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Prompt 23: Now I've Got You - Matilda (OS)

Song link: Spotify & YouTube

Pairing: He x Fem!Waiter!Singer!Reader

(Character note: I’ve taken the liberty to name him John Gane, as the poet of the poem this is adapted from was Christopher John Reid, who was married to the actress Lucinda Gane. Scratch that, I see Nick Madden in the Reservation Book at Zanzotti’s as I have the film on in the background to refresh my memory, so I’ll use that even if it’s not mentioned to truly be his name.)

POV: Second, Reader

Setting: A Soho Italian restaurant, the setting of the film but moved to mid-December.

A/N: I hated this film the first time I watched it (still not sure how I feel about it). It was too intimate, too angled, and there was some strange sense of breaking the fourth wall in a way that made me uncomfortable — partly due to how it’s all just from him, his perspective, his view of the world that seemed so disheartening and grossly coldly calculating (for lack of a better wording) despite him seeing himself through this poetic lens of sorts. He’s so grumpy (I love a grump in love), quite menacing and he’s calloused in his manners even if he feels shame and guilt about how he speaks and behaves. He’s so normal it becomes surreal.

However, now, a couple of years down the line from seeing it for the first time, I’ve had this urge to write about this strange character, despite my dislike of the feelings this film created in me — this intimate and boundary-crossing film that has somehow untiringly stuck with me. This prompt had me wondering what would have happened if he met you after that badly handled lunch with his ex?

+A/N: I am late, late, late. Life happened, time ran out, and my motivation was drained right out of me to force myself to stay up to the early morning hours during my Christmas rush, among other things. But I always finish the event, even if this will mark the second time it hasn’t happened on time. At least we get to experience a new character through my words — that’s something, I guess xD

++A/N: The above +note was written the first week of January, as I type this it is late May and I’ve somehow managed to survive the AO3 curse nearly sending me 7ft under and will pick up writing on this (it’s currently 700 words long) as I always finish Rickmas and the writing of this one (the new way to write, to weave words, and the use of prose) has me frikkin salivating.

About the movie: The Song Of Lunch tells the story of a reunion between two former lovers in a Soho Italian restaurant. Rickman's character ('he') is a London book editor who writes poetry in his spare time (unsuccessfully). Thompson's character ('she') is his former lover who left him to marry a successful novelist fifteen years previously.

The production is unusual in featuring little spoken dialogue, the action instead being an enactment of incidents described in poetic monologue by the male character.

Tags/TW’s: Drinking/Drunk, Slightly Sleazy Behaviour (canon compliant, really), All The Purple Prose (in tune with canon, again), Kissing, Muse Creation/Meeting, Technically a sort of slowburn with slower attraction yet interest grows right away, Light Hand Appreciation, Following Ones Dreams, One Meeting Changes Both Their Lives, Gaining Sobriety,

Abbr.: Y/N - Your Name

Word Count: 4.1k

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

“This year I lost touch with my feelings,” you said, clearing out and taking stock of the wine bottles. “I could have been singing—” “Yada, yada, you could have but won’t,” Sarah said, exasperated it seemed as she swiped away her dark hair with those black brows raised. “Rude,” you replied with a laugh, jotting down the number nine on your sheet.

“No, but seriously, I can’t write anything anymore.” You drew a breath, that void of missing words palpably there in its absence so terrifying. “There’s just nothing—” “Oh, come off it—” Sarah grabbed a bottle while talking, and you scratched the number out, replacing it with an eight “—at least you’re not the gorgeous woman at table six with that drunk old dude, he’s ogling everything on two legs, and she looks damn near crestfallen. I hope she’s not married to it.” You burst with a clipped laugh. “It? Oh, come on, not even you can call a human an it.” Sarah gave a harsh look. “It’s a drunk man checking out my arse while she sits there looking finer than I could ever hope at her age, or any age for that matter. I ain’t joking, she’s bloody gorgeous. And he’s a bloody it.” She snagged the bottle to her chest and stomped out of the storage, apparently set on ending the conversation right there.

You drew a steadying breath, double-checked your sheet for the next forty minutes or so, and headed out of the storage when you were certain everything was up to date before the holiday rush — that had dwindled by each year you’d been there, which were three and soon four years of servitude to a place you felt absolutely nothing about. The originals sometimes still reminisced about the good old days of Zanzotti — quite vividly droning on about family, community, late-night dancing and never-ending love of all sorts, apparently — but there was none of that left, and you weren’t sure you could ever remember having been to a place like that.

