alan’s heart felt like it was trying to explode out of his thoracic cavity and out the nearest window.

“You’re wearing a belly…to cover up a twenty-five pound weight loss in the course of two-and-a-half weeks. You’ve been scaring some of the children; they keep finding clumps of barbs in the trash…the sink. Emma’s been raving about your endurance, and Irene and her nutritionist friend have been raving about your healthier appetite.

Rupert reported that he saw you jumping from a tree after a morning picnic in its foliage…Felton says you’ve been cavorting with Jason (who we all know is a flaming homosexual) at a 24/7 Scottish nightclub. On 60 Years and Kicking night, no less.
Mr. Rickman,” David Yates said gravely, “You know I’m a religious man.”

“What?” Alan sputtered, “Yes, I know. We’re all good Protestants here. Except for Nathan Goldfeldt, but he’s more intelligent than the lot of us. How does that concern…what you’re trying to tell me?”

“I…I have no wish to direct a soulless actor.”

Alan stared at David Yates.

“I have good reason,” Yates continued, his voice growing stronger, “that you, Mr. Rickman, have sold your soul to the devil in exchange for a sip from the fountain of youth!”

Alan stared at David Yates.

“Are you quite finished?”

“Er, yes.”

“I’m pleased to inform you that you couldn’t be more wrong, nor could you have thought of a more outlandish notion. Mr. Yates, my soul is perfectly intact—as far as I know anyway—and your precious set needs no protection from me.”

“Are you sure?” the director whinged, sounding very much like a preteen girl, “Cause it would be really bad news if—

“Everything’s fine.”

“Fine. Just let Irene do your make-up from now on.”

“I already—

“Even when you’re not filming.” David Yates gave Alan a meaningful look.

“Ah…well, the less people who don’t know—

“She already knows. She’s a goddamn make-up artist.”

“Um, yes, all right.”

Alan had to admit, Irene knew what she was doing. She didn’t ask any questions, but as she removed the caking gunk from Alan’s face, and the latex, her expression slowly unraveled, a look of pure disbelief, wonder, and mischievousness mingling.

“Good Lord, Mr. Rickman,” she breathed, “You look amazing. I need to alter your regiment now, to make you appropriate for the Snape role.”

“What? What’s wrong with my original?”

“It was all very well for a late-fifties gentleman, but completely wrong for this…new face. It’s too characteristic; we need to do some work with your nose and eyebrows for the role now. And I’ve never mentioned this to you before now—it would’ve been impolitic—but you were far too old for the role. Snape was a thirty-one year old man, you were fifty-six. Your skin suits the role much better, but the rest….”

Alan blanched as Irene continued to tear him apart verbally, but by the time she had started on the nutritionist’s failed banana diet, his middle-age pudge, and how glad she was that her friend, the costume designer, would now have such a lean figure to work with, Alan had stopped paying attention.

So his secret was out. Slightly. The other actors didn’t have a clue, and with Irene’s expertise and David’s knowledge of how to subtly maneuver a padded belly, they weren’t going to find out any time soon.

So where did this leave Alan Rickman? Oh yes, soaking in the bathtub, gazing in the mirrored wall whilst rubbing his hairy face. He had shaved last night, but now as he was looking at himself, he seriously trimming the beard, not shaving it. He hadn’t had any since he was fifty years old, after all. His cosmetic consultant back then had advised him against it, saying that facial hair emphasized, rather than concealed, middle-aged epidermis and jowls.

It would be fun to sport a beard again. And it would be even more fun to break out his black trench coat from the late sixties. Back then he’d been a skinny whippersnapper, even twenty more pounds slender than he was at forty-two.

He’d look very snappy with a beard and that trench coat, he mused. His only hope was that the twenty pound difference he’d acquired since his twenty-first birthday.

That got him to wondering. What would it be like experiencing his twenties again? He would only have about ten days of being a twenty-something year old, nine days until he would become illegal in terms of alcohol consumption, twelve until he, in the eyes of the English government, would become a child again.

Alan decided that he could wait till he passed the thirty-year-old benchmark the second time around again.

But it wouldn’t stop there wouldn’t it? Even after surpassing the crucial, life-as-he-knew-it age, eighteen, he wouldn’t stop getting younger.

He would watch as his self-control slipped further, as he plunged into the boiling cessations of male adolescence. He would experience the unnerving sensation of waking up on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, only to discover that he would be six inches shorter than the previous night.

Alan would feel his muscles schlurping into his weakening bones, as he grew smaller, as his stubble, chest hair, and…well, that hair disappeared. Horror of horrors, he would see his genitalia reduced to a boy’s and then what would happen as he grew younger than eleven years?

The bathwater had suddenly turned very cold.

Something had to be done.

Ever since waking up eighteen days ago, feeling very strange, his nightmares hadn’t ceased. Every night, he would careen through his childhood and his teen years, in black-and-white images, before careening into the Technicolor world, his senses being assaulted with a drunken apple smell…a flash of a female figure—albeit very young….
He needed to find that woman, the source of the smell that had put him on the fast track to becoming a squalling youth.

To reassure and convince himself that he was actually doing something, Alan dragged himself out of the cold tub, and wrapping a towel around his shrunken-but-still-a-bit-thick waist, he padded out of the bathroom and to his desk.

Alan Rickman was the proud owner of a Samsung flat screen SyncMaster 191T monitor with an astoundingly effective Compaq hard drive, complete with instantaneous cable internet access.

Signing onto the OotP’s intranet, Alan browsed through his messages, most of them being from Yates about upcoming scenes, a few from Irene, and a significant portion of them being impassionate pleas from Jason Isaacs, begging Alan’s forgiveness for his “atrocious behavior” two nights ago.

The mundane tasks of sorting through these e-mails calmed Alan down for the time being. He wrote a gentle e-mail to Jason Isaacs, soothing the poor man’s troubled soul, he sent a multitude of curt, professional replies to Yates—a director he wasn’t sure what to make of yet—, and to Irene he scanned a picture of himself in his early thirties (with the advent of Google images, Alan didn’t bother to keep his old pictures lying around the place anymore). The woman wanted to use it for an interface program so she could plan out his new regiment for his thirties.

His hair was almost completely dried now, although he hadn’t gotten a chance to trim it. Consequently, it hung around his face in bedraggled, wet, clumpy locks, and he looked very similar to an unshaven Rasputin from his 1996 role.

1996. Lord, that was ten years ago. He had been fifty ten years ago.

The water droplets from the tub had now completely dried from his stealthily hardening chest. That was one thing he was fascinated with. When his chest had been going soft from the years, he ignored it, but the improvement enraptured Alan. Flexing his arms, he ran his hands along the biceps and forearms experimentally; frowning at how much lighter and hairier they felt.

Curious, he pressed his sides and pectorals. He no longer felt like a soft pillow anymore, he noted with some disappointment. Some of the women he had slept with in recent years had said it was his best feature—of course they had all been in their fifties or at the very youngest, a thirty-nine year old journalist from Fife.

He pinched the skin around his nipple; it removed itself from the new, lean muscles, but not without some effort. Slapping his stomach, he noted with great interest that it only jiggled a microscopic amount.

He really needed to get out of the house. He was becoming obsessed with his physical condition.

Ah, Alan had one more e-mail left, the sender address labeled: EWATSON@OotP.NET

“Emma,” he unconsciously whispered to himself, opening the e-mail.

`Mr. Rickman, I’m having some work-related troubles. I keep confusing myself, and it seems that my character and her—Hermione’s—whole life is becoming blurred with reality. I know you’ve been acting for so many years. Maybe you’ve experienced this before. Could we have some tea during set break, and maybe we can talk? Yours, Emma Watson`

Alan frowned, concerned. Emma had always been a serious actress, putting her best into her work at all times, and being completely open-minded to coaching and direction. This e-mail was sudden and, Alan realized with a growing curiosity, rather out of character.
A horrible, greedy thought occurred to him.

Maybe she was getting confused with her character. Maybe Hermione Granger was taking Emma Watson little by little, including her heart, and directing it towards someone her character would be attracted to.

And it wouldn’t be Rupert Grint. Or that blasted “Young Snape” that was threatening him—good Lord, what was he thinking?

Emma was not afflicted with a multi-personality disorder; ergo she would not find herself drawn to Grint or himself.

But, a little voice whispered softly to his ears, you do want to be near her don’t you? To talk to her, to mold her…guide her—in moredirections than others?

Alarmed, Alan immediately suppressed these thoughts. He had been deprived of female companionship for far too long, which was making him act on his protégé, Emma Watson. It was fairly common among tutors and their nubile, attractive disciples, even if they were a generation apart. In Emma’s case it was two generations.

Ah, the voice crept back, not quite<. Anyhow, meet with her for some dinner. Talk to her. You’ll be saved for a while—until you creep into your thirties that is, and the girl will be placated.

Dinner. Yes, that would be more fulfilling than one of their daily, but enjoyable, chats over tea during set breaks. He was about to reply, but then he noticed she had sent him another e-mail a day later, dated May 17th. That was the day when he’d been too busy with Yates and Irene and trying to comfort Jason Isaac’s broken heart to check his e-mail.

Emma had gone out of town, and she wouldn’t be back for three to four days.

The message sounded distressed like the earlier one, but hopeful.

Making up his mind, Alan replied, suggesting dinner at a nice dining room an hour’s drive from the set in Scotland.

Another e-mail arrived from Emma, almost immediately afterwards, saying that it was a lovely idea, and she wished she could chat with him, live, but her plane was about to take off. The flight attendants, she wrote, were “stiffies”.

Alan tried not to think about that morning on his forty-eighth birthday. Or this morning.

He had a strong craving now. The thought of Emma and “stiffies” and dinner were wreaking havoc although his body had fully recovered from the small, but significant, hormone resurge he had experienced six days ago.

He was about to unwrap his towel, his body completely dried, but then paused.
He had shamelessly indulged in hedonistic behavior throughout his late teens, twenties, thirties…oh God forbid, essentially his whole life before becoming some eunuch ever since he took the role of Snape.

Alan Rickman wondered if the role was cursed. If Emma found herself thinking, acting, and feeling more like Hermione Granger, maybe Snape was worming his way into Alan Rickman’s body. And the Snape part of him, the very one who had beguiled Alan into inviting Emma for an inappropriate dinner, was now admonishing Alan for his lack of self-control, especially since Emma was still a minor.

Minor, schminor.

He reached down, but then stopped again. The newly discovered part of him was now furiously rebelling.

No, it said, you’ll ruin everything you fool. Put the towel back on, pick up the phone, and call for Yung-Wai.

Oo. Yung-Wai.

Acquiescing to the demands of his newly grown conscience (perhaps it was just his old forty-two year-old conscience reemerging after eighteen years?), Alan swept the fallen towel and wrapped it around his waist.

Dialing the number for Yung-Wai’s Classic China Restaurant, Alan sighed heavily in the dimness of his kitchen.

“Yung-Wai, may I take your order?” a bored, dispassionate female voice echoed from the other end.

