Why look, I'm actually updating on a Wednesday! Isn't this a surprise?

Author's Notes: Many thanks to my magnificent betas, Trilliah and Reibish, who consistantly go above and beyond the call of beta-dom by putting up with my procrastination every week. Thanks also to Nuin, for listening to me whine and bitch about this chapter. And of course, the biggest thanks of all goes out to those magnificent readers who've stuck with this story for over three months now. Without you guys, I would probably have given up on this story chapters ago.

Distance Makes the Heart, chapter nine
by Pisces

On the morning that Charlie was scheduled to fly home, Willy Wonka shut himself into the inventing room, throwing himself into his projects with such single-minded dedication that he could almost manage to convince himself that nothing existed save for these four walls and the careful chemical balance of his latest creation.

Almost.

At half past twelve, just as he'd expected, Wonka felt a tug on his pants leg, and glanced down to see an Oompa-Loompa looking up at him, his red vinyl jumpsuit a bright contrast amidst the black uniforms of the inventing room staff. He'd come from the chocolate room.

Wonka swallowed, setting the beaker he'd been holding back onto the table with careful precision. The bright green liquid it contained had been squeezed from the spleen of a snozzwhanger, and snozzwhanger spleens were notoriously hard to get. It wouldn't do to spill or break it, and from the sudden clenching feeling in Wonka's gut, he thought that a spill or break might be imminent.

"Yeah?" he said to the Oompa-Loompa, trying his best to sound casual. If the expression on the Oompa-Loompa's face meant anything, he hadn't done a good job.

"They're leaving for the airport, boss," the Oompa-Loompa said, his fingers moving carefully through the words. "They want to know if you're coming with them."

Wonka swallowed. He'd known that this moment was coming, of course. He'd been alternately dreading and anticipating it all day. But now that it was here, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to climb back in bed and pretend that it wasn't happening. In his mind, he could already picture the awkward trip to the airport with the Buckets, Mrs. Bucket eyeing him nervously through the rearview mirror, Mr. Bucket trying to keep up a stream of nervous chatter. They would go to the airport, and there would be crowds, too many nosy people, all of them with nothing better to do than gawk at him, and then the plane would land, and out would come Charlie, and then -- Wonka couldn't bring himself to contemplate what might happen next. He couldn't quite handle the thought of seeing Charlie.

The Oompa-Loompa still looked up at him, waiting for an answer, and Wonka swallowed, shaking his head. "No," he said. "I -- no."

The Oompa-Loompa nodded. His face remained as stoic as ever, but Wonka thought he saw a touch of disappointment in his eyes. The Oompa-Loompa crossed his arms over his chest and bowed, confirmation of the message, but Wonka just smiled weakly and waved in return, unable to manage the proper response. When he turned back to his work table, reaching shakily for the flask of green liquid, Wonka realized that all of the workers in the inventing room had ceased their tasks and were watching him with concerned expressions on their faces.

"Carry on!" he managed, with some of his usual enthusiasm.

Glancing dubiously at one another and at him, they slowly fell back to work, although the worried glances his way only seemed to increase in frequency. Still gripping the flask of snozzwhanger spleen juice, Wonka turned back towards the pot of melted chocolate he'd been working on. Biting his lip with exaggerated concentration, he tilted the flask over the pot, slowly pouring a stream of bright green liquid into the chocolate. When the last drop fell into the chocolate, he set the flask to one side and began slowly to count to ten.

The explosion at eight-and-a-half knocked him off his feet and sent him flying across the room.

His head hit the wall with a sickening thud, and he slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. He lie perfectly still for a second as the aftershocks shuddered through him. Already, he felt sick to his stomach. The medical alert klaxon began to sound, a high, whining sound that made him grit his teeth and clasp his head even harder. When he finally managed to open his eyes, the noise had stopped, and a team of Oompa-Loompa medics surrounded him.

"Concussion," he gasped, pointing shakily towards the work table, which was now absolutely covered in melted chocolate. "Forgot . . . to add . . . the neutralizing . . . agent."

The Oompa-Loompas glanced at each other in concern, and efficiently began to load him onto a stretcher. It took all six of them to manage it. As they wheeled him out of the room, Wonka heard the familiar roll of drumbeats start behind him. He felt relieved when the inventing room door slid shut, muffling the sound. This time, he had a feeling that he wasn't going to like their lyrics.

Charlie fumed all the way home from the airport. Curled in the backseat of the car with his arms crossed around his chest, he glared out the window while his parents tried to make small talk with him. Granted, Willy Wonka never liked leaving the factory, but Charlie thought he might have made an exception for him. Besides, Wonka's words on the phone last night had almost seemed to promise that he'd come. He said he'd see me, Charlie thought, glaring out the window. Why did he lie?

