A/N: Goofy little one-shot that I wrote. My kids forced me to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last night, and I was absolutely appalled at it. In my opinion, they should have left the 1971 version alone. Wilder did a superb job. Therefore, this ridiculous little ficlet is dedicated to Gene Wilder. :)
He had seen her first when Grandpa Joe and Charlie entered the factory. She had been standing between her father and mother, her eyes quiet, mouth downturned and silent, her dark hair pulled over her left eye and parted off to the side. Her skirt was clean but worn at the knees and hem, patched neatly in one place, and taken down at least twice. The knee socks matched, but they were probably filled with holes and none too warm during winter nights – her jacket hung awkwardly to her hips and swallowed her hands, at least two sizes too large for her. But her face and hands were clean, her hair dark but glossy, although those eyes contained no spark of imagination in them. In her hands, pressed close to her chest, was a sketchbook, quite faded, a large tear in the front cover, the pages thin and most likely faded. A pencil poked from behind her ear, nothing but a stub left behind and the eraser worn to nothing but a faint pink memory. One delicate eyebrow had arched as she took in the large, spindly black gates and her brother being dwarfed by them, one perfect curve that hoisted just a fraction of an inch and contained a world of skepticism. His eyes had passed over her quickly, snatching scant details, blades of grass collecting dew, for he had been far more interested in the boy. Charlie, the small, curly-haired little boy with bright blue eyes and a permanent smile etched on the corner of his mouth. The rest of the children didn't have the warmth to them – Violet had potential, but her domineering determination had brushed her aside. No, none of the children had the thing Willy was looking for. That spark lighting in each eye, a candle in the window, that one little ember that would burst into an inferno with the right materials and one little stir – that spark of imagination.
Not all children have it – there are some extremely dull children in the world, content to read and dip their fingers into the ocean of imagination but never immerse themselves in it entirely. Charlie was a boy who played in the water every day, creating things with his mind and hands, those eager blue eyes going distant with ideas and dreams. He had seen it the instant he saw him, that little flicker teasing him in each eye. So there was no wonder why he had passed over the girl and focused on the boy. Because, after all, she was short and dark, eyes nothing more than flat brown orbs reflecting the dirty gray snow filtering through the overcast skies. He was a boy brimming with life and energy and nerves, frothing over the top of him in an elixir of life, pure, utter life. He had welcomed them into the factory, shown them things not a one of them had dared to dream of – except Charlie. Charlie, the wonderful boy – he had seen this and more in his imagination. He had seen more than chocolate rivers and waterfalls, more than three-course gum, more than miniature workers. He had invented palaces of sugar, mountains of chocolate, fields of candy canes, forests of lollipops. His mind had created a world for him, a world which he shared at every opportunity. Willy Wonka knew, and saw this in Charlie.
But looking at her now, her arms full of moving boxes, long dark hair pulled back to stay away from her face, she looked different. Paler. Slighter. As though she had once been larger, but constant scrubbing from the filthy, grimy world had sanded off her glittering imagination and replaced it with ... nothingness. Blank, empty nothingness. As though she were content to accept what she saw and that was that. Business as usual. She didn't create worlds – she mirrored them. He knew the type, and was appalled to see it in someone related to Charlie. Two vastly different people, yet from the same bloodlines. He had asked Charlie about her once, while they were moving, and Charlie had laughed, a clear, sweet laugh that only children obtain. "My sister? She's got imagination – better than me, actually." His bangs had swung in his eyes as he put down his box, his hands folded across his chest, those bright eyes snapping. "You should see her sketchbook – it's incredible!"
So that's why he was here, his long fingers brushing across the pages in her sketchbook. Beautiful, spidery drawings – a fairy perched on a leaf, detailed fingers dipping into a dewdrop; an ogre with a lumpy, warty nose and a club dragging on the ground, a thick brow hiding beady black eyes, a mottled leather vest stretched across a wide, humped back. A colt running wild in a field, dark mane splayed out across a field of ripe gray wheat, the crisp white sky shadowed with soft clouds. A dragon curled protectively around three large, individually drawn eggs, designs and runes sketched around the edges of the picture. A unicorn rearing, hooves striking at the sky, raw power visible in every gray line of her pencil. A phoenix rising from the ashes, dozens of feathers drawn with care, the single eye capturing the majesty and grace of the animal. He flipped faster and faster – Charlie, sleeves rolled up, mixing a vat of chocolate with greatest care, small fists clamped around a large wooden spoon. Standing closely behind the young boy, was himself – Willy Wonka. His top hat perched jauntily on his head, cocked to the side, a few golden curls escaping from underneath the brim. His eyebrows were raised in a look of firm concentration as Charlie stirred the chocolate, and Willy smiled in spite of himself. She had captured both of their likenesses perfectly. He shook his head a little and turned to leave.
She was there, in front of him, those dark eyebrows quirked, downturned mouth a straight line. Her eyes, Willy Wonka realized, were pools of deep chocolate – chocolate didn't reflect. Chocolate couldn't be used as a mirror. Chocolate created beautiful worlds of its own, and he saw two rounded chocolate orbs gazing at him with something like peculiar disdain. "You found my sketchbook?" she asked, crossing the room to take it from his hands. Her straight brown hair, so similar to her mother's, was pulled behind her and fastened with a tie, but a swoop of dark hair – unsweetened chocolate – had fallen in her left eye and hidden it from view, as usual. Her hands were pale and small and beautiful, nails slightly worn from work, but her palms were soft as she tucked her sketchbook closer to her. Her skin was the color of white chocolate, not really a chocolate at all but a very distinctive flavored one. He wondered if she tasted of chocolate – what a pleasure that would be, tasting her sweetness.
When he pulled her forward to capture that petite pink lower lip that pouted so attractively, he found she tasted sweeter than chocolate.