“Yes,” Alan Rickman’s velvety voice floated into the receiver, “I’d like number thirty-seven, with an egg roll and a bowl—not a cup—a bowl of soup specialty two.”

The female voice—belonging to a young woman, Alan now realized—sounded hesitant.

“Oh, um, yes sir. Number thirty-seven, an egg roll and a cup—

“A bowl.”

“Yes,” the young woman sounded unusually breathy, “Oh, yes.”

Disconcerted, Alan looked at the receiver in his hand, eyebrow raised. Shrugging he put the receiver to his ear again to confirm his order.

“Er, well, that’s all. My address is—

Stunned, he listened as the female cut him off and recited his address back to him, word-for-word, number-for-number.

“Yes…” he drawled cautiously, “Does Yung-Wai have that system where the Caller ID lights up the database?”

A loud squeal echoed from the other end of the line.

“OMIGOSH! ALAN, I KNEW IT WAS YOU!!!! I’LL BE RIGHT OVER!”

And before he could stop her, there was a resounding click on the other end.

Uh-oh.

He tossed the phone onto the counter and made a run for his bedroom. Occasionally, he would encounter these rabid fangirls when he needed deliveries, but this one could be dangerous. She worked at Yung-Wai, which was only a block away.

It was a race to see who could get ready faster, Alan Rickman or Miss Yung-Wai Delivery Girl.

It had been Alan Rickman’s experience to avoid female strangers when still clad in only a towel, at all costs. He had a few…unpleasant…experiences in the past.

Ripping his towel off, he ran into the bedroom, stark naked, and started frantically opening and shutting drawers. Knickers, knickers, where the hell were his knickers? For some inexplicable reason, all his drawers only had a few lone buttons rolling around in him.

God!

He peered out the window. To his astonishment, a slender, undoubtedly female figure was making its way towards his apartment. The girl had long brown hair with pasty English skin, but she was pretty.

Very pretty.

Alan looked down and hissed.

“We had this conversation!”

Think of apples, the small voice returned, goading.

To his further astonishment, his “equipment” obeyed instantly, slackening at the sight of the pretty young girl. Apparently his fidelity to the apple-girl was more powerful.

What the hell was he doing? He needed to get dressed before he was mauled by the running fangirl that was now pushing old ladies out of her way, dedicated to her quest towards Alan’s living quarters, she was.

Unfortunately, all his knickers were dirty. Alan settled on throwing his closet door open, and running inside. Suits, suits, dress shoes, suits…denim!

He tugged on the pants. They fell down.

“BLAST IT!”

He spied a shirt, the only shirt that was long enough to cover his front, although it was short in the back, which would leave his bum exposed. It also had buttons. A. Lot. of. Buttons.

Furious, Alan pulled the shirt off its rack and started buttoning it with a passion.
The buzzer buzzed.

“CRAP!”

Running out his closet, still buttoning the shirt, Alan pressed the buzzer and then made a run for his closet again.

There it was. The black trench coat, so hardy and durable that it looked as if it had only aged five years for it’s actual forty; it was hanging at the far end of his closet. His shirt fully buttoned, all his pants too loose, and completely knicker-free, it was the only option he could think of at the moment.

He yanked the coat on—it was tight, on the verge of uncomfortably tight, but he managed to get it over his shoulders (and more importantly, over his bum).

He heard a loud, insistent knock. Running a comb through his still-damp hair, he ran to the door, and before opening it to quickly grab his delivery before the fangirl could pounce on him, he concealed the fine-tooth comb under his old trench coat.

Alan opened the door cautiously, only allowing a crack. Unexpectedly, the person behind the door, Miss Yung-Wai Delivery Girl, pushed the door open insistently, if not a bit roughly.

“Miss!” Alan protested, a bit miffed.

The girl’s eyes—exceptionally pretty, now that he saw her up close—lit up. Her mouth opened, an unearthly, banshee shriek spilling loose from her plump lips:

“ALAN RICKMAN!!!! YAHHH!!!”

And with a running leap, she tackled Alan, throwing him off his feet. Before they both hit the floor with a solid lump, the girl straddling him with a greasy brown paper bag in the other hand, Alan managed to whip out the comb.

She was going to rape him!

“Stop right there!” he yelled, brandishing his comb threateningly, “Stop, before you do something you regret Miss—Miss…” he squinted at her bouncing name tag as she was now wildly waving her fists in the air, in triumph.

“ANTISOCIAL NERD! OH GOD, I’M AN ANTISOCIAL NERD! I'M ANTISOCIAL NERD, THE ONE WHO WILL GO DOWN IN FANGIRL HISTORY AS THE ONE WHO SUCCEEDED IN CAPTURING ALAN RICKMAN--"

Alan bolted upright and in a roll, he pinned Miss Antisocial Nerd/Yung-Wai Delivery Girl to the floor, her wrists above her head.

“I told you to stop!” he cried desperately. “Why can’t you fangirls leave me be? Don’t you have any pity?”

To his surprise, Miss Antisocial Nerd’s eyes widened, and then she promptly burst into tears.

“Oh, Mr. Rickman, I’m so sorry! I couldn’t help it! When I got your phone call, I promised I would control myself—my job means so much to me after all—but when you opened the door. The hair! The beard! The coat! The BUTTONS! And…YOU’RE NOT WEARING KNICKERS ARE YOU?!”

Miss Antisocial Nerd started writhing under Alan, who, upon remembering that he wasn’t wearing knickers, stood above her, trying to keep her under control.

“Miss—

“YOU’RE NOT ALAN!” To his amazement, she stopped bouncing about. Her face hardened with suspicion.

“You’re definitely not Alan. You’re way too young…but you are Alan! I’m so CONFUSED!” she wailed.

“All right,” Alan said consolingly, “Now this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to take this—“ he gingerly picked up the brown bag, “And I’m going to give you the payment—

“And a tip,” Miss Antisocial Nerd added in an entirely reasonable, sane voice.

“Yes, all right, even though you don’t really des—AH! GET YOUR FOOT OUT FROM THERE!”

Miss Antisocial Nerd abruptly dropped her shoe from the front of Alan’s button-y shirt.

“Why? I’ve just realized, you’re even BETTER than Alan Rickman. He’s cool and totally awesome and all, but you know, he’s nice to watch in movies and maybe for a conservation partner…but you! TAKE ME! MY LOVER!”

Disappointed to see that he had once again instigated Miss Antisocial Nerd’s sex drive, Alan slapped some bills to her chest, scooped the thrashing young woman into his arms and literally tossed her out his door.

Then he went into the kitchen, took off his trench coat, and enjoyed a carton of spicy chicken and vegetables in his button-y shirt and exposed bum.

I’m sorry for the long wait, but I hope this chapter was worth it! As you may have guessed, Miss Antisocial Nerd is a clever, ingenious disguise that I thought up for antisocial nerd, who is my friend on LJ. I hope she likes this and is not offended--originally, it was a bit steamier, but I thought that wouldn't be polite, even if she was so cleverly disguised. ;)
Things to expect for chapter eight: a candlelit dinner with Emma Watson, somebody looking for an “adventure” (hint!) shows up and ruins the evening, but Alan and Emma make quite a few discoveries…and another surprise character of course. ;)
Now go and leave a comment fellow fangirls! Aren’t you glad I portray us in such a positive light? ^-^

http://yacht.zamok.net/DV/Potter/Posters/Rickman/diehard.jpg

Alan's a bit confused as to why there's a Asian-cuisine delivery girl on top of him!

Subtract a Day

Tue, 24 Jan 2006 01:21:09 GMT

*peers from behind a boulder warily* Coast looks clear.
*comes out, and is instantly pelted with rotten produce*
Yes, I know you're not happy about how late this chapter is. To make concessions, I've included a surprise character (And to be fair to all commentators, a new "surprise" character will appear in every chapter from now on.) and this chapter is a bit more romantic than the others. Hopefully still with some comedic fringe benefits.
Now go read chapter six, you maniacs!

May 16th, 2006

Emma Watson was willing herself to slip in a long, deep slumber as she hid under her magnificent chenille bedcovers.

A muffled curse slipped from the pillow that Emma was currently trying to suffocate herself with:

“Bloody sun.”

The pillow continued to utter defecations of the English language:

“Why, oh why did I have to be so bloody stupid?”

She had come to consider Nathan Goldfeldt to be a trusted and close friend. As trusted and close friends do, they established an e-mail correspondence for the sake of enjoying each others’ witty anecdotes when not on set for the Order production.

Consequentially, she had taken to divulging some…tidbits…from her most private thoughts.

At first Nathan had done a funny thing with his eye, and looked at her as if he suddenly saw her in a new light.

“You…you like him?”

“No!” Emma had protested, a bit shrilly, “Well—I mean, yes, I do. But not in that way.”

Liar.

Shut up, Emma told Mrs. Small Voice in Cranium.

Whatever. Mr. Lusty Voice’s been enjoying a despotic regime with you, young lady.

I have Mr. Lusty Voice completely under control, thank you, Emma responded in a snooty tone.

Tell that to your Google history…

`Ashwinder, WIKTT, Snape’s Slytherin Society, The Slightly Weird Alan Rickman Fansite`…

“You shut up!” Emma had screeched out loud, “MR. LUSTY VOICE IS IN MY CLUTCHES!”

Nathan then backed away cautiously, careful not to trip on his too-short Slytherin robes. He told her he would give her some time to calm down, and he would see her for dinner that evening.

A few hours later, when she returned to her parents’ after a hard day’s work—they had postponed the Pensieve scene again—she checked her e-mail to see if Nathan had left her a message.

`Emma— Can’t wait till tonight. I’ll help you some with old Snape, but only if you promise not to do anything stupid. He’s not thirty-five, like in the movie, Emma. He’ll likely die of old age by the time you’re thirty-five. --Nathan`

Emma huffed impatiently. The audacity! She was not interested in Alan Rickman; after all, he was much older and wouldn’t want to have anything to do with a silly little girl like her.

Liar, a much deeper, masculine voice echoed in the recesses of her cranium.

Mr. Lusty Voice, we talked about this.

You…are feeling the sudden compulsion—the necessary urge, Mr. Lusty Voice continued in his silky, caressing voice, to—

“I’m through with you Mr. Lusty Voice,” Emma hissed vehemently.

`http://ashwinder.sycophanthex.com`

“Bloody hell.”

Twenty minutes later, Emma was transfixed; her mouth hung wide open in appalled horror and a grim satisfaction, no doubt brought on by Mr. Lusty Voice.

She was on chapter five of An Army of Snapes by ladyofthemasque.

“Oh Gods.”

She wished all her heart that by book seven, Rowling would decide to have some heart-wrenching redemption scene with her character and Mr. Rickman’s.

What would it be like, watching that face descend upon hers, that famous smirk rescinding just a bit to take hers into his?

Emma closed her eyes, and tried to play the image out in her head, like she was watching a film.

There he was, in his pale make-up, contrasting with his darkly sexy black wig. His scowl lines were as prominent as ever, his frock coat doing an excellent job of constricting the inevitable paunch men developed once reaching middle age.