He'd half expected Wonka to be waiting for them at the gates of the factory with some explanation, but when the Bucket family slipped through one of the side entrances, Willy Wonka was nowhere in sight. Somebody tugged on his pants leg, and Charlie glanced down.

An Oompa-Loompa stood there, reaching out a hand for Charlie's suitcase. It was almost as big as the little man. Smiling a little, Charlie handed it over to him. The Oompa-Loompa gripped the handle, then stuck two fingers of his spare hand into his mouth, and let out a piercing whistle. A group of Oompa-Loompas appeared in the corridor from various side passages, assembling themselves around the suitcase.

"Your room, boss?" The Oompa-Loompa asked, and Charlie nodded, watching them wheel it away.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned to see his mother watching him. "I'm sure he has a good reason for not being here, darling," she said.

Charlie glared at the floor. "I don't want to talk about it," he said.

He could practically feel the concerned expressions his mother and father were exchanging over him. Forcing a smile, Charlie said, "Where's Grandma Georgina?"

Answering him with a shaky smile of her own, Mrs. Bucket began leading them down the familiar corridor to the chocolate room. "She's waiting at home for you, darling. She was excited to see you. You know she hasn't been feeling very well lately."

They'd reached the tiny door at the end. His mother reached for her keying, but Charlie lifted his hand. "No, let me."

Pressing forward, he found the right key on his ring by habit, relieved to feel the familiar weight of it in his hand. The door clicked open, and when he stood, his parents were smiling shakily at him. Answering with a wan smile of his own, Charlie pushed the door to the chocolate room open.

The familiar sight of swudge and peppermint trees was almost enough to take his breath away. Charlie moved shakily through the room, noting a few additions here and there. A cluster of daffodil-like flowers now grew near the bank of the river. They bore an uncanny resemblance to teacups and saucers. A few willow trees had been planted, their leaves fashioned out of the feathery candy Wonka made that could dissolve against the tongue. And in the river itself, a clump of Charlie's cream-filled cattails grew. Charlie sighed to see them. At least Wonka had been taking the candy suggestions in his letters seriously.

The Bucket family made their way towards the cottage, which looked as familiar as it always did. For the Bucket family's first Christmas in the factory, Wonka had replaced their crooked shack with a gingerbread cottage that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Its frosted trim and gumdrop decorations sparkled, a fitting compliment to the beauty of the chocolate room. Today, a banner had been stretched over the door of the cottage. "Welcome home, Charlie," it said.

"Thank you," Charlie whispered to his parents.

They looked at each other. "We didn't do this, Charlie," his father said carefully.

A surge of hope ran through Charlie, and he stepped forward, looking around for Mr. Wonka. The chocolatier was nowhere in sight, but as Charlie moved forward, the sound of drumbeats slowly filled the chocolate room. Within a minute, the room's full staff of Oompa-Loompas stood before the Bucket family in two perfectly straight lines. Charlie laughed as they began to sing and dance.

"Welcome back! Welcome home!
How'd you like it on your own?
We've heard you've had a lot of fun
Living off in Washington.
We missed you nearly every day,
Because, dear boy, with you away
Our boss been in such a mood
We cannot stand his attitude!
He mopes around, he doesn't sleep,
We barely get the man to eat.
He's been so grouchy all the time
Even his verses do not rhyme.
Today he managed, worst of all
To knock his head against a wall!
So please, dear Charlie, do not fuss
Be nice to Wonka, and to us!

Charlie grinned as they finished, and he clapped his hands with genuine enthusiasm. "That was great!" he said, looking around for Mr. Wonka. He could perfectly picture the expression on the chocolatier's face -- half enthusiasm, half annoyance. Wonka always loved the Oompa-Loompas' songs, even when they didn't reflect favoringly on him.

"Where is he?" Charlie asked finally.

Grinning broadly at him, the Oompa-Loompas stepped away, revealing the cottage again. Willy Wonka sat on the doorstep, sipping something out of the daffodil cups with Grandma Georgina. Blue eyes met violet, and Wonka rose unsteadily to his feet, reaching for his cane.

Charlie frowned as the chocolatier started towards him. Wonka looked even paler than usual, and he seemed to be relying on the cane more than he usually did. He'd lost weight, too, Charlie realized; his tailored jacket looked almost baggy on him.

"My dear boy," Wonka breathed, stopping within a few feet of Charlie. "You're home."