The tug of a cold wind graced your bare calves where the black skirt didn’t reach. “Did Micky leave the blasted door open again?” Rolling your eyes, you turned toward the stairs leading to the rooftop. I swear, he’s gotta quit the smokes and get his memory checked, or Massimo will get a heating bill the size of Big Ben. That’ll dig into our bloody raises next.

Reaching the top of the stairs, a man in a grey jacket jerked up from the box Micky usually sat atop when smoking. His bewildered eyes glanced at you for a moment as he came stumbling through, heading down the stairs in an absolute wobble of a rush with his wispy grey hair tousled and his aged cheeks slightly red from the chill out there. His hazel eyes, small in size yet so utterly deep with a strange despair in just that one moment, lingered with you, though.

As you closed the door, you heard the man stumble into something downstairs before his less rushed steps took over. Another drunk guy, or the one Sarah mentioned? He certainly didn’t leer at you, or ogle you, though. Did he pass out up here? You shook your head, clicking your way down the stairs in low heels, those part of your waiter uniform provided by Zanzotti when you began your employment there. The uniform was a tad tighter now, but it still worked, and you had no plans to remain for the full fourth year coming up. If I could just get my feelings back, my inspiration, something…

The door of the restaurant closed just as you stepped in from the kitchen door. Micky smirked at you, and you promptly ignored the grandson of Massimo — who sat off in the corner with a greyness to his appearance, not a bloody hint of that bustling joy and warmth of memories — but he still walked up to you.

With a fabric napkin in his hand, Micky wiped his finger. “You free tonight?” “Nope. Not tonight, not ever,” you said, not even entertaining his constant asking this particularly sodden afternoon. “Go find someone else to ask out, neither I or Sarah wants anything to do with this,” you said, waving your hand in the general direction of the bloke. Micky smirked, but it was in self-defence. “Fine, whatever, you could have ended up running this place with me, but I guess not.” “That’s a huge reason not to date you, just a new mismanagement to handle. And get your memory fixed, the door was open again!” you called after him just as the kitchen door closed behind him and his shaking head of defeat. That defeat would last approximately three and a quarter of a business day, as usual…

Shaking yourself out of the Micky-ick, you stepped out the front door while rummaging through your purse to make sure the usual stuff was in there. Stepping forward, you bumped into someone and exclaimed a “sorry” before looking up.

The drunk man from before stood — leant — before you with the strap of his shoulder bag gripped tightly in one large hand, and the other one was shoved into his pocket. “Excuse you,” he said, and for a second, you lost your marbles at the sound of him. “Erh, yeah, I did apologise.” He huffed. “Today’s youth, so petulant and ungard-ed against its decimation of one’s capab-capability to…” He swayed and hiccuped for a third time. “Who are you to the great Massimo?” he continued, as if on a stage yet still not loud enough to cause a scene.

Tilting your head, his hazel eyes peered into yours, and there was just something about the intensity. As if he came knocking to ask for entrance to your soul. But you straightened as he swayed on his feet in a strange skip of a step to the side that was oddly smooth in its little jump.

Looking him up and down, a strange annoyance forced itself up at how you were warm in the angered December wind when he looked you up and down with a tilt of his head by your hips. “Eyes up here, mister.” He blinked slowly, his lips set in an upside-down mix of a frown and smile for a second. “Madden, at your service and servitude for the foreseeable minute.” You arched a brow. “I think I’ll be the one of service—” you reached out to stabilise the man by a grip of his sturdy elbow “—and get you to the nearest bus.” “I walk.” “You’re stumbling.” “Like those who came before us, we must stumb-stumble before we can run, miss.” You let go for a second, only for him to nearly fall over. “Sure, sir. Sure… Now, where are you heading?”

You began to walk with the man, and he talked endlessly of poetry — as if speaking of poetry was poetry; he nearly singsonged it all to you. Not that you’d ever admit to being attracted to a drunk old man with vast yet small eyes, and grey hair sticking in all directions, and a too big belly, paired with sturdy thighs with something obviously large just below the belt, no. You were certainly not attracted to the way this old man lamented of lost love, never-ending harrowing life, and the blunt blade of time being ridden like the currents and eddies of the human torment. No, you most definitely were not attracted to the unsightly man so strangely compelling.

“…bugger the consequences,” he droned in a drawl, sending a shiver down your spine. “Consequences are the whole reason for all things done,” you replied. The man, Mr Madden, glanced down with a brow raised. You swallowed and released his arm as the walk seemed to have sobered him enough. “I just mean, nothing would be done or said if it weren’t for consequences.”