Emma smiled as his face drew closer, the cast, in muddy, bloody make-up—for the Final Battle of course—watching as they became the only two people on the field worth watching.

Emma dared to peek through slightly slanted eyes.

Her perfume—Apples n’ Gin—wafted under her nostrils, its scent growing more powerful by the minute. A silky petal tickled her cheekbone…

A petal?

Emma’s eyes flew open. Everyone had disappeared, save for Snape!Rickman, and dusk had settled. The field they were standing in was now a grove of apple blossoms; Emma couldn’t see anything but trees and white, delicate flowers.

The most shocking thing was, in the soft evening light, the man in front of her was completely changed.

At first, she thought it was a pretty Snape. Then Nathan’s words, unbidden, echoed, interrupting her daydream:

He’s not thirty-five…Emma.

“No,” her daydream self declared, “You’re right, Nathan. He’s Old Snape.”

Pretty Snape sneered, but then as he drew closer, Emma realized that she was horrifically wrong.

It was Alan Rickman.

Emma gasped, her heart stopping in her chest. Smooth skin, long hair, an impossibly trim waist…he looked like he stepped off a page of Vogue with that shaggy hair, the stylish, black suit; his skin was a fuzzy and black-and-white, as if he just stepped off a late-sixties telly screen…but it was Alan Rickman.

At age twenty-two.

Her eyes flew open, taking comfort in the familiar computer, the fluffy comforters, and the tacky posters she held on to out of nostalgia for her pre-Harry Potter days.

Namely, before age eleven.

She willed her heart rate to slow down, and massaged her forehead, which was starting to hurt from the strain of worrying.

Emma closed the window to An Army of Snapes; while humorous, the last few chapters were too orgiastic for her sensitive sixteen-year-old tastes. It had also brought on an unwanted fantasy about Snape and her in the place of Hermione, and it was too easy to confuse that sexy, wizarding beast with her co-star, whom she saw as a father figure.

Now dear, you really mustn’t keep denying—

“If you don’t leave me alone, Mrs. Small Voice in the Cranium, I’ll down an Icee so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Hmph.

She wanted to talk to Mr. Rickman about what to do with Nathan. He would have some splendid advice for her. Emma guiltily thought how she was planning to do the same with Nathan, to get advice on Mr. Rickman himself.

She wanted so badly for him to admire, appreciate, and respect her. Every week she worked side-by-side with him, one of Britain’s most distinguished actors, and she just a young fledgling. How could she not want, need his approval before continuing on to other roles?

She hit the reply button to Nathan’s e-mail, and typed in Mr. Rickman’s e-mail address instead. For the subject heading, she had no idea what to put. Emma didn’t want to send him an e-mail labeled “Tea?” or “Want to talk to you” or even “Young Snape dilemma”.

Although that last bit was probably the most appropriate.

`Mr. Rickman, I’m having some work-related troubles. I keep confusing myself, and it seems that my character and her—Hermione’s—whole life is becoming blurred with reality. I know you’ve been acting for so many years. Maybe you’ve experienced this before. Could we have some tea during set break, and maybe we can talk? Yours, Emma Watson`

There. She would slip Nathan into the conversation, and everything would go from there.

Somewhere else in Scotland

“Isn’t this super-duper fun?” Jason Isaacs shouted into Alan Rickman’s ear, “I’m having the time of my life, just bobbing up and down…up and down…”

Disturbed, Alan edged away from the obviously inebriated and possibly drugged Jason Isaacs, but bumped into a writhing body behind him.

“Hey-ay-ey, sexy!” it yelled in what the creature probably thought was a sultry voice.

Café Rouge was a front for an underground 24/7, non-stop party. Unimaginatively, it was dubbed Café Forever Night and Lights.

Indeed, there were ghastly, psychedelic light strobes, loud dance music, and the club smelled permanently of sweat, alcohol, and perfume.

No apples, thankfully.

“Why are you being such a stick in the mud?” Jason Isaacs chided Alan, hooking his arm in the nook of Alan’s arm, “This is just the entrance! The real Café Forever Night and Lights is in there.”

He gestured to an open doorway where a consensus of wriggling bodies was queuing into.
“Splendid,” was Alan’s slightly caustic response.

“Oo, I can’t wait to see what the theme is tonight!”

“This afternoon,” Alan benevolently corrected the insane Jason Isaacs.

Ten minutes later, they had been pushed along long enough so that they had entered an enormous cavern with a dizzying, black-and-white marble floor. Every square inch was occupied by an unstable human being.

There was a stage—a loud stage—where there had been a band stage, but now there was a young woman teetering to the center of the stage. She had short, spiky brown hair, lots of glittery make-up, but Alan still thought she looked distinctly uncomfortable in her red leather leotard, studded with dangerous-looking metal spikes and black fishnets.

And the four-inch heels of course. Stiletto.

“HELLO CAFÉ FOREVER NIGHT AND LIGHTS!” she shrieked into the microphone, slurring her long o’s.

“ARE YOU READY TO PAAAHRTAY?”

Yes, the crowd roared back.

“Ok good, cause our theme is…SIXTY AND KICKING!”

Everybody missed the look of unabashed horror on Alan’s face.

“WE’RE GOING TO TIE UP EFFIGIES OF FAMOUS SIXTY-YEAR-OLD ACTORS AND PROVE TO Y’ALL JUST HOW VIRILE THEY ARE!!!”

The crowd went wild, as the ceiling opened up and a slender, half-naked man with rippling muscles was lowered, bound with coils of rope. The worst part was, he wore a mask with a badly cut and pasted picture of Alan Rickman blowing candles at his 60th birthday party. Except you couldn’t see the cake or the candles.

Alan fully expected Jason Isaacs to hustle him out of there, apologizing profusely to exposing him so readily to such vulgar indulgance.

When he looked to the younger man at his side, he was screaming along with the rest of the crowd, as if he had forgotten the real Alan Rickman existed at his side.

“Strip him, strip him!” was what Jason Isaacs was shrieking at the top of his lungs.

“Not yet…” the young woman smirked, “ALL RIGHT PEOPLE, THIS IS SCOTLAND’S FAVORITE SIXTY-YEAR-OLD ACTOR SLASH THESPIAN! NOW WHO WANTS TO TIE HIM TO THIS CHAIR?”

“Oh-em-gee,” Jason screamed, “ME! ME! PICK ME O SEXY VIXEN!”

“WHOEVER JUST CALLED ME A SEXY VIXEN, COME UP HERE!” the woman was now prancing and/or jumping around stage, her four-inch heels occasionally giving way, forcing the woman to collapse, face-first, onto the floor.

Words can not describe the expression or the feeling that Alan wished to convey to the in-need-of-counseling Jason Isaacs as the middle aged actor pushed and shoved his way eagerly to the stage.

“Alan!...” his distinct cry was heard, “Who’s your sexy bestial master? Who? Yuh-eaahhhh!”

There was a whipcord sound, met with the roars of the club’s approval and the slender man with the Alan-mask’s cry of pleasure. Alan looked away in disgust. Except that young woman was attractive, despite the rudimentary fact that she had just sold his dignity to a mass of bisexuals who got off on bondage.

“Oo-oo, this chap—who looks uncannily like Jason Isaacs—seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself!” the young woman blared into her microphone, lifting her torso from the ground. (She had yet again flayed herself with the four-inch stilettos. Alan had a thing for falling damsels in distress.)

“For you Harry Potter fanatics, this could be interpreted as a Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape…SHIPFEST!”

Once again, the nightclub shrieked with approval, and Jason Isaacs gave up his whipcord in favor of embracing the man he had tied to the chair and giving the Alan-Mask a big, wet kiss.

“YES! THANK YOU, GOOD SIR!” the young woman now jerkily pulled herself upwards, careful not to impale herself with her leotard’s spikes, “I’M STUCK IN DRAG, AND HAVE A FANTASTIC AFTERNOON!”

The woman then took a running leap off-stage and was caught by exactly three people, who, with horrified and strained expressions, attempted to body-surf her. To Alan’s cautious pleasure, she seemed to be heading in his direction and then—

Plompf!

Miss Stuck in Drag landed on top of Alan Rickman.

Alan’s make-up was running from the heat, his hair (which had once again grown out at supernatural speed) was plastered and hanging in his eyes, and his tea-stained grey suit [sniffle] was baggier than ever.

“Well aren’t you just the most handsome man ever?”

And to Alan’s shock, she planted a passionate kiss on his lips, and he vaguely recalled the time he was playing with his mum’s vacuum cleaner and got his face too close to the sucker.

“ALAN! NOOOOO….!”

Alan retracted himself (regrettably) from the delicious kiss, and to his horror, he saw Jason Isaacs leap off stage, sobbing, and half-ran, half-stumbled to Alan, his arms stretched out.

“Eep,” the delectable young woman in the suicidal costume squealed, “Gotta go!”

She scrambled out of Alan’s arms, and momentarily, he was tackled by a very drunken, heartbroken Jason Isaacs.

“I…I think we need to have a talk.”

Café Rouge

Alan Rickman, in quite a hideous, disheveled state, had ordered a hot chocolate with brandy and was now sitting contemplatively in his wire chair.

Across the table, Jason Isaacs was staring at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

“Alan—Mr. Rickman…” he groaned, dipping his head into a mug of steaming tea, “I’ve…I’ve loved you since I was nineteen.”

After witnessing the younger man’s recent behavior—only one year younger now, Alan soberly realized—this confession didn’t come as much of as a surprise.

“Have you, now?” Alan responded dryly, sipping his chocolate brandy and willing for all of this to go away. He imagined a peaceful, dusky orchard…with only apples in the air and a young woman’s figure in the distance…her long brown hair—

“Yes, oh God, listen to me!”

Jason abruptly grabbed Alan’s hand and clamped it in his two sweaty palms, knocking his own scalding cup of tea. He didn’t notice as the hot liquid burned his sleeves as it shattered.

“It wasn’t your fault, Alan, oh dear Alan. You were just doing your job, but Mr. Slope. He spoke to me Alan. I was a young man at university, doubting my identity, questioning God and my religion.

But once The Barchester Chronicles aired on BBC, I was transfixed. My mouth watered every time you came on screen, dear Alan, your carved face, your lean body, your intelligent, darkly handsome, ever-so-oily countenance…I was mesmerized. I experienced a religious revival, I tried to find my Mr. Slope in the Church…but alas. Alas! Alas!”

Jason Isaacs was now shaking a thoroughly appalled Alan Rickman’s hand, chanting “alas!” at the top of his lungs. Everybody in the café was too drunk too notice.

“ALAAAAASSSS! OH ALAN, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY POOR SOUL?”

Alan Rickman sighed, and attempted to quietly finish his drink as Jason Isaacs poured the grief, the unrequited love he had harbored for the past twenty-four years.

As you may have guessed, the young woman is supposed to be xxStuck in Dragxx incognito. I have no idea what she looks like, so I made up someone and stuck her nametag on the character. I hope she likes it. ^-^

Subtract a Day

Tue, 17 Jan 2006 03:27:32 GMT

Finally, the long-awaited (and long) chapter five for your perusing pleasure.

