Greetings fellow FF readers and writers.
As many of you are well aware, this week we have lost two great icons of acting, both being personal favourites of mine. As it has been on TV a lot recently and I have been watching it a lot, I have decided to create this FF as a dedication to both actors

So without further ado, let the FF short commence

Beep … Beep … Beep

If there was one thing, or something among the list of things that Willy Wonka hated a lot, it was hospitals. Big and bland and doctors and nurses walking around with those funny masks on their faces and those annoying machines that constantly beeped and made high pitched sounds like a screaming child and everything being so enclosed and full of rules and … and, gah! It was horrific. Part of him even questioned why he was still here when he could still be at the factory with Charlie, find out new ways of making chocolate and sweets and-

NO! Don't say that! You have to be here because … because …

With a heavy sigh, Wonka looked up from his chair at the room for the fifth time in the last few hours he had been here. The room was just what he hated most about hospitals. Square in size, about six metres by four, and was a completely plain dark white colour. A single cupboard sat on the wall above the floor to his left and the door was behind him to his right. Opposite him in the corner was a small potted plant and a light with a dusty lampshade hung from the ceiling above them. Next to the potted plant was a chest of drawers with countless trophies placed on top, almost to the point where each were elbowing the other aside for space. Finally, on the left wall of the room was a single bed that was surrounded by all sorts of machines and strange devices that Wonka could not even think of spelling, let alone saying their names aloud were he asked to. And all of them made those constant beeping sounds; one for heart rate, another for blood pressure and all sorts. It made him shiver just thinking of it, let alone having to continually look at them. Again he asked himself why he was here of all places!

It was because of the person in the bed with him in the room. His father, Wilbur Wonka, a former dentist until retirement about a year and a half ago, and now a man of ninety three years of age; old and frail and dressed in those white hospital gowns that creeped Wonka out as they partially reminded him of ghosts or ghouls or some other kind of supernatural monster. His father's grey hair was thin and having fallen out across much of the top and front and part of the sides and breaths were slow and heavy; as if he were struggling to breathe. In fact, he was.

Wonka sighed again, thinking again of the day's events. Just this morning everything had been bright and shiny and he had had a whole new range of ideas set in and ready to work on. Charlie and the Oompa-Loompas had been with him and they set to work almost as soon as breakfast with the former of the latter's family had finished. Everything looked set to be a good day.

Until around about three o'clock in the afternoon when Wonka and Charlie had been preparing a new brand of chocolate flavour when he was called away and told the tragic news that his father had been taken to hospital; his body having suffered some sort of internal problems. Wonka could not remember them but he soon rushed out of the factory, leaving his cane behind, and got into the first taxi with Charlie straight to the hospital, though a part of him did consider bringing his father to the factory as, of course as has been mentioned already, he hated hospitals. Well maybe not hated, but extremely disliked was probably a better way of describing it. Had it not been for Charlie's persuasion and the insistence of the doctors on the front desk Wonka would have had his way but had decided to accept it.

And now here he was, his eyes that many knew had once sparked with life and joy and freedom and creativeness and fun … now looked on hopelessly as if they were witnessing their dreams, their inspiration, their very life gradually slip away as he looked at his father. His chest rose and fell slowly much more than it had done hours earlier, and his eyes were shut tight as if they were stuck down. Seeing his father like this made Wonka bite his lip and look down at the floor again to try and hold himself together. It was hard though.

Almost from the moment he had been able to see his father after the doctors had examined him to when the doctors had informed him, and Charlie, of Wilbur's condition some fifteen minutes after they were done checking what was wrong did Wonka knew. He knew that … that … that, his father … well, to say as concise and respectfully as possible, was slipping away. They had stated to him that it was likely tonight would be his last and so had allowed him to remain to say his final goodbyes.

Now, some six, maybe seven hours later, as the clock in the room was being mended, Wonka had remained in the room, not even getting up to go to the bathroom. He had not eaten since arriving, or drunk for that matter. Charlie had left to inform his family of the news and would be back soon. Until then, Wonka could only look on with a melancholic expression as his father's near lifeless body; the sound of steady beeps from the machines measuring his heart rate filling his ears.

Click! "Mr Wonka?"

Looking over his shoulder, Wonka saw a tall boy, or young man for that matter, step into the room, the light from the corridor outside filling the room for a split second or two before he shut it behind him. He was about the same height as Wonka with short brown hair, brown eyes and a handsome face. He was wearing a thick jumper and pair of trousers with black shoes on. Upon seeing him, Wonka's spirits lifted a little.

"Hey Charlie," he greeted softly, trying to force a smile onto his face but his assistant and heir saw through the show and sighed heavily.

"Don't be sad, Mr Wonka. Please!" he said sadly, looking at his father's frail body, his chest rising and falling in the bed.

Wonka looked away at the floor for a moment and then back up at the bed once again, sadness clouding his vision. "I'm sorry, my boy." He muttered, though Charlie could hear him.

"Has he been okay since I left earlier?" Charlie asked, nodding towards Wilbur Wonka.