Your heart padded like clawed paws against tiles in your chest, oddly enough. “Consequences have been faulted, with a consensus by the world, of being inherently negative. But they’re just a reaction. Every action requires a reaction, and every reaction is an action in and of itself, turning the wheel of time endlessly.” “The winged chariot of time with the brakes wholly off,” he murmured, not completely connected to what you were saying, yet a reply so profoundly grounded in its understanding of what you had said it halted the two of you on the sidewalk.

Your shoulders lowered, a tension siphoned out from the tips of your fingers as he held your gaze unwaveringly. His eyes didn’t flicker as those of your age or younger people did, nor did he leer or gawk. A profound sense of security, wholly unabashed in the glory of steady connection, weaved its way through your body as the evening grew dark and the yellow glow of street lights warmed the look of everything.

“Quite brilliantly sublime,” he said quietly, a hum of a sentence plucked from thin air. “What?” He tilted his head forward, not getting closer yet more intimate somehow. “Your eyes. Scrutinizing, yet unabashedly bewildered by the toppling world.” A burn scurried over your exposed cheeks as he was near sensual in his speech. “I— Sir, that’s— Thank you,” you stuttered, not sure how such a strangely harsh yet exact compliment from the old man with a hooked nose and entrancingly thin lips capable of releasing such a deep voice had you quivering on the inside. He— No, his words, did, though. He? No, no absolutely not.

You walked on, slinking between two sleek buildings with string lights drawn taut from one wall to the next in a zigzag over your heads, and there was a silence haunting you for a moment before something loosened. Your tongue remained at the roof of your mouth, your lips closed, but there was a freeing in your mind and heart that he had released, as if he’d come knocking at your soul's home.

Suddenly, you weren’t scared. The fight, the struggle, the deeply seated anchor restraining your feelings for the entirety of the year had its chain broken. “You say the right things,” you whispered, and the man gave a haughty laugh, making you shiver. “You would be the only inhabitant of that belief.” “Oh?” Yet I still have chills reaching down my back from before. ”Despite the lack of qualification you house to hold such an opinion,” he began in a slower drawl so deep it appeared gutting, “it’s satisfying to hear.”

Being rebutted, you sidestepped further away from him, and he glanced your way. “Have my words turned you less lusty?” “Lusty?” “For life, conversation, words of grandeur and minuscule meaning all the same. Innocent lasciviousness, or impromptu affection of sleep-musky woes?” Your mind spun under his heavy words that still felt so right, so accurate, yet not for you.

After a moment, there was a reply so utterly honest festering in your head. “You’re sad,” you said gently, softening within and in your shoulders once again. “I’m a voyeur of the past, and of the present. Every movement has elegance and economy, be it painful or not. I will peep, and despite the slew of horror it provides, I’ll linger and waste the present in service of the past.” “You’re a posh version of Massimo.” You giggled, not certain where it came from, but bloody hell was it true. “Old men wallowing and whimpering over times gone by rather than gripping life by force to wrangle it into what you want from it—” you stopped, swallowing thickly “—as I should, too…” “The old male gaze…through alcoholic haze, and irrefutable resistance to unwanted change.” “I guess this is where we part ways, Mr Madden.” Even if you didn’t truly want to, and there were strange things growing under your skin and in your gut while you watched him see you.

The yellow shine of the string lights shaded his hair from strictly greys and whites to a honey-glazed variety. Your fingers stirred to rustle it, topple it further. “Will you be alright?” you asked instead while holding your purse in a light grip with its strap digging into your shoulder through the thin coat. “Life will never end well,” he rebutted. You tilted your head, smiling. “I meant to get yourself home?” “Ah, that—” he smiled, wrinkling those crow-feet deeper, and your heart stuttered “—will be a voyage of ease despite the lonesome destination offering but stacks of papers and snoozing pens. I shall prevail. Shall you, stranger of ground support?” You tittered. “Ground support? How chivalrously named. I’ll take it to mean a lady knight barrelling forth on a mighty steed, and not the incoherent noise of a flight tower. But yes, I, too, shall prevail, sir.” “Perhaps you sit astride a dragon, having battled your own fights and emerged victorious.” “That would be air control, then?” “Touché,” he replied with another smile, but this one was tight-lipped.

You parted ways as the sleek buildings ended at another road. You turned south, as he went north and into the biting wind. After a few steps, you looked back, seeing the gusts tossing his hair about wildly, and the broadness of his shoulders was offset by the flapping of his coat held down on one side by the bag thudding against his thigh. No glance back, you thought, a twang in your chest as the strange man with prose for speech, and wholly seeing eyes so captivating they lured your feelings free of their captivity without so much as a poke required, left as spontaneously as he had appeared.