...wherein Alan makes some unexpected discoveries and Scotland has a lively nightlife. Shattering teacups aren't remiss either, neither are partially closeted homosexuals. Get ready for a fun, family-friendly romp into the life of "forty-four-ish and foppy" Alan Rickman!

Now if this were a fan fiction based on my life, and the author suddenly ceased to update because of a rather pressing obligation or two—like Snape and Hermione fan fiction and a rather appalling foray into the overtly sexual world of adult fanfiction.net—what would the opening line be?
This was one of the many things Alan Rickman mused as he swished about in his endearingly floppy grey suit. But never mind the idiosyncrasies of his fans; he was a man on a mission.

Where in the dratted world was Emma Watson?

Alan had replenished his cosmetics, adding years to his newly de-aged state, and as mentioned beforehand, he was sporting his favorite and oldest suit, which incidentally, was the only one that would fit him now. That is to say, the pants didn’t fall completely off of his thinning waist, but then again, some of his fangirls wouldn’t have been too disappointed if that happened.

It would have been even better if he happened to be shopping for bananas, and as he was reaching over to select a particularly fine bunch, just…woosh! They would fall right off, exposing his delectable abdomen, a lovely pair of boxers, because briefs simply didn’t cut it for distinguished men like Alan Rickman, and then multitudes of cameras and females would swarm over him…clawing at him until his newly virile self was exposed, and the fangirls, in a renewed state of frenzied lust, would proceed to—

Not adult fanfiction.net

Yes, okay. Grey suit, on a hunt for Emma Watson. Now this is where our tale really picks up…

May 13th, 2006

The first thing Alan did was to check on Daniel Radcliffe’s situation where the main set was. The crowd had thinned considerably since he left, feeling slightly ill, a state that Emma’s disappearance had only added to.

It wasn’t normal for her to do this. She looked up to him, every tone, every word she said, it was brimming with admiration and respect.
He had taken that for granted.

Another thing that was worrying him was his unnatural fixation on the young girl. It was a development he would have never even skirted around if he was still sixty, but with each passing day, the bold, reckless animal that had been lying dormant in him for the past decade or so was now awakening, and it seemed intent on testing the waters.
Waters that were infested with nubile sixteen-year-olds who insisted on coyly splashing him with warm, silky water.

“Jonah,” Alan stopped a young man sporting a backwards baseball cap, who was hustling off in some direction or other, “What’s the verdict?”

“Ehhh…” Jonah took quite a bit time to respond to this relatively simple inquiry, “Ahm…he’s well. The doctor got the glass out, and they’re stitching the palm. It’s tea time, Mr. Rickman,” the younger man added, in what Alan thought was an unnecessarily desperate tone.

“Very well. Go and enjoy your tea, Jonah,” Alan conceded—being the benevolent and charitable man he was.

Jonah-in-the-malfunctioning-baseball-cap scurried off, and Alan folded his arms. He was doing that more often now, since it was becoming less of a chore. Surprisingly, he heard Jonah’s voice carry over from a not-too-distant vantage.

“…bloody hell is Nathan? Yates says we need to go ahead with the Pensieve scene even if Daniel’s out of the running.”

“I thought you said it was tea time; I overheard you and Mr. Rickman,” a woman’s voice replied, obviously trying to make Jonah’s life harder than it had to be.

“It is tea time! That’s why I’m even more pissed about Nathan. I’m supposed to be coordinating for Young Snape, since Nathan seems to have an overconfidence issue.”

“Why couldn’t they have just hired some twitchy, insecure boy?” The female voice sighed despondently.

Alan Rickman privately agreed, but he had to concede the next point to Jonah.

“Nathan’s a dead ringer for a younger Rickman; it’s quite appalling, really.”

“You’ve never seen a photo of Mr. Rickman at that age.”

Women did always seem to show him more respect than men. That was why he liked them better. Alan pretended to look at the clock, his cell, and then his watch. Then he started picking up newspapers that was littered across the set.

“Right,” Jonah responded snidely, “all you have is some daft photo from when he did a stint as some obscure Romeo character.”

“Tybalt!” the female corrected immediately.

Alan peeked at the woman. She was an attractive woman in her late twenties, a bit older than Jonah. He appreciated her vehement defensiveness on his behalf.

“Yes, well. Don’t get your Alan Whickers in a twist.”

It was too much. Alan started coughing loudly, and the newspapers he had collected thus went scattering. Jonah and the young woman looked over, and Alan was certain he heard a little mortified gasp from the female and snickering from Jonah.

“I thought I would straighten up a bit…” he began, a little embarrassed.

It was too late. The young couple scurried out, Jonah trailing behind the older woman, crying for his blasted tea.

“Hmph,” Alan grunted in a sexy, animalistic way.

The set was now completely abandoned; as a result it was deafeningly quiet, except for the soft ticking of the old-fashioned clock on set. It was meant as a prop for Snape’s office, but it was deemed to have a low wizard-y quotient by the on-set Potter experts.
The Potter experts dressed in striped scarves snatched from the extra-prop backroom and wore round glasses with a vehement passion that frightened Tom Felton who was a bit yellow.
Although, Alan knew for a fact that one of them had a package of temporary lightning bolt-shaped scar tattoos stitched on the inside of the black swishy robes worn to set every day. This was a cause for terror on Alan’s behalf so he wasn’t too hard on Felton, who whimpered every time the Potter experts got too close.
Yes, well Potter experts and teatime aside, there was a suspicious smell to the air that Alan Rickman didn’t like one whit.

Both Nathan and Emma were missing. He didn’t like this one bit. I don’t think I mentioned that.

As if on cue, he heard some muffled whispering coming from where he knew was a storage closet behind some of the more complex mazes of the plywood sets. Normally, Alan limited his eavesdropping forays to strictly one-a-day, but in this case he could make an exception.

Running his hand through his recently cut hair nervously, he began a mighty stride (to cover up his desperate insecurities where Emma Watson was concerned) through the set he knew intimately.

The whisperings increased in volume, and then he heard Emma’s voice ring loud and clear:

“…thanks so much for talking to me about this, Nathan,” –a sniffling sound—“I appreciate it.”

He recognized the rich, buttery voice of Nathan Goldfeldt reassure Emma, “It was my pleasure. Talking with you…you have no idea—it’s so much more incredible than hanging around those ankle-biters.”

Emma giggled, but it sounded muffled by tears.

“Daniel and Rupert aren’t all that bad. They’re such good friends…and besides Rupert is older than you.”

Nathan made a dismissing sound:

“I was talking about Mr. Rickman of course.”

Har, har, Mr. Goldfeldt, Alan thought, quite a way to win her over.

To his extreme pleasure, Emma let out an unconvincing and horrifically belated chuckle.

“Well…Nathan, you will keep what we discussed private though? I couldn’t stand it if…if—

“Don’t worry,” Nathan’s replied—Alan thought he heard a patting sound—“Everything will be safe with me.”

Tch.

“I have no doubt,” was Emma’s sincere response. He knew she was smiling that tender smile of hers right then.

Apparently, Nathan took her normal display of feminine gratification as encouragement to ask her to dinner.

When she said “yes”, Alan didn’t register any emotion. He refused to.

It was time to crash a tea party.

A tea party he crashed indeed. Unfortunately, it was one that Emma and Nathan decided to attend, out of Nathan’s friendliness with the young baseball-clad Jonah.

Alan was no more subdued than usual, which translated into him clenching his usual teacup in a wall corner, preferably the one nearest to the exit. Nathan, being engaged in animated conversation with Jonah-who-Alan-hoped-would-be-swallowed-by-a-whale-with-indigestion-one-day, had left Emma standing by the side, nervously sipping her own teacup.

Once in a while, her eyes would glance over to Alan, but Alan, being a mature, responsible gentleman pretended he didn’t see her. The nature of cracked teacups on multi-million dollar film sets was most ponderous indeed.

Finally, Emma had the courage to approach Alan.

“Mr. Rickman?”

Alan not-so-reluctantly drew his attention from the teacup-that-shouldn’t-be-cracked and focused on one of his favorite co-stars. Well, she was basically one of the stars, but nevertheless…

“Splendid afternoon it’s been, hasn’t it?”

Emma chuckled mirthlessly, “It’s been awful. With Daniel and…” she trailed off, a crimson blush spreading over her fine cheeks.

“And Nathan asking you to dinner on top of that. The sheer audacity,” Alan teased.
Emma looked mollified.

“How did you know about that?”

“Jonah, the chap who doesn’t know how to wear a hat properly, told me.”

“That was quick.” To Alan’s pleasure, Emma looked a little testy, “Word does spread fast around here. Remarkably fast since I hinted to Nathan that I wanted to keep our conversations private.”

Ah, an opportune window had opened here for Alan.

“Private conversations with Nathan? Has Old Snape not whetted your conversational tendencies enough?” Alan teased, knowing precisely that this would make Emma open up to exactly why she had abandoned him.

Emma shifted uncomfortably, towards him, Alan noticed without it really registering:

“Mr. Rickman! You’re my favorite person to talk to; you’re smart, you understand so much, you seem to have the right answer for everything, your voice isn’t that bad to listen to…” Emma broke off, looking mortified.

Apparently she hadn’t intended to go that far. Alan decided to play it cool.

“I can’t imagine why. I’m an old man now; all appeal dissipated years ago, Emma. It’s understandable that you’re turning to someone whose a bit older but still on your level.” Alan sipped some tea.
Blackberry sage—it was actually quite good, unexpected from the Americans who couldn’t even prepare a decent cup of their staple beverage, coffee.

He glanced at Emma, who, to his surprise, had a coy expression on her face.

“Actually, sir, you’re looking remarkably on my level these days.”

And with that, she pranced off to join Nathan, who for some inexplicable reason was now humping Young James Potter’s backside without the poor chap realizing it.

Jonah’s fist was stuffed in his mouth, so Cameron wouldn’t notice that he was currently being defiled by a seventeen year-old, Alan Rickman-resembling sexy beast.

Boys.

As horrifying that sight had been, he still couldn’t shake Emma’s words out of his head:

You’re looking remarkably on my level these days.

What did she mean? Surely she didn’t intend to say that he was getting closer to her league as of late? Was she afflicted with some horrendous, paternal form of the Oedipus complex?

Hmph.

Alan returned to his Blackberry Sage tea, but his fist had been clenching the faulty teacup tightly for the past few seconds. The crack had grown to epidemic proportions, and with a precognition, Alan witnessed the teacup shattering in his hand.
Lukewarm tea spilled onto his robes.

“Did anyone see that?” Alan demanded, “This isn’t a respectable British set. What kind of proper set can’t afford teacups for its—

He broke off. Jason Isaacs had come dallying over, a white handkerchief in hand.

“Rag?” Jason Isaacs offered politely, more timidly than Alan had ever heard him.

“Er, thanks.” He took the proffered rag and dabbed the front of his grey suit.

Sniff. Looked like Alan had to get another gloriously skinny grey suit.