The famous chocolatier shook his head, his hair brushing his cheeks and mouth. "No, he's just been sleeping. Like a baby." He tittered a little at his own joke but lost the strength to continue it and so resumed staring with a lost expression at his father.

Charlie could only look on sadly at the two Wonka's, feeling the utmost pity eat away at his heart. A good ten years they had been working together him and Wonka. Ten years they had worked on chocolate and sold it and advertised it and even brought it back into a new golden age as had been when Wonka had opened his first shop all those years ago when he was Charlie's age. In that time, Charlie had grown, and filled out more too. He now looked healthy and fit like a man his age should do, as was seen by his cheeks that did not look so hollow but rather full. As he had told his parents once a few weeks ago; these ten years had been, to quote: "Great fun and excitement!"

But excitement always had its times when it stopped and was replaced by something horrible or tragic. Tonight was one such example.

Looking on, he too in the form of Willy Wonka, his co-worker in the factory. He still practically looked the same, and acted it too! His face was still young looking, his hair, though greying a little more in some areas, was still a chocolate brown, his eyes still seemed to have that magic touch to them and he still bounced about like an eager child on Christmas morning. He was still the Willy Wonka; the one whom the world had come to know and admire and love for all he had done.

Though even Wonka was not immune to the tragedies of life, and is worst was slowly becoming a reality right before him.

A stir made both men tense as Wilbur Wonka's head slowly moved to the right and, flickering immensely, the eyes opened. They were a faded brown in colour, almost as if even they had resigned themselves to what would eventually befall them. For a moment, they searched the room as if processing what had happened for the last few hours until a voice whispered: "Dad?! Are you okay?!"

With a low groan, Wilbur looked in the direction of the voice; his eyes barely able to remain open without blinking and staying shut for a good few moments before opening again, only to repeat the same process about a minute later. What he could see, however, was his son standing before him, a worried look on his face.

"Dad? I-it's me, Willy!" his son said, trying to put recognising into his father's brain. "You remember?" he added with a hopeful tone.

Wilbur opened his mouth and went to speak but ended up coughing a little in response, worrying both Wonka and Charlie for that they feared he was about to suddenly drop dead on them when he finally spoke in a voice that was hoarse and weak, though tried to be cheerful.

"Willy!" he breathed, a small smile forming on his lips. "Ch-Charlie!" he added, looking at both men. "I'm … g-glad you're here!"

Wonka smiled a little, as did Charlie; a twinge of hope filling their hearts, their eyes resting on that last bit of light that was within reach.

"Yeah, we're right here, Dad," Wonka said softy to him, kneeling down next to his bed and placing a hand on his father's as he extracted it from under the covers. A pause hung in the air between them for a moment as they watched Wilbur shift a little as best he could in his bed. "How are you?" he asked, though felt stupid for asking such a question as soon as it had left his lips.

"Oh … not too … bad!" Wilbur replied, giving a soft chuckle. "Apart from … s-sounding like a machine!" he added jokingly, making the two chuckle, only to stop when Wonka's father began coughing once again.

Charlie gingerly approached the side of the bed as if afraid to for fear it would make him worse but Wilbur just turned his head and looked at him; halting Charlie for a moment until he gestured him to come over.

Charlie did so and knelt down by the bed as Wilbur took out his other hand from under the sheets and placed it on Charlie's hand that was resting on the covers. "I'm glad … you came here … Charlie!" he breathed almost struggling to do so, worrying Charlie and Wonka for a moment until he spoke again. "P-Promise me … t-that you'll look after him," he nodded lightly with his head towards Wonka and looked back at Charlie. "Keep … this dream going,"

Charlie nodded. "I will, sir." He replied, tightening his grip on Wilbur's hand, wishing that he did not have to let go. "It's been a pleasure knowing you."

Wilbur smiled, though out of the corner of their eyes they saw Wonka dip his head a little and sniff a little, that statement by Charlie speaking volumes over what it meant.

"And I you," Wilbur replied, slowly coughing to himself and his breathing grew heavier. Wonka moved closer to his father, worried that at any moment he would suddenly slip away at any moment. Instead he just coughed again and looked over at his son. "Willy, I … I must talk to you … before I-"

"Sure, dad," Wonka interrupted, not wanting his father to finish that sentence. It would be too much for him. "Charlie," he said looking at his apprentice. "Could you give us a moment?" he asked.

The young man nodded. "Of course," he said, getting up and reaching forward and patting Wilbur on the shoulder. "I hope you get better," he told him, though he felt stupid for saying so. Then again, what else could he say?

Wilbur just smiled a little, as best as he could. "Don't worry, young man. I will be soon," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "Goodbye."

Charlie nodded, biting his lip and struggling to hold back tears. "Goodbye, sir." He replied softly walking towards the door and opening it; letting the light flood into the room once more and stepping out into the corridor, quietly shutting the door behind him, sending the room back into dimness once more.

When he had gone, Wilbur looked over at his son and placed his hand on top of his son's, looking into with his chocolate brown eyes with his gradually fading ones. "Son," he breathed, his voice sounding as if he was struggling to do so. "I-I want you to know … how very … proud I am of you," he paused and coughed once again. "I'm sorry … I was not a good … father … to see … you through it!"