Charlie nodded unsteadily. Tears burned his eyes. The low embers of anger still burned in his chest, but confronted with Wonka's appearance, the wave of sudden worry and love he felt nearly threatened to extinguish them.

"Did you miss me?" Charlie asked, managing a shaky smile. He'd meant the words as a joke, but the sentence broke a little, despite his best efforts, turning the question into something painful and real. Charlie blinked down at the swudge as Wonka stepped forward, and then a gloved hand was touching his chin, tilting his face up.

"My dear boy," Wonka whispered, his voice husky. "I've missed you more than you can possibly know."

And then they were embracing, Wonka's arms wrapping around him. Charlie buried his face in Wonka's shoulder, clinging to the older man as if he'd never let go. But something was wrong. Wonka released him too soon, an element of forced casualness in his smile. Charlie's parents were trying hard not to stare at them.

"Well," Mr. Bucket finally said with forced joviality. "Should we eat?"

They filed into the cottage and settled themselves into their usual places around the table. As always, it seemed disturbingly empty without the other three grandparents. Wonka sat next to Grandma Georgina, who smiled dreamily up at him, her eyes sliding into focus for one rare moment.

"Where have you been?" she asked him.

Wonka smiled tightly, and and seemed about to respond, but the clarity faded in her eyes and Grandma Georgina glanced somewhere over Charlie's head, whispering, "George never did like toffee, you know."

Wonka gripped the edge of the table, and his eyes sought Charlie's almost desperately. Charlie smiled grimly in reply, also disturbed. It had been painful for the Bucket family to lose the other three grandparents, but in a way, Wonka had seemed to take their losses the hardest. He'd never seen the need for their deaths, not when he had the means to stop them.

"Charlie," Mr. Bucket said, "Why don't you tell Grandma Georgina about your friends at college?"

"They're great!" Charlie said, smiling across the table at his grandma. She smiled and nodded, but he got the feeling that she wasn't listening to a word he was saying. "I live with four other kids," he said. "There's Mark, and John, and Isabelle, and Amy and me."

"And I," Wonka corrected sourly. He was glaring down at his roast beef sandwich, which he hadn't begun to eat.

"And I," Charlie repeated, shooting an annoyed glance at the chocolatier. "They're good friends," he said.

"You know, my father finally wrote back to me about those gosh-danged toothbrushes," Wonka said, smiling brightly at Charlie. "I think he's actually impressed with them!"

"That's great," Charlie said.

"How are your classes, darling?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

"They're all right," Charlie said. "Finals week was tough, though. All the professors load on these damned assignments, one after another, and--"

"Watch your mouth, young man!" Wonka snapped at him.

Charlie glared at him. The embers of anger in his chest were growing hotter, threatening to roar into an all-out blaze. "I'm not a little boy anymore," he said. "You can't tell me how to talk."

"Aren't these tomatoes delicious, darling?" Mr. Bucket said loudly, trying to change the subject.

Mrs. Bucket nodded desperately. "Oh yes," she said. "It's amazing how well they grow in the greenhouse."

But Charlie and Wonka ignored them, still glaring at each other.

"I have every right to worry about how the heir to my factory is composing himself," Wonka said icily. "Your behavior reflects on mine, Charlie. I think you're learning some nasty habits at college."

"Well maybe you should have thought of that before you sent me away!" Charlie snapped. "It's your own fault!"

"Boys!" Mrs. Bucket said. "That's quite enough."

Charlie and Wonka turned as one to glare at her.

"More soup, Willy?" Mr. Bucket asked cheerfully.

Wonka glanced down at his bowl of tomato soup. He'd hardly touched it. "No," he said. "Thank you."

"It's always beautiful in July," Grandma Georgina said, staring vacantly out the window.

Charlie swallowed painfully, and took a bite of his sandwich. "I think you'd like my friends," he said to his parents. "They're really fantastic. I wish you could meet them."

"So do I, Charlie," Mrs. Bucket said.

"Heh," Wonka said, "I wonder if we could make a candy dental floss."

This time, Charlie ignored him. "Mark plays the guitar," he said. "He wants to start a band someday. I told him I'd write his song lyrics."

"That's terrific, Charlie," Mr. Bucket said.

"And Amy always comes up with the craziest ideas," Charlie said. "Last week, she figured out how to get onto the roof. We made all these little parachutes out of our old class notes and sent them flying down at people."

"Isn't that dangerous, Charlie?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe," he admitted. "We were careful though. And there's a railing. Anyway, we managed to get down before our RA found out about it."

"Candy floss and candy mouthwash," Wonka muttered, glaring into his soup bowl.

Charlie shot him an annoyed glance. "They're really great," he said again. "Did I tell you guys what we did for Thanksgiving?"