“You’ve been losing weight,” Jason Isaacs commented, “That was probably your last suit wasn’t it?”

Alan eyed Jason’s denim trousers and white button-down apprehensively. However, a promising beige suit jacket hung from the man’s powerful shoulders.

“What’s your size mate?”

May 16th, 2006

Three days later, Alan Rickman was clenching the armrests of Jason Isaacs’ red sports car tightly.

“This is going to be stupendously awesome,” Jason Isaacs declared, unable to contain the immoderate glee that pervaded his voice, “I’ve never gone shopping with Alan Rickman. And now I am!”

Alan swallowed nervously.

“I’ve…never gone shopping with Jason Issacs either.”

This seemed to sit well with the stocky man next to him who currently had his gas pedal to the floor of the car.

Screeee!
“We’re almost in the village. It’s surprisingly urban for a town so close to rural Scot, and they have this wonderful shop for men’s suits. Casual as well as dressy. We don’t want you showing up to work in Armani!”

Unabashedly horrified, Alan watched his co-star emit a falsetto screech he may have intended to pass for laughter.

Moments later the cramped sports car swerved sharply in-between two sedans, tires smoking, but with perfectly adequate amounts of space left on either side of the car for backing out.

“We’re here,” Jason Isaacs announced, rather unnecessarily. “Up you get!”

Up he got, Alan did.

They were in the center of what appeared to be a relatively deserted, high-end town square. The shops were small, quaint and expensive; the streets paved and clean; the sidewalks ornate and framed with pricey flowers. The whole town’s populace seemed to be clustered in a café that seemed to be pulsing with music, writhing bodies, and stimulating intellectual conversation.

It was also three-thirty in the afternoon.

“The nightlife starts early here,” Jason Isaacs commented, again, rather unnecessarily.

“So I see.”

“Well let’s head inside. We don’t want to keep Chester waiting forever!”

“Chester?”

Chester was a twenty-one year old who wore a spiked dog collar and unabashedly sported a red Mohawk. Chester also wore no pants and a black t-shirt with the white letters:

NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE

“They didn’t mention pants,” the twenty-one year old offered, as if that was adequate explanation for his horrifically yellow briefs.

Chester, like Jason Isaacs, had a falsetto laugh and had a distracting habit of swinging his hips around when amused. Alan really wished the boy would wear trousers.

“Now,” the punk-y young man declared flamboyantly, “We’re going to make you forty-four-ish and foppy!”

“Wonderful! Alan, you prefer grey casual to black formal, true?” Jason Isaacs thoughtfully solicited Alan’s opinion on this painfully embarrassing matter.

“Well, yes,” Alan replied agreeably, thinking that maybe Jason Isaacs would pay for all of this, and then it wouldn’t be so bad.

Alas, his hopes were shattered when an hour later, Chester asked for a charge card.
Jason Isaacs discreetly turned his eyes to the clock behind Chester and started humming.

All hope and consolation lost, Alan fished his wallet out of his tea-splattered trousers and handed the trouser-less young man his charge card.

“Wasn’t that splendidly amusing? I never knew you were so agreeable about shopping. Although I would be agreeable if that were all for me.” Jason Isaacs gestured to the obscene pile of plastic-encased suits Alan was struggling with.

Lucky for him, the noxious suits obscured what would have been an oddly affectionate look coming from the evil Jason Isaacs.

“Alan?”

“Yes?” Alan exhaled, from the now-mild strain of coercing the suits, his bum moving tantalizingly in accordance to his movements.

A strange twinge formed in Jason Isaacs’ stomach. He really had lost weight.

“Want to go to the Café Rouge?”

A/N: Dun, dun! What will happen? Will inebriation lead to tearful confessions, or will Emma have a cat-and-pouf fight with her new adversary? Find out in the next installation which will be updated by this Saturday!
Thanks to ajat for this wonderful idea. ;-)

http://www.poster.net/rickman-alan/rickman-alan-photo-alan-rickman-6200210.jpg

Yes, this is how he is supposed to look at forty-seven in that delightful grey suit of his!

On an interesting side note, I did one of those celebrity biorhythm compability tests with AR. The results were...curious. It's kind of like Snape and Hermione, I guess: in fandom they have a strong physical and intellectual attraction, but emotionally, there's something left to be desired.

Physical: 100%
Emotional: 11%
Intellectual: 99%
Total: 70%

You can compare your compatability at:

Match yourself with Alan Rickman

Subtract a Day

Sun, 08 Jan 2006 23:37:05 GMT

Thank you all for your continuing support! Some of you had suggestions, and I would like to mention that this is the last of the pre-written chapters I've had, so I will definitely take recs into consideration when writing future chapters.

Finals week is also approaching, so I might be slow on the updating. Chapter Four is a bit slow--a filler chapter--but chapter five promises some forbidden romance, although not the objective romance we're after here. ;)

Without further ado, Chapter Four for your perusing pleasure:

May 8th, 2006

“That’s it.”

Alan shook his head disbelievingly at his reflection in the door of Jane Davenport’s citric-bunny-resplendent-bovine psychology/psychiatrist offices. A much younger-looking doppelganger stared back at him, eyeballing himself critically.

He was not sixty anymore. He was sure of it.

Throwing the doors open, he stalked forcefully and impressionably towards the lifts, instilling fear in various people hobbling around with clichéd piles of paperwork. Unfortunately, none of them scattered into the air. That would have taken the cake, to be sure.

He jabbed the “up” button repeatedly. Even Jane Davenport wouldn’t be able to explain this phenomenon away—she could call him a cradle-robber, an old man, but she definitely couldn’t come up with a feasible explanation for this.

His hair had grown from a close crop to his ears in the course of week. It had also thickened and regained most of its apricot color, and even a few tantalizing streaks of dark brown and chunks of sandy locks. His waist had shrunk four inches (not that he was measuring of course), and as he jiggled up and down on his toes, his hands shoved in his pocket, he appreciated that his slight chin wobble had all but completely disappeared.

This was definitely bordering on paranormal.

The reflective elevator doors opened and revealed an attractive woman in her mid-thirties. She smiled coldly at him. Quite startled, Alan nevertheless proceeded to enter the lift. He pushed the “26” button for Davenport’s office, and as the lift’s doors closed Alan suddenly had a flash of insight.

He no longer looked like a harmless, albeit distinguished, elderly man. Rather, with his floppy, ratty grey suit, his long, unkempt hair and his still slightly thick waist and those beautiful Alan Rickman lines we know and love, he looked like a sleazy, intimidating fifty-two year-old.

No wonder that woman got so defensive.

Bloody hell.

Jane Davenport was drinking that appalling tea of hers when Alan barged into her office. Right on cue, she lifted her eyes up to meet him and then theatrically choked on her so-called tea.

“Plausible. You should join a company—no doubt you’d quickly rise in the thespian ranks,” Alan sneered, but then he went and ruined it all by snickering at Jane Davenport’s abashed expression.

“Uh, Mr. Rickman?”

“Who else,” Alan deadpanned, jamming his hands in his pocket after closing the door. He then proceeded to pace about Jane Davenport’s office.

“I…uh…” his therapist’s mouth was agape, her teacup frozen in mid-air. “Yes, well…it looks as if this week did you some…” she swallowed, “Good,” she finished lamely.

“Now you can have no doubt that something is clearly afoot?”

“But…it’s just not possible.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“But…it’s happening.”

“Of course it is.”

“Hmm…” Jane quickly regained her composure. Setting her teacup on her desk’s now-splattered-surface, she adjusted her attractive bifocals coolly, reacquiring some of her professional dignity.

“Tell me; have you been having that dream again?”

An hour later, psychologist and patient were sitting comfortably on opposite ends of the purple sofa. Jane’s legs were slung over the top of the sofa, while Alan was slouched so far down that his back was nearly parallel to the cushions.

“You think the girl in my dream might have something to do with this?” he reiterated dubiously.

“Of course. You were literally brought to this present day as a young man by some ghostly, glowing spirit. This girl provoked a sensation of stability and normalcy within you in the dream—

“I never said that. I just said the apple smell calmed me and everything was assuredly all right after that.”

“Saaame thing,” Jane drawled, bored. “I’m so envious. I do wonder…” she sat up from her end of the couch and traced her lips seductively:

“Were you very attractive when you were thirty?”

Alan groaned in disbelief, while Jane Davenport merely laughed. A glint of light caught his eye; it was coming from her right hand.

“Is that…” Now it was his turn to sit up in disbelief. “Is that…a ring?”

“Seems John Bradshaw finally took leave of his senses and accepted my odd proposals of holy matrimony. It wasn’t the citric bunnies after all. It was nicotine-stained fingers plus a monocle with a dash of Gryffindor.”

“I take Bradshaw’s a fan of Barrie?”

“Hopelessly,” Jane sighed appreciatively, “It’s akin to us Rickmaniacs buying the Shakespeare Tragedy set for a hundred pence to get fifteen minutes of you in tights and a distracting codpiece.”

Alan let a snort of laughter escape.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Right after my forty-first birthday.”

“Forgive me…but are you planning to have children?”

Jane twisted her head to catch Alan’s eyes beyond the vantage of her legs.

“Dozens,” she smiled wryly.

“I never had any children,” he commented dispassionately.

“Who knows,” Jane said softly, “Maybe with this second chance…maybe you’ll find the apple girl, and she’ll put an end to this gift—or this curse. Who knows what’ll happen next?”

May 13th, 2006

Alan returned to the Harry Potter set five days later. They hadn’t been filming any scenes involving him lately, but now they required Severus Snape for the end of the infamous Pensieve scene. Apparently, he was to throw a jar of dried cockroaches at Daniel Radcliffe’s head.

Privately, he admitted that he enjoyed tormenting the two boys. He had a great deal of patience and forbearance, even affection, for the youth and a great deal for his fans, but teenage boys…

Something about them just set him off. Maybe it was from hours of listening Emma’s anguished monologues from age thirteen on that provoked his empathy and his impatience with the toying adolescent boys.

As he threw his last jar at the wall by Daniel’s head, the boy slipped on the set floor, and as he fell, he let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Alan was surprised. Daniel was normally an exceptional sport, especially for a boy who had started acting at such a young age, and such a fall would normally be met with silence or maybe even a chuckle at his own jest.

And then he saw why: a piece of glass from the shattered jar was embedded into his palm.

“Oh Gods, it hurts!” he muttered, cradling his injured hand. Multitudes of people immediately swarmed to the boy, including Emma.

He saw Emma being blocked by the crowd, as she desperately tried to part the clusters of people. Rather than rushing to Daniel and making room for the boy, he found himself drawn to Emma’s distress.

“Emma,” he hissed softly.

His voice seemed to calm the girl.

“Will he be okay? Where’s the doctor?!” her voice became higher, more shrill.

“LET ME THROUGH DUNDERHEADS!”

Ah.

“It seems he’s having…difficulties,” Alan commented, his voice tense, “Wait here, don’t try to get through,” he took Emma by her shoulders and steered her away from the Radcliffe mob.