Wonka shook his head, clasping his father's hand with his other. "No, don't say that, dad!" he replied, his voice sounding as if it were begging. "You just made a mistake. I've been just as bad. Besides, these last ten years …" he stopped and sniffed, wiping away a forming tear from his eye. "They've been some of the happiest in my life!"

Wilbur smiled, but it was cut short by a cough. The steady stream of beeps continued to fill the air, though for a moment there was a long pause between one beep and the next. Wonka noticed this, as did Wilbur but both tried to not let it ruin the time they would have left together.

"Besides," Wonka continued, looking over at the chest of drawers, seeing the trophies crowd the top. Most were in the shape of teeth but one or two were normally shaped; the former glinting a little in the dim light of the room. "It's not like you haven't done anything successful," he added, gesturing over to the awards and trinkets on the chest of drawers.

Wilbur gave a small laugh. "Nothing special," he remarked weakly, pausing again to inhale deeply as if it were a struggle. "But I have one great achievement." His son looked at him with a perplexed expression. "You, my son," he said, another tiny smile coming onto his face.

Wonka smiled, unable to control the fresh tears that fell down his cheeks as he clasped his hand around his father's, his heart crying out for him not to leave him. But he knew that he could do nothing to stop it. His father was going through the natural course of life. He had done his work and was now slipping into the final stages of it.

"Willy," his father breathed, his eyes now closed as he rest his head back on the pillow. "Promise me … something," he said.

Wonka nodded. "Anything, dad." He said.

Wilbur breathed and wheezed a little, clasping his son's hand tighter as if trying to make sure he got through to him before he went.

"Don't give up on your dream, Willy!" another pause as he took another deep breath. "Remember … it will never die! But … pass it on!"

Wonka nodded, another set of tears flowing down his face. "I will, dad!" he said, wiping away the tears but more fell. "I just wish you could always be there!"

Wilbur, struggling to do so, turned his head over towards his son and opened his eyes. "I will, Willy!" He breathed heavily again. "I will always be here!"

Wonka could no longer control the tears as they flowed freely down his face, his head resting on the bed and holding his father's hand close to him as he watched that last light that was his father flicker before him.

"Mr Wonka?" someone called and he felt his body shake. "Mr Wonka?!"

With a low moan, Willy Wonka's eyes flickered as he slowly rose from the bed, unable to remember how he had come to find himself lying on it with his head resting near his father's arm. Looking behind him, he saw Charlie standing next to the bed, his arm by his side.

"Charlie?" he asked, rubbing his eyes as if he were seeing a ghost. "W-what are you doing here? What time is it?"

"It's 8:30am the next morning, Mr Wonka," he explained to him. "You've been asleep for a long time. But … but-"

Wonka went to reply when he caught sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Looking over to the other side of his bed, he saw a tall man dressed in a white coat and jeans on his legs with a small beard, blue eyes, black hair and a freckly face standing there. His eyes looked up at Wonka with a look of sympathy and regret. Upon seeing him, Wonka went tense.

"What is he doing here, Charlie?" he asked his apprentice, not taking his eyes off the man.

Before Charlie could reply, the doctor spoke up. "I came to inform you," he said with a hint of sadness in his voice. "That … Your father-"

"What!" Wonka interrupted, his voice anxious as he looked down at his father … and went silent, all colour fading from his face.

His father lay with his head on the pillow, eyes closed and head facing the ceiling. His mouth was slightly open and arms rest by his side, his hand still entwined with his son's. It was then Wonka noticed his chest was not …

"Dad?" he whispered, placing a hand on his father's shoulder and giving him a light shake.

No response.

"Dad?" he asked again, giving him another shake but still he received nothing.

His heart ached and he felt it crack in two. Before he knew it, his head was on the sheet by his father's chest, his hands grasping the covers tightly. The doctor exhaled through his nose, having had to go through this many times before. Charlie lowered his head, feeling a few tears come into his face too.

The world seemed to stop and the room went quiet as if in silent mourning.

"When did it happen?" Wonka asked, though it was slightly muffled as his head was still on the sheets.

"Just before you woke up," the doctor informed him. "I'm so sorry, Mr Wonka."

He did not reply but silently got up from the bed, looking emotionlessly down at his father but both Charlie and the doctor could see his chocolate brown eyes were close to breaking and would have cried a river if they could.

Looking down at his hand, he saw it was still clasping onto his father's and he knelt down and planted a small kiss on it; a tear falling from his eye.

"Goodbye, dad. I'll miss you."

In the doctor's hand was the death certificate. On it was the date that would forever live in the mind of Wonka.

June 7th, 2015.

And so here it ends, dear readers. We will forever mourn the loss of Christopher Lee; his acting will ever be beaten and no villainous role will ever exceed his deliverance and skill.

Also this FF is dedicated to Ron Moody. If one think carefully about what both are famous for, you can easily fit Lee into Wilbur's role and Moody into Wonka's.

May both forever rest in peace. They deserve nothing less.