That night, you wrote a whole song. Staying up until four in the morning with papers scattered all around and the flicker of nearly dead candles throwing you into redefining your wishes; writing about redefining them to then hum and sing of it until you collapsed on the randomly strewn pillows below the sofa…

⩤• ONE YEAR LATER •⩥

The mingling crowd of the park in London, where you were part of the Christmas feeling through song, paid no mind as you, for the sixteenth time in three days, sang about Rudolph, and then about Christmas Nights. The red coat fringed with white fur had you toasty warm as light snow fell over everything and everyone.

“You should do it,” Chris said as you took a swig of water before it was time for the next song. “Do what?” you asked, screwing the lid back on the thermos, keeping the water hot for the benefit of your throat. “Your Christmas song. Come on, it’s ready,” he urged, sitting by his synth. “What are you waiting for?”

Glancing out toward the park, seeing nobody of value or importance, you drew a steadying breath. “You’re right, there’s no use writing songs if nobody ever hears them, right?” Chris smiled. “Exactly, let the world hear it.” “Alright, alright.” You smiled and drew another deep breath, and he nodded as you did.

Your gut tingled a bit, but there was no difference to the people passing if you sang your song or a classic about Rudolph. Nobody cares, it doesn’t matter at all. Just do it. Then I’ll call Sarah and tell her I did it, that I’m bloody doing it. You grabbed the mic on its stand, Chris began to play the chords you’d asked him too many times to count to play while you rehearsed, and this time you sang your song for anyone and all to hear.

“…We started talking And suddenly I wasn't scared You said the right things I started listening I think somehow you cured my fears You You got me all up in my feelings…”

You sang and swayed as the world closed in, and turned into a hazy fog with stars of LED lights and shadows of twinkling snow. In your mind, the man with unruly grey hair and utterly penetrative eyes came forth. He was unsightly, at first glance… He was a drunk, but he spoke irreparably altering prose uninhibited by it… He’d leered and gawked at your previous colleges, but he saw you as if he lay witness to what was restrained within…

“…This year I lost sight of the future Hard to imagine it with someone else So I could not believe it when you were The one who finally made me feel like myself…”

The memory of him was altered yet unmoved. The blemishes of his skin had attached themselves to your mind, the hooked nose recaptured in an endless loop of a stranger’s perfection, and the normalcy of him as a regular old man wallowing in history so utterly contradicted by the hunger in those seeing eyes.

Looking out over the crowd, your vocal cords kept working by habitude, the song so ingrained and important it rivalled that of the grey-haired man in a grey coat with a shoulder bag’s strap gripped tightly as he now stood right there. Among families with struggling strollers, rushing businessmen without a care for the park's beauty, and girlfriends with paper cups of coffee sloshing in their gloved hands as they strolled so perfectly unbothered in their heels atop gravel and ice. He was right there, among everyone, yet wholly dwarfing everything as those hazel eyes worked their way through it all and caught you so wholly. “…You redefine my wishes I'm throwing out my list now I've got you You, you, you You…”

Your breath whooshed out quietly, your back softening as your shoulders sank under his gaze, so unmoving and steady. Your heart did another pitter-patter, just like a year ago when you likened it to a dog walking on tiles. It was the same now. Steady, but loud. Loud, but comforting. Comforting, but wholly new.

You looked at each other. Those smaller eyes were as captivating as you remembered, even more so today. There was a joy simmering within their colouring. Those thin lips you’d fantasised about speaking prose before laving down your neck now turned up into a honeyed smile so unlike those of a year ago. Not better, not worse, merely different.

“Hey, where are you—” Chris called as you walked off the stage, your shoes kicking gravel on the quickened walk across the open space before the stage.

Your breath fogged in stuttered puffs. Memories tried to drown out the very reality of him here. You came to a halt almost too abruptly, a mere step from the stranger of a man who’d catapulted you forward and wrapped up your mind in never-ending musings of inspiration.

His head tilted. “If it isn’t ground control.” “Air control, we agreed, remember?” you asked, close to holding your breath in utter hope he remembered the conversation as clearly as you, that it had mattered to the man as it mattered to you. “Atop a dragon, yet unable to stop the winged chariot of time with its brakes wholly off no matter the actions and reactions turning into new actions,” he close to hummed in that drawled rumble reflecting something uncannily deep in him, in you, in the world as he existed within it like any other normal person.