The doctor was a slight man of Jewish descent. He was short, wiry, one of the best general practitioners in the United Kingdom, and totally unfit to make his way through a distressed, emotional mass of bodies pressing against each other.

“Follow me,” Alan ordered the younger man curtly. The doctor’s brow furrowed even deeper, but he nodded his consent.

Alan immediately parted the crowd, using his tall stature and his renewed, younger body to clear a path for the doctor.

Once the doctor reached Radcliffe, Alan left to check on Emma.

She had disappeared.

“Damn,” Alan muttered.

He suddenly felt very warm. Maybe it was the heavy, black, billowing robes and the frock coat, maybe it was the stringy wig, and maybe it even was the make-up Alan wore, which was beginning to cake.

The high emotions and dozens of people running underfoot lent a crackling, oppressive atmosphere to Alan’s discomfiture.

And now Emma had left; Emma who did everything Alan told her to do, anything he even suggested, Emma who had taken pleasure in hovering around Alan like a shadow.

She had left him.

Making an exasperated noise, Alan shook his head as if he was trying to get a particularly annoying thought out, and stalked towards one of the set’s exits. It was likely that David Yates was going to give everyone the day off now; with Daniel injured, they would be too busy fussing over him to film any of the scenes with characters other than Harry Potter.

The hallways were empty. That was good—Alan needed the room he was planning to make use of to be empty.

As he strode on, weaving his way through the mess of the studio, the sets, the courtyards, and scattered junk, his thoughts flitted to the Pensieve scene they couldn’t seem to film properly.

The first day, they had filmed Daniel looking into the Pensieve inquisitively, before the foolish boy would fall into one of Snape’s, his character, worst memories.
Somehow, Alan doubted that the summer scene by the lake of 1976 would be Snape’s worst memory. From what he had seen, read, and heard about his character from Rowling, it just didn’t fit. He had been a Death Eater, an abusive childhood, and apparently was under the constant pressure of being a double agent and spy.

Alan knew that the Harry Potter series were children’s books, so he doubted that Snape’s worst memory would have been described to be some rape or killing scene, but wasn’t that the most likely scene to encounter in an ex-Death Eater’s mind?
Unless those weren’t Snape’s worst memories.

But just one episode of what appeared to be several bullying scenes in the young Snape’s life, protected and stored into the Pensieve?

Alan Rickman wasn’t a rabid Harry Potter fan, but he took his career very seriously, and Snape appeared to be one of his most complex characters so far. It wasn’t going to be easy to dissect the man for the upcoming Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince productions.

He arrived at his destination, which was one of the make-up artists on board’s room. One wall was completely covered with mirrors and a long shelf where one could sit at and apply cosmetics.

Which was exactly what Alan did nowadays. His appearance was now changing more slowly, but there was now at least a ten year’s difference from how he had looked at sixty and how he looked now.

He no longer trusted the make-up artists, the ones who got the closest to him, the ones who spent every day examining his face from a few inches away, to do their job and keep their mouths clamped shut. Alan liked them very much, but he simply wasn’t willing to throw himself at the mercy of risking paparazzi and tabloids spouting some trash about fountains of youth.

Alan squirted some baby oil on a clean rag and wiped his paint off. Gradually, the pale make-up and the harsh lines disappeared, revealing smoother and firm skin. He tapped the faucet from one of the sinks on and washed his face.

Grabbing another clean towel, he dried his face off, and not bothering to stop to examine his new face for the day, he stooped under the counter to grab a black knapsack, brimming with various jars, flasks, and containers.

Twenty minutes later, Alan Rickman emerged, looking every bit one of his sixty years.
Years of theater and films had allowed him to pick up techniques from the dozens of make-up artists he had met. He had been made older, younger, something akin to a cheeseball...

He wished to continue working as long as he could. He also wished to avoid unnecessary questions, questions with answers he didn’t know. Not yet at least.

His dreams were growing fiercer every night, his dream self screaming at Alan, do something! Just don’t stand there, find her!

Find her. Yes, he needed to find Emma to make sure she was being properly consoled.

The following image was taken directly from the website, so it should work for your browser.

http://www.harrypotterrealm.com/movie/actors/alanrickman2.jpg

Subtract a Day

Sat, 07 Jan 2006 05:40:38 GMT

...wherein Emma Watson terrifies Alan Rickman, and a consoling pub meeting with Maggie Smith and Michael Gambton soothes Alan's truculent spirit.

May 5th, 2006

“Blast it. Blast it all.”

Alan scowled at his reflection, closely examining his eyes. He normally did not keep such exact track and count of his blemishes, every imperfection and fine line, but in light of recent events, he felt it would be rather prudent to do so.

He was certain he was a genetic anomaly, a freak of nature to be sure. Absolutely certain. For where there was a line skirmishing from a heavy eye-crease the previous night, it revealed nothing but smooth expanse—and the heavy eye-crease of course. For where there had been harsh contours around his mouth, they were now a few millimeters shallower.

There was no doubt about it. He was getting younger, if not by the hour, then by the day.

“Blast it.”

Nevertheless, he grudgingly trudged his way to work. Having a therapist residing in London was inconvenient to the extreme since they shot Harry Potter in north Scotland, but he felt to be worth it.

And Emma Watson had left him an e-mail. She was concerned about him, not surprising since his behavior had been rather erratic in the past few days. Emma was a very astute girl, Alan reflected, for she had observed changes in him since she was just eleven to her present age—sixteen.

No matter. He dismissed Emma Watson from his thoughts quickly; there was still the pressing matter of riding to the set. Normally he had a driver sent to him by the studio, but what with his disappearances, David Yates’ assistants had now taken to expecting a call from Alan when he was ready to be picked up.

His trousers were slipping again; he really resented unfailingly increasing his pudginess every year now. Irritated, he tightened his belt.

Bugger. He was going to have to drive, that wasn’t the problem, but there was the slightly more pressing matter of the location of his car keys being unknown to him.
Alan braced himself for the thin fog that had taken to attacking his short-term memory lately—although he had no problems reciting Snape-isms, he had issues recalling what he had for breakfast that morning—but to his surprise he instantly remembered that he had tossed his keys in the top drawer of his nightstand the last time he took the car for a ride. Also there was something wrong in the bonnet; he got that repaired too, but mostly it was just for the fun of driving into London and flabbergasting the bejesus out of Jane Davenport. Uppity little therapist she was.

Disconcerted, he retrieved the keys and in no time, Alan Rickman was on the road to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

“Well, isn’t he cute?” a mischievous smile lit up on her face, her incongruously sharp and soft brown eyes peering at Alan to see his reaction.

“He rather does look like you, you know.”

He couldn’t help himself. He smiled down at Emma, who was leaning behind a plywood wall, her arms folded across her blouse, cheeks a lovely shade of blushing pink.

“I can’t believe they picked him though. I mean, yes he does have the nose, and—“ Emma paused and peered around Alan Rickman’s shrinking waist at the object of her denied affection, “…and he is that skinny, angular sort. Black hair—appropriately long, but I’m sure they’ll grease it up…oo, and is he tall. Alan,” Emma’s bright eyes flickered up at him, shining, “how old is he again? Oh there I go, gushing. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this….”

“I believe,” Alan bent down to whisper in her ear, “he is exactly seventeen years of age.”

“Is he really?”

Alan noticed with interest how Emma revealed a slight shiver. He was suddenly very conscious of his lack of long, black hair and his want of a skinny, youthful body.
Emma took his wrist:

“He’s moving! Let’s follow him!”

The “he” in question was the young man that had been recently cast for the role of “Young Snape”. Today was the first day of which Yates would be undertaking the mighty feat of filming the Pensieve scene, which was in the chapter “Snape’s Worst Memory” in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
He should’ve realized that Emma would be infatuated with the young man. The boy, really. She had always experienced a preference for Severus Snape when incessantly chattering to Alan about the wondrous books.

He smiled inwardly as the nubile sixteen year-old dragged him along.

“Slow down, I’m a good forty or so years older than you are,” he chided her, but the reality was, he wasn’t having any trouble keeping up. He had the advantage of height and natural strength, not to mention the strange little phenomenon of him waking up every morning, his age lessened just a bit.

“Psh,” Emma scoffed.
They were now weaving their way through bustling crew members and Daniel and Rupert were making things difficult by running around, chasing each other with squirt guns.
Alan felt like he should stop them to save Yates a gray strand of hair or two, but soon enough Emma had pulled him all the way to the break room.

Silver basins of hot water and steaming tea pots lay waiting for them.

“I have so much to talk to you about!” Emma exclaimed, pouring herself and Alan a teacup, “There’s been all this stuff happening, and I need more of your valuable perspective,” she threw a teasing look at Alan, “on boys. Rupert has been so insufferable lately, what with him approaching his eighteenth. He’s going on and on about it, and Felton’s been obsessive about his blogging when he should be focusing on his lines. Oh well. How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Alan never confided in Emma. It was all very well for the young girl to gush and treat him like a father figure, trusting him with confidence, but he would never place the burdens of middle age and his somewhat depressing thoughts of late on such a happy, free-spirited girl.
Oh, there were times when Emma demonstrated great maturity, and he could see glimpses of the beautiful, mature woman she would become within a few years, but for now, he enjoyed listening and doling advice for her.

“What do you think of Nathan and Cameron?” Emma inquired, handing Alan a steaming teacup.

“Nathan resembles a young Snape very much,” Alan conceded, “But let us wait and observe his acting abilities before…over-indulging.”

Emma had the decency to blush.

“You’re right. Would you like to sit with me?”

Alan’s thoughts went to Maggie and Michael. He had been hoping to stop in a pub with the two—they were infinitely closer to him in age than Emma was after all—but he relented to the overwhelming charm of Emma’s countenance.

“Of course.”

They settled into moderately comfortable wicker chairs, Emma cradling her tea cup, deeply inhaling the aromatic steam.

“What about Cameron? Does he look enough like Harry? Do you think they should’ve just used Harry with contact lenses?”

“No, the resemblance would be unnatural then. Cameron looks remarkably like Daniel and I’ve heard Ms. Rowling say that she was pleased because Cameron also shares some of the features she described the young James Potter himself to have.”

“Well, all right, but…oh, I can’t stop talking about Nathan. My prattling must get so tiresome at times.” Emma scooted her chair close to Alan, and she set her teacup on the, oddly enough, coffee table.

Alan was starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable now. As if there was something wrong. There was a twinge in his stomach, as Emma leaned against his chair armrest, obliviously chattering away about Nathan and as to whether or not the young man was developing feelings for the redheaded girl who was to play the young Lily Evans. The familiar smell of apples hit his nostrils, and he jerked backwards.

“Is there something wrong?” Emma stood up, leaning over Alan inquisitively. “Are you okay? Should I get some help? More tea?”

“No—no, I’m very well, thank you,” Alan replied quickly. He had noticed the apple-scented candle burning on the table.

Still, he was disturbed.

“My apologies, Emma, but I have a prior engagement. Michael and Maggie are expecting me to have a quick round of—forgive me—drinks this evening,” he stood up, brushing the dust from the plywood off one of his older (and smaller) grey suits.