Wonka's eyes darkened, going nearly brown. He gripped his soup spoon in his hand as if he'd like to break it. "Can't we talk about something else?"

Charlie glared at him. "You should be happy I'm having fun," he said. "You sent me there!"

Inexplicably, Wonka glanced at Mrs. Bucket. His eyes had gone nearly brown with anger. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I did."

An odd expression of guilt passed across his mother's face, but Charlie was too angry to dwell on it. "You just can't handle the thought of me having fun without you," Charlie said to Wonka. "You're jealous!"

"Charlie!" Mrs. Bucket said.

"I most certainly am not!" Wonka snapped.

"Well what would you call it?" Charlie asked.

Wonka scowled at the table, refusing to answer.

"Well you know what?" Charlie said. "I am having fun without you. My friends are great. At least they don't always try to boss me around."

Wonka's lips tightened into a thin line. "If everything is so darn fantastic there, why did you even bother coming home?" he asked. The words hovered dangerously in the air between them.

Tears burned suddenly in Charlie's eyes, and he wiped them away angrily. "I don't know!" he snapped. "Maybe I shouldn't have!"

He regretted the words almost as soon as he said them. The remaining color drained from Wonka's face, and he stood unsteadily, reaching for his cane.

"Mr. Wonka," Charlie said weakly. "I . . ."

The chocolatier turned to glare at him. To his surprise, Charlie saw that Wonka, too, looked almost ready to cry.

"I don't have to put up with this," Wonka said. "I'm leaving."

And without another word, he stalked out of the cottage, not even bothering to grab his coat and hat from where they hung.

Charlie looked desperately at his parents. He felt absolutely horrible.

"I think it's going to rain," Grandma Georgina said.

Mr. Bucket shot a significant look to his wife. "I think we'd better get Mum back in bed," he said, helping Grandma Georgina up from the table.

"Yes," Mrs. Bucket said. "That's probably a good idea."

Charlie sighed, pushing his soup aside. "I'm not hungry," he said. "I'm going to my room."

"Charlie, wait," Mrs. Bucket said. She watched her husband help her mother out of the dining room, and then she turned back to her son. For some reason she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "Charlie," she said, "You musn't be angry with Mr. Wonka. It wasn't his fault, darling. He didn't want you to leave."

"Then why did he make me?" Charlie asked. "He didn't have to. He's Willy Wonka. He's always done whatever the hell he wanted."

Her eyes widened at his language, but she didn't chastise him for it. Her mind seemed to be somewhere else. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Nervously, she fiddled with her soup spoon.

"You know something," Charlie said, hurt that Wonka would confide in his mother, but not in him. "What did he tell you? Do you know why he made me leave?"

"Charlie . . ." his mother seemed to be steeling herself for something. She closed her eyes, gripping the teacup until her knuckles whitened. "Charlie, I made Mr. Wonka send you away," she said. "If you must hate somebody, hate me."

"What?" Charlie stared at her. "Why? Why would you do something like that?"

She looked wretched. Wiping her eyes, she said, "Because I could count on one hands the number of times you'd been out of the factory since you moved in here! You've given over half of your life to this place, Charlie. I couldn't let you hand over the rest of it, too, not until you knew what you were giving up."

Charlie stared at her. He couldn't quite believe her words. "I love the factory," Charlie said. "I didn't want to leave."

"It . . . it seemed like the right decision at the time," Mrs. Bucket said. "I didn't expect you both to be this miserable about it."

"This whole time you've let me think it was Mr. Wonka," Charlie said softly, feeling almost sick from betrayal.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Bucket said. She was crying in earnest now. "I should have told you, I know, but I knew that if it came from me, you wouldn't listen. You always do what Willy asks you to, even if you hate it."

Charlie stared at her. He couldn't give voice to the number of thoughts crowding his head. Only one thing was clear to him. "I have to talk to Mr. Wonka," he said, hurrying past the weeping form of his mother and out the cottage door.

Wonka's private rooms were located deep within the recesses of the factory, far away from windows and prying eyes. Charlie had been here only twice before, accompanied by Wonka both times. As he stepped out of the Great Glass Elevator and into a dim hallway lit by candy-shaped wall sconces, Charlie felt like an intruder. The hallway ended in a magnificent set of wooden doors, each emblazoned with Wonka's signature W. Charlie ignored the doors, and knelt instead to study the molding on the left wall. After a few seconds, he found the correct knot in the wood, almost invisible in the dim light. Wonka always prodded it gently with his cane; Charlie jabbed it with one finger. The results were the same.