Your cheeks burned as his eyes held yours, seeing you like none other ever seemed to do. “You remembered,” you said in a whisper, a smile so naturally drawn spread your lips in tune with that of his. “You had me probing and pushing another dimension of mind. You had me quite the flouncing, zapping, submerged man of woes and wants unlike any before. And at such a delicate, destructive time of life.” He arched a brow as the wind tugged on those grey strands, appearing so silky. “Monopolizing. Yes, you are. With brilliantly sublime eyes of scrutiny that had me looking inwards and outwards, intent on finding what phenomenon had you so wholly…seeing. You swallowed roughly, your mouth suddenly parched. “I saw you, but, no, you saw me, not the other way around.”

He tilted his head. “A synchronous altering of presence. I will not yield the worth of the paramount changes nor the forceful rescue of this lost villainous dramatist with a volatile flippancy toward my own harrowing existence in the world, or, it’s affect on others' existence in said world.” You drew a breath, memory served you scraps compared to reality. “You’re even better when sober,” you whispered, not sure why it slipped out. “I mean—” “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been sober since that day.” Blinking, you looked up at him as the wind turned angry. “Really?” He nodded, softening in a manner you’d not seen before.

Do I dare ask? Would he even be interested in me how I’m… Is it weird? He’s a stranger, maybe he’s like this with all? Your gut wrenched at your thoughts. “No war ever won, without the acceptance of potential sacrifice,” he murmured, a nearly contrite look to his features all of a sudden as he interrupted your thought. “I’m sorry?” you said over the wind and people with the band playing song-less in the background as your thoughts hurled questions of how, and if.

A quiet moment passed. “Would this…old villainous dramatist, perchance, have the smallest potential for the fortune of a hot drink with the muse who changed his life so irreparably greatly?” You blinked, swallowing and wetting your lips to keep the gasp of relief from bursting free. He chuckled in defeat. “No is a full sentence,” he said, glancing away with a weight to his whole body.

You reached out, gripping his elbow how you’d done a year ago. This time, not to steady him, but to regain his attention. “Hm?” He glanced from your gloved hand gripping tightly to your eyes that you were sure held a rim of glittery liquid. “Yes.” You stepped closer, making the two of you nearly press together, but still not quite. “Yes,” you reiterated as he seemed confused for a moment. “A drink?” he asked, seeming confused, still. “A hot drink, a meal, a cookie, a park bench chat, yes, any of them. All or any one of them, or another.”

Silence stretched for a second, and then he released the grip of his shoulder bag’s strap. Slowly, he reached up. You were afforded all the time in the world to stop him, to turn away, to step back, but the entirety of your being seemed to unravel at the mere thought of those large hands gracing your skin. So many moments you had wondered if those hands were warm or cold, soft or rough, were they caring or decisive — were they gentle?

Yes. They were all things, but above all, they were utterly warm against your winter-nipped cheek. “All of it?” he asked, that warm hand retreating after just a teasing stroke, leaving you with a larger lacking than before you’d had any idea of the sensation. “All— Yes, all of it,” you stammered. “Defining wishes, are we?” “You redefined them.” He chuckled, warming you from toes to nose. “Actions, have reactions.” “And my reaction is turning into action.”

Before he had a chance to speak, you rose on your toes and leaned forward — offering just enough time for him to get away if he wanted to, but not enough to allow your bravery to waver. You kissed him, your hand landing atop his chest for stability, only to find his heart absolutely hammering under all the layers of fabric. His thin lips parted slightly, allowing your tongue to slip its tip inside, and he hummed as darkly as you’d imagined, sending a tingle so utterly important down the length of you only for heat to blossom under your skin.

Leaning back, a quiet sound of your lips losing connection rang louder than the wind in your ears. “Muse,” he murmured, his hand gripping your waist. “Yes…you are,” you said quietly, feeling as if your legs were no more than overcooked noodles. He smiled, chuckling deeply, and his stomach felt soft against you in the most perfect manner.

“Tomorrow, seven o’clock?” he asked, leaning back slowly. You straightened, already missing the closeness. “Here?” “Right here.” You nodded as he took a step back. “I’ll be waiting.” He smiled while backing away before turning, and the wind tossed his hair about just how it had a year ago, but this time he looked back at you with unwavering vastness so penetrative the very roots of your soul turned visible...

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Firstly, I’m terribly sorry you had to wait so long for prompt 23, but I’m also so thrilled over how this turned out — purple prose and what I can only term as a pompously overly florishing language is so incredibly fun to write at times. To lean into heavily personalised characters with a language use that’s so utterly intentional and heavy is legit fun — and I’ve learned a bit more about 18th-century prose and poetry from writing this, as I took inspiration from sources like that.

This is the first time I’ve ever written for this character, and I can’t find a single fic for him, so I might be the first? Please, tell me if you know a fic for him and/or this movie — I can’t find any online but would love to read someone else's interpretation of this man that I’ve always struggled with feeling something about 😂

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