“We’ll talk later, all right dear? Don’t worry,” a smirk crept up on Alan’s lips, “Redheads aren’t all that much chaps make a fuss out of. If the boy has any sense he’ll be able to see what a delightful young woman you are.”

Emma’s face exploded into a grin.

“You’re not looking so bad yourself, Mr. Rickman.”

And with that, she strode out of the room, shouting after a now-thoroughly-soaked-Daniel-Radcliffe, leaving Alan Rickman behind, understandably perplexed.
The smell of apples still wafted about him.

Blast it.

“I’ll just have a gin and tonic tonight, McDuff, I’m just feeling a wee bit under the weather. Bloody rain,” Maggie Smith sniffled into a handkerchief she had extricated from her suit jacket’s pocket.

“Coming right up, ma’am.”

“Spot of liquor will do you good Maggie, spare us the griping already. If you want to be bar buddies…”

“Michael!” Maggie swatted at Michael’s tweed-encrusted arm.

“Anything you’d like Mr. Rickman?”

Alan raised his eyebrows at the aging bartender. The pub was remarkably dim and gloomy as far as pubs, albeit Scottish ones at that, went, which made fan-recognition difficult and inebriation all the more friendly. The combination of soft, dark light eerily illuminated the large clock, which revealed the hour and minute hand to be almost on top of twelve.

“Wine.”

“Wine? McDuff, four beers for the two of us, and an extra gin and tonic for Ms. Smith,” Michael shook his head disbelievingly, “The hour’s not right for wine, Rickman.”

McDuff caught Alan’s eye for approval. Indeterminably, Alan gave a slight nod, escaping even the notice of his shrewd co-stars.

“Fine.”

“You know, there is something odd about you,” Maggie peered at Alan, her eyes narrowing. “I daresay you’ve been looking better than ever. Still I revel in the fact that you are getting lines. You’ve always aged well, but—“ Maggie chuckled a bit unkindly, and she tapped a fine line on Alan’s forehead affectionately.

The clock chimed midnight.

“Times like these that we’re glad for the vast improvement liquor does you Ms. Smith,” Michael commented dryly.

“Two gin and tonics, four beers,” McDuff announced. “G’night.” He nodded courteously to his three distinguished patrons, and then left to service other late-night stragglers.

“Oh yes, indeed,” Maggie chortled, forcing a smile to even Alan’s face. “Well, cheers.”
She saluted her gin and tonic first to Michael, took a swig, and kissed him platonically on the cheek.

“And here’s to the inimitable Rickman!” she saluted Alan in turn, and then as she was about to lean in for Alan’s well-deserved kiss, she paused.

“Where is it?”

“What are you going on about you daft woman?” Michael gulped the last bit of his beer, smacking his lips.

Maggie’s eyes slid from Alan’s forehead to meet his eyes.

“Alan Sydney Patrick Rickman,” she burbled, already slightly intoxicated, “Where in the fiery Hades is your line?”

“My line?” Alan repeated, thinking to his script for Harry Potter.

“Nooo, your line.” Maggie tapped a finger to Alan’s forehead.

“It’s gone.”

http://www.alan-rickman.obe-ron.de/Bilder/alan%20fotos/alan2.jpg

Subtract a Day

Thu, 05 Jan 2006 22:26:13 GMT

I'm so pleased with the responses I've gotten for just the first chapter. I hope you all will keep in touch and enjoy the ride. :)

Without further ado, I present Chapter Two for your perusing pleasure.

May 1st, 2006

It was a despicably bright and sunny English morning.

Today was a rare day and a most infinitely precious one at that. Today, Alan Rickman had a day off for the first time in…six years?
Yes, that sounded about right. He had been so looking forward to sleeping in, succumbing to his usual exhaustion, but this morning seemed different.

This morning, his eyelids weren’t as heavy. This morning, his chest didn’t feel like there was a gargantuan weight on top of it, his arms seemed a bit less wobbly even. Therein was a miracle in itself!
He protested—the sun doth shine too bright indeed—he fought, he kicked, he jerked about feverishly, but alas, his body seemed intent on him getting up.
As he rose, he didn’t feel like he was about to get a heart attack, a feeling that had cropped up since reaching his sixtieth birthday the previous February 21st.

Ah. The hardwood floor felt cool underfoot, refreshingly so after an almost uncomfortably warm bed. Getting up this morning didn’t seem to be that much of an ordeal, as it had been for the past several months.

It was clear: he needed help.

He needed Jane Davenport that instant.

“Yes,” the younger woman drawled, scratching her notepad vociferously with an uncooperative ballpoint pen, “So something is wrong because you greeted today with a positive, sunny outlook?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Alan waved his hand at the silly woman, amused at her psychological antics, “I was merely disturbed because I didn’t nearly experience cardiac arrest this morning.”

“No, really? That is a bit disturbing, shall we hustle you over to the nearest Spiffy’s Burgers n’ Crisps and remedy that?”

“At least one of us is being serious here,” Alan retorted.

Jane Davenport let out a sigh and removed her stylish bifocals in an professionally exasperated manner.

“I am being serious. I think it is disturbing—disturbing that you have become so accustomed to an unaltered state of pessimism you’re sobbing at me that you aren’t at the moment clutching your chest in spasmodic bouts of pain.”

Alan shifted uncomfortably in his comfy chair.

“It’s not that. I’ve fallen into a routine of declination. I’ve grown used to waking up and feeling a bit more worn-out than yesterday, however microscopically significant the sensation may be.”

“What you need,” Jane Davenport pronounced with a gleeful, triumphant expression, “is a younger woman!”

“Pardon?”

“Well not me, naturally, seeing as I’m your therapist and I’m engaged—

“Ah yes, has John Bradshaw responded to your latest inquiry about the nature of resplendent bovines?”

“Personally, I think he responded better to the citric bunnies—don’t change the subject! Now,” Jane leaned backwards in her seat, tossing her graphitized notepad aside, “we need to discuss the issue at hand: how you should best go about cradle-robbing.”

“Insipid woman!” Alan’s lip curled into an adorable sneer, “Women have no hope for me now. I am old and worldly afflicted.”

“You do know ‘worldly afflicted’ doesn’t mean anything right, that was just—

“Exoteric writing, yes, but it stuck. I identified with it.”

“Hmm…” Jane emitted a traditional psychoanalyst murmur, “Interesting.”

“As it is,” Alan continued, straightening himself from the infuriatingly plush, sinking chair, “I’ve no wish to start a stressful, emotionally taxing relationship. Besides, I’ve found that the younger the significant other, the more onerous it is to endure.”

“Have you had any strange dreams?” Jane interjected, quite randomly.

“Well, yes, now that you mention it, I did have a peculiar dream last night.”

“Tell me about it.”

A bit befuddled, Alan consented, and he attempted to relax into Jane’s obliging chair. The velvet timbre of his voice rumbled, cracking at times into the rustier vocals of an older man, as he began to relate his tale:

“Last night had been relatively peaceful. I was let go a few hours earlier, David and I had a nice, quiet cup of tea, all conversation limited to remarks about the weather and such, and I was dropped off at home at a modest time. I enjoyed the night time rituals, and I crawled into the comforters a satisfied, albeit weary, sixty-year-old.

I had a dream, a strange one. I was taken from my bed by a glowing spectre, as clichéd as that sounds, and it led me on a stranger journey. Things became muddled, color faded into black-and-white, and I had a peculiar sensation of enjoying a young man’s faculties once again. My face was firm, my arms and legs pumping with vital strength, my waist slender. I saw those I hadn’t seen in several years…men, women, children I knew from my youth. As I grew younger, the time grew more ancient—until everything blurred into color once more.

I was catapulted back into my home, but age had been erased. My flesh and sinew was of the consistency I experienced forty years ago.

The glowing spectre came back, and it showed me images—images of—

“Yes?” Jane Davenport prodded gently, when her patient broke off.
To her incredulity, he actually blushed.

“…I am too old to be having these dreams, and with such a young woman. She must have been no older, younger even, than Cate was when we worked together in ’95. Nevertheless, I saw her, I saw her eyes, her face, her hair, as clear as my mother’s face although I’ve never before seen this young woman.
The spectre showed me choppy, instantaneous images of a crude city landscape, the smell of books permeated the air…and apples.”

“Apples, Alan?”

“She smelled like apples. So it is true. Subconsciously, I am a cradle-robber after all.” A wicked glint escaped from the serious, drawn expression engraved onto Alan’s familiar-looking face.

“That is strange,” Jane agreed, “I’ve never heard a dream with such a cemented storyline so vividly described by men—especially those of your age. First traces of senility, you are aware, I’m sure,” Jane teased.

“You’re very silly.” Alan’s lips spread, revealing his teeth, as his laugh—rich and hearty—reverberated within the dungeon, ahem, the office walls.

Three days later, Jane was enjoying a cup of lemon-cinnamon-ginger-eucalyptus tea with absolutely no trace of tea leaves when her favorite client, Alan Rickman, burst into the office, enraged.

“LOOK AT THIS!”

Jane looked. More specifically, she looked at where he was tugging his belt furiously. It appeared to be a few inches too loose, but otherwise, it was a splendid belt.

“It’s a fine-looking apparatus. Wherever did you get it?” She sipped her tea placidly.

“Not that, Ms. Davenport! This!” he snarled most handsomely at her. Actually, it was a terrifying snarl, but still…yes, it was still a handsome snarl she decided. Too bad he wasn’t thirty years younger—he wasn’t the only cradle robber in the room.

Stop thinking that! You’re a horribly disloyal Rickmaniac! She chided herself fiercely. Obliged, she reluctantly drew her eyes to Alan Rickman’s pelvis.
“It does seem a bit loose. Perhaps tighten it a few notches?” she conceded, quite amicably.

“Yes Ms. Davenport, I’ll do that.” And he did so. She blushed.

“Now the question pertains,” he continued, stalking to the nearest sofa, “why was my belt so loose?”

“Lost some weight? Congratulations—there’s nothing less spiffier than a pudgy old man.”

“Budge the arsenic humor will you, daft woman! I’m not supposed to be losing weight! I’ve been steadily gaining a few pounds a year since—since I was your age!”

“Chant with me. Change is good, optimism is beneficial—

“Oh, please stop.”

Jane respected her patient’s wishes.

“Do I look different to you?”

What an endearing question! He suspected that she knew him well enough to ascertain a slight physical change—
Well, no. There wasn’t a slight physical change.
There was an enormous altercation in his countenance.

“Did you, by any chance, have some kind of cosmetic procedure done in the three days I haven’t seen you?”

“Absolutley not. I’ve been getting up, going to work, ho-hum as usual. Every morning I feel a bit chipper, a bit of a bounce in my step, and the temptation to jauntily salute at strangers in the street is increasing every day! It’s almost too much to bear. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

It suddenly forcibly registered to Jane that he did look a bit too different. He looked as if he stepped out from the old reels of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, minus the wig and the attractively billowing cloaks and frock coats.

