WARNING: Totally self-indulgent Mary Sue. Maybe light kink... a gag to prevent screaming. If either of these is not your thing, don't read. Timeframe: Present (May 2004)
"So, the senior reporter is on location; the second lead, out on maternity with twins; one associate AWOL, one sick; one already on assignment; that leaves you." Andrew, my editor, looked worried but at least he wasn't foaming at the mouth. Yeah, me, not the youngest but the newest. New town, new job, new life, all about six months ago.
"So, Sean Bean, the actor," mused my boss, giving me that weird teeth-baring grimace he thought was a smile and cracking his knuckles. Under the desk, he cracked away at his ankles as well. The man was a strange duck. "The British can be hard nuts to crack. Don't let him intimidate you. I don't care what you gotta do, get into his head. Gimme your list." Two minutes of red-lining and scribbling later, the list of questions I'd already been working on for a couple hours was thrust back into my hands.
"There, this might help. Read over it on the train. Then take a cab once you get into the Village. You know where you're going?" I nodded. He pushed two hundred-dollar bills across the desk. "Good. Here you go, just in case. You're buying. Get a receipt." His critical eyes raked over me. "You look good. Try not to fall on your ass, okay? In any sense of the word. People finally know who he is here, but over there, he's been top shelf for years."
Tell me something I don't know.
"And remember, get into his head."
I wondered if Andrew had ever heard the phrase, 'Middle-class woman's bit of rough.' Somehow, it didn't seem likely.
Fuck.
Sean fucking Bean.
It was a fantasy and a nightmare all rolled into one. I would have killed my own mother for a go at this a year ago. It had gone to the verge of unhealthy, the depth of my interest in the little world he had participated in. It was almost lucky, the flames that had come my way when I started to write about the actors as characters. Too innocent to use a fake name despite a venomous ex who was out to ruin my life, I'd endured the wrath of my places of employment and worship. It had been easier to leave and change my name. In hindsight, that was the best move I could have made for myself. Now, the sour taste in my mouth faded but not entirely gone, I didn't want anything of it anymore.
Except I did.
What I really wanted, let's be honest, ladies and gents, was a chance to go home first for a little stress relief. I was going to have to be totally focused tonight, both about the interview and to hide the inevitable reaction to the man. He had to get hit on all the time; I wanted to be the one true professional. A session with the vibrator would have helped to take the edge off. But no, damnit. There was no time.
Alighting from a generic yellowcab, I gripped my notebook and teeny tape recorder. Thank god I was first to arrive. Hard enough to walk already, without him watching me. 'Left, right, left right, that's it girl, don't trip on your heels, don't fall on your fucking face, don't catch those big hips on any narrow aisles.' Fuck.
Nervously, I twisted the silver rings I wore around my fingers, and tugged and smoothed at the green suede-like material of my dress. Soon, there he was. His presence shone like the proverbial light in darkness. Near the door, he stood talking to the swarthy host/waiter. When he was pointed in my direction, I rose to my feet. Is that proper, for a woman to stand in the presence of a man? Probably not, but too late. 'Are you going to salute the flag, dummy? Sit down!' Fuck.
So. He's real. Tangible. Not so much taller than me (in my heels), definitely well-dressed; he looks a little older in person, his face a bit more square, his hair even shaggier than in the Cannes pictures. He speaks quietly and moves in a way to suggest he doesn't want any special attention.
Introductions made, drinks are ordered. I suggested we take care of business before dinner. He agreed affably. "Bit jet-lagged," he admitted.
"Do you want something for it? I have both acetaminophen and ibuprophen if you can believe it." Oh, yeah, I'm a walking chemist.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. "You offering me drugs?" he queried.
"Not the bad kind!" Nice come-back...Not! I got one second of killer smirk and then he agreed to that as well. I fished through my purse to find a little box with four individually-wrapped doses and handed him one.
"Thanks. Though I like taking pills about as much as I like flying." He pulled a face. "Well, Pam, what do you have for me?"
Wouldn't he like to know?
Shushing the errant thought, I launched into the interview; all nervousness flew out the window. 'I'm in control.' It was my little up-and-coming publication interviewing him, after all. He's just a guy, after all. Yeah, a guy with magnetism like a fucking geographical pole... but forget about it. Do your job, wrap it up, go home with some very pleasant memories.
I paid attention. Scribbled, let my tape run. The man turned almost shy. He hates this, I could tell, however used to it he might be.
"You hungry?" I asked as he eyed the far corners of the room distractedly for a moment.
"Famished! Is it that obvious?"
"You seemed to be running low..." For that, I got a sharp look and then a smile.
The minute he put his hand up, there was a waiter at our table and menus before us. We ordered, and I continued with a few more questions about a movie recently out on video. Every answer is carefully thought out, and though he often repeated himself and used familiar phases over and over, it is not due to any uncaring, just habit. Well, I could edit. No problem.
"In this project, you are neither the villain, a romantic lover type, nor a tragic hero. What are you?"
"An extraterrestrial."
I gave a very loud and disgusting snort, purely out of surprise. Sean stared at me a second, then giggled. Actually giggled like a little boy. I was blushed madly and apologized at least twice. These English and their "good breeding." I was giving "Yanks" a bad name.
"Never mind," said Sean. "Food's here, and thank god." With that, he dived in and I followed suit. The conversation became more relaxed, casual. He asked about my job, and I found myself telling him about my recent relocation and life-overhaul. Not wishing to seem either nosy or like I knew more than I should, I shied away from his current personal life and asked what his childhood was like--much different than mine!
That I got through the meal without spilling anything was a miracle in itself. After the plates were cleared, I had only two or three last questions. When it was done, I thanked him and prepared to go. It was Friday night in New York City, after all. Certainly he had plans.
"Wai' a minute," he said, before I even stood. "Is that all?"
"Of my questions, yes. Why? Did you have anything more you wanted to add?"
"Actually, yes. So, stay." I settled back in my chair, surprised again. I'd assumed your average famous person would want one to clear out ASAP and leave them in peace. "Three things," Sean continued. "Do you want some coffee?"
"Sure. Was that 'one?'" I asked, for some reason getting the impression of mental sparring ahead.
"Aye," he said to me, and "Coffee," to the waiter, holding up two fingers. Then he proceeded to tell me, via tape, and as fast as I could scrawl in shorthand, everything he'd wanted to say before, that didn't come up during the "real" interview. That was quite a bit. I wondered if he got this talkative much. Now I would have half a night of editing to do, to retain the true content but to cut the fluff to under two thousand words.
"So, that was 'two," he finally stated, as we finished the strong Italian coffee.
"What's 'three?'" I wondered aloud.
"You'll have to turn the recorder off." His voice was so deadpan, and I wasn't looking directly at him when he asked me to, I never expected what came out of his mouth next. I simply reached over and clicked the button.
He leaned forward toward me. When his mouth was within inches of my ear, he said, very low, "Let's cut the shit, lass. Eh? Ah ca' tell by yer face yeh be wantin' me."
Eyebrows I could keep from rising, mouth from gaping like a fish, nostrils from flaring, but not the damn blush from crawling up from chest to hairline. The heat it was generating meant I had to be the approximate color of a Maine lobster.
"'S all right. 'S no different than how I'm lookin' at you righ' now." The green eyes gleamed predatorily.
Right. I'd been rather high off the success of my questions-and-answers flow, along with some act of god that allowed me to speak with him like a normal person... and now this? It felt like failure, somehow, that I must still be bleeding nothing-better-to-do-with-my-life, obsessed-fan-girl underneath my new supposed polish. And, 'Lass?' What the hell was that? I had a name, didn't I? I looked away from him.