“You seem younger,” Jane observed, curiosity seeping into her voice, “What have you been using anyway? If it’s a cream, or something of that sort I’ll discontinue my services until you supply me indefinitely.”

“I haven’t.” His voice became softer, silkier. Gone was the slight rasp of old age at intervals.

“This is most interesting. Unfortunately we don’t have an appointment scheduled until the next fourth day. Weekly intervals, remember?”

“You don’t have any patients waiting.”

“Yes I do. Betty Wilde is coming in a few moments from now to help me devise more symbols and allusions so I can write my next exoteric piece to John Bradshaw. So far we’ve found a few lines in John’s review of Of Mice and Men that inspired hope. Off with you,” Jane shooed Alan out of her unoccupied office, the whole building quiet except for the two of them, both virile male and female absolutely panting for some human endearment and touch.

“I’ll ring you then.”

“You do that.”

As the two humans parted ways a benign spirit would have wondered at the seemingly astounding stupidity of humans at times, but as such, this was not the case.

Mr. Rickman’s destiny lay in another.

The mandatory photo that is to accompany RESPLENDENT BOVINES:

Enjoy!

http://galeriahp.za.pl/snape/22.jpg

Subtract a Day

Thu, 05 Jan 2006 03:55:24 GMT

I'm an avowed Harry Potter fanatic, and OlympiaManet3000's Ourobouros is my bible. Come to the dark side. We have cookies, Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and Severus Snape (kinda). ;)

I publish most of my fan fiction here or at ff.net under ContemporaryManner, but there are no fan fiction sites devoted to Alan Rickman which is a travesty since I had a wonderful idea for a story.

Summary:

Alan Rickman has finally approached the big 6-0, and compensates by seeking out a neurotic therapist who will be able to help him through a very mystifying paranormal event. With every day, he grows a year younger, and he struggles to conceal his growing youth from the Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix set, and most of all, his intimidating, nubile co-star, Emma Watson, who insists on soliciting Alan Rickman's fatherly advice and a listening ear as she tries to pursue the teenager who plays Young Snape in the infamous Pensieve scene.
Mostly humourous, with a dash of romance among consensual, of-age individuals.

Chapter one of Subtract a Day for your perusing pleasure.

March 1st, 2006

Alan Sidney Patrick Rickman was, to put it quite simply, exhausted. His sixtieth birthday had recently been attained, and every bit of it was showing. In his youth, he reflected, he aged well—women always mistook him for some five to ten years younger than reality.

At sixty years of age, his metabolism had sharply declined, his elasticity softened, and his hair quite a bit more fine than preferred. Being the benevolent gentleman he was, he didn’t pay as much heed nor brood over his advancing age as other men of his generation were so inclined to do so.

Despite, he continued to work most assiduously, throwing himself at every task, every role with an inimitable passion, quite unparalleled to any blockbuster actor of the time, in the early days of 2006. He always treated his fans with the most courteous respect and patience, preserving all sorts of encomiums, gifts, and sweet-things, adulations of undying affection tacked along more often than not. Alan stood in the occasional drizzle, allowed himself to be endearingly molested by fangirls, or more appropriately, fanwomen, such as his advanced generation, and attempted to sign and greet nearly everything that was passed to him.

Such respect and patience combined with his mostly villainous, erotic roles of the past delivered Alan Rickman in a delightfully incongruous package, adhering to the somewhat ambiguous tastes of modern women. We desire a strong, cutting, intelligent man, who is able to pamper us both mentally and physically. Traces of cynicism and snarkiness are optional desires, but fans of Alan Rickman will generally be drawn to these characteristics.
How can we not, when he insisted on portraying these very roles, based on fictitious and real men of the past and present? We sigh at the seductive, if a bit morally confused P.L. O’Hara, we squirm at a delectable Tybalt, a scornful sneer adorned upon his enticing lips, we observe every oily, ambitious, cunning move Mr. Obadiah Slope made as he maneuvered himself in various positions of power—all the while our eyes a bit glazed and certainly widened, drinking in Mr. Rickman’s undeniable appeal.

And at sixty years of age, Alan was quite tired. He was starting to feel, perhaps for the first time, mild exasperation, especially when he read testimonials to his “divine Sexiness” (with a capital S to be sure) and gazed upon tabloid photos depicting him in a most compromising position with a whole lot of bananas.

With seemingly endless projects in view, including his widely acclaimed role of Professor Snape for the next three Harry Potter movies or so (Yes, he intended to see his role through since as a dramatic artist, he knew all too well how greatly the value of a cinematic work was reduced when different actors are cast for the same character.), and having difficulty establishing satisfying personal relationships, especially with women, he sought professional help.

A month ago he stumbled upon a particularly promising ad in the Quibbler, a little-known Scottish publication. The idiosyncratic sound of the advertisement was what propelled him to immediately contact Dr. Marie Freudann, no doubt a pseudonym, but did not detract from the young woman’s plausibility as a combined psychologist and psychiatrist.

IF YOU LOVE CITRUS AND BUNNIES, LOOK NO FURTHER
FRUEDANN SERVICES THE WORLDY AFFLICTED

Partly because Alan sympathized with the young woman’s amorous inclination for citrus (He was known to squeeze many a wedge on his poultry, into his water and tea, and ravenously devoured whole oranges for fast-breaking.), and partly because he wished to probe the mind of a young woman who would publish such a confusing, insane advertisement in the quaint, albeit prestigious, Quibbler.

Alan Rickman had a vague idea of what constituted as “worldly afflicted”, but he was almost certain that it was applicable to his position. He was famous for his thespian abilities in the U.K. and for his palatability in the U.S.; surely that was worldly. As of late, he had started to experience feelings of “affliction”. No doubt, he felt and expressed those feelings and mild annoyance in previous years when people openly and irrationally attacked his choice of roles, acting abilities, character…etc. etc.

I am worldly afflicted! I have a healthy preference for citrus, and I suppose these bunnies are tolerable. Surely she and I will find each other mutually acceptable confidantes.

It did help, Alan admitted, that the black-and-white photo that Dr. Marie Freudann included depicted a reasonably attractive young woman. He had no interest in starting a relationship, especially with a young woman in her prime—after all, she was only forty! He didn’t deserve her.

March 1st, 2006
Dr. Marie Freudann:
I am responding to an inquiry you have submitted to the publication, Quibbler, in its February issue. I assure you that I feel that we have met each other’s mutual criteria for establishing a doctor-patient relationship. I found your advertisement to be most intriguing and very much desire to meet to discuss particulars. What are your feelings on tea? My agent will testify to the abundance of citrus in my cooler for your partaking pleasure if you desire it so.
Alan S.P. Rickman

March 4th, 2006
Mr. Rickman:
I would be delighted. I am a huge fan of yours; I would like to be honest on that matter although it will in no way impact our potential doctor-patient relationship.
Tea sounds good. I hope you didn’t take the advertisement literally. It was actually an exoteric piece for a friend of mine who I’ve been trying to persuade to accept my hand in marriage. I could explain it over tea, but it would be difficult and irrelevant, but I do happen to be an independent psycho/psychiatrist.
Where shall we meet?
Jane L.S. Davenport

March 9th, 2006
Ms. Davenport,
You are a very curious young lady, which is why I now ardently desire your services. It is infinitely preferable to fossilized old men like myself, who insist on—forgive me—employing antique Freudian devices while smoking ciggies.
The Drake will suffice. My agent will contact you with the address.
A.R.

March 12th, 2006
Mr. Rickman,
Forgive me, but isn’t the Drake in Chicago? We must put an end to this tag-along correspondence. Ring me.
Jane
P.S. my number’s in the ad

Silly woman. The Drake was a knockoff hotel that rested comfortably in the bowels of one of Scotland’s more rudimentary towns.

It was to Ms. Davenport’s displeasure when she discovered this, but out of excitement for meeting Alan Rickman and possibly embarking on a journey of healing and self-discovery with him! Her heart was a-flutter at the thought!

Ha, John Bradshaw, look at me! I’m meeting a famous movie star in a hotel for work and you’re stuck in London, wishing that you hadn’t ignored my exoteric pleadings for matrimony!

Alas, Ms. Davenport discovered the situation to be quite contradictory.

Firstly, her black pumps were hopelessly splattered with mud, and her brown, curly hair was abysmally frizzy, and her umbrella had experienced some terrific malfunction on the way to the sleazy, run-down hotel. The result was that her suit was splattered with cold, Scottish rain.

“Brilliant,” she muttered.

A portly man rushed to her side, hands extended, offering to take her overcoat and umbrella:

“The Davidson party’s just that way. Happy forty-second, ma’am.”

“I’m not forty-two,” Jane Davenport protested feebly as the portly host violently tugged on her overcoat.

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well.”

“Is Mr. Rickman here?”

“Ah!” A look of dawning comprehension glowed from within, “Yes, he’s just in there,” he elaborated, inclining his head slightly towards the apparently empty room on her right.

And with a resounding, final tug, he extricated the overcoat and successfully snatched the umbrella from Jane’s clenched fist.

“Go right ahead. I’ll hang these up.”

“That’s…that’s all right. I’ll take that if you don’t mind.” Without waiting for a response, Jane reclaimed her possessions and fled to the room where the aforementioned Alan Rickman was waiting for her.

“Ms. Davenport?”

Ah! That deep, silky timbre that was uniquely his called to her.

“Mr. Rickman? I’m Jane Davenport, your psychologist.” She couldn’t help grinning widely as she proffered her cold, wet hand for shaking.

To Alan’s credit, he smiled politely and took her hand.

“Have a seat,” he gestured to the chair opposite his, a white-tablecloth surface between the two of them.

“Oh, thank you.” Jane seated herself gratefully, letting her coat and umbrella collapse rather ungracefully to the floor. “I’m quite parched.”

“Tea, then.”

“Thank you. Now Mr. Rickman…tell me about your mother.”

Below are photos meant to assist with imagining the various stages of Mr. Rickman's ordeal. :)
The lj-cuts both describe which part of the story the photos "go with", so to speak, and provide a link to the website where the photos may be viewed in all their glory.
Enjoy!

http://www.alan-rickman.com/photos/OttawaCitizen5-28-05.jpg

LeMoose Salon

Please Don't Kill Me

Subtract a Day

Subtract a Day

Ashwinder, WIKTT, Snape’s Slytherin Society, The Slightly Weird Alan Rickman Fansite…

Emma—Can’t wait till tonight. I’ll help you some with old Snape, but only if you promise not to do anything stupid. He’s not thirty-five, like in the movie, Emma. He’ll likely die of old age by the time you’re thirty-five.--Nathan

http://ashwinder.sycophanthex.com

Subtract a Day

Subtract a Day

Subtract a Day

Subtract a Day

Subtract a Day

`Ashwinder, WIKTT, Snape’s Slytherin Society, The Slightly Weird Alan Rickman Fansite`…

`Emma— Can’t wait till tonight. I’ll help you some with old Snape, but only if you promise not to do anything stupid. He’s not thirty-five, like in the movie, Emma. He’ll likely die of old age by the time you’re thirty-five. --Nathan`

`http://ashwinder.sycophanthex.com`