Two sections of the carpeted floor swung downwards, revealing a dark staircase leading down. Charlie peered dubiously at it -- he knew from past experience that the stairs were steep and dimly lit. Even with Wonka holding his arm, the journey down had always terrified him. Steeling his courage, Charlie took one step down, then two, holding on to the stone wall for balance. When his boot hit the sixth step, the walls shuddered around him, and the trap door above slid shut, leaving him in near complete darkness. The stairs were lit only by the narrow bands of violet light that lined either side of each step.

Charlie held tightly to the wall, and started the journey down, carefully finding each step with his foot before setting his weight on it. Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful that Wonka wasn't with him -- sometimes Wonka liked to take the stairs at a full run, tugging Charlie along behind him. How the man could navigate this dark staircase so easily in his stacked boots was something that Charlie had never quite managed to figure out.

Somehow Charlie managed to make it to the bottom of the staircase in one piece. It ended in a carpeted hallway that led to a single wooden door. Stepping up to it nervously, Charlie knocked, and waited.

The moments stretched by, and after awhile, Charlie knocked again, knowing full well the futility of the gesture. The factory's security system had alerted Wonka the second Charlie started down the staircase. Wonka had to be deliberately ignoring Charlie now.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie raised his hand to knock again, wondering if he could wear Wonka down by sheer obstinance. But the door swung open even as his knuckles grazed it, and Charlie found himself staring at Willy Wonka.

They stood in silence for a moment, studying each other. Wonka had been crying, Charlie realized -- his eyes looked swollen, and his face was red and blotchy. He gripped the door frame as if for support. After a moment, Wonka stepped back, and gestured Charlie inside.

"Come in," he said.

Charlie stepped into the sitting room. Unlike the rest of the factory, Wonka's personal quarters were neither technicolor bright nor sparklingly sterile. The floors were cherry-colored wood, polished to a shine. Thick tapestries hung on the walls, their pictures telling the story of how Wonka had rescued the Oompa-Loompas from their homeland, smuggling them across the ocean in a gigantic submarine and building them a new village in the hothouse jungle where his cacao beans grew. As a child, Charlie had read those tapestries like comics, gasping at the scenes where Wonka vanquished a fierce snozzwhanger or outwitted a cunning shark. Now, Charlie hardly looked at them.

"Sit down," Wonka said, and Charlie sat carefully on one of Wonka's overstuffed velvet sofas. Wonka hesitated a second, wondering, Charlie knew, whether or not he should sit beside him. A moment passed. Wonka took the armchair opposite. He wrung his hands nervously.

Charlie swallowed. "I came here to apologize. I haven't been fair to you. I know that." Wonka was watching him with wide eyes, but he didn't speak. Charlie swallowed and said, "I . . . I talked to my mum. She told me that she asked you to send me away."

Wonka stiffened. "Did she say why?" he asked, an odd tightness in his voice.

Charlie shrugged. "She said that she wanted me to see more of the world," he said. "I didn't really understand it. Why? Is that the real reason?"

Wonka studied the carpet. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of the idea. His hands tightened compulsively where they were clasped on his lap. At last, he looked nervously up at Charlie, and asked, "Are you really enjoying yourself at college?"

Charlie hesitated a second, wanting to press the other subject. But Wonka was looking at him so sadly that he couldn't bring himself to do it. "I am," he said softly. "It was hard at first. I missed the factory, and all of you. But my suitemates are great. And so is my RA, Gretchen. They've helped me out a lot."

Wonka nodded. "Good," he said. "I'm glad." But he didn't sound glad. His voice was higher than normal, nervous, and his eyes had a distant cast.

"Mr. Wonka?" Charlie said. "What is it?"

Wonka shook his head. He shied away from Charlie's gaze, staring instead at the tapestry across the room. Charlie frowned and rose from the sofa, crossing to stand beside Wonka's chair.

"Please tell me," Charlie whispered. Greatly daring, he set his hand on Wonka's shoulder.

Wonka glanced at the hand and then up at Charlie. "Charlie," he whispered. "Are you . . ."

He broke off, shaking his head. Charlie squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand, and sat on the arm of Wonka's armchair, bringing himself even closer to the other man. "Tell me," Charlie said again.

"Promise me," Wonka whispered, staring desperately at the carpet.

"What?"

"Promise you won't leave me. When the year is over, please, promise you'll come back."

Wonka finally looked up, and Charlie was shocked to see tear tracks glistening on his face. Shocked to tenderness, Charlie leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the chocolatier. Wonka melted against him, burying his face in Charlie's shoulder. One gloved hand rose tentatively to rest on Charlie's chest. Charlie stroked the sleek, dark hair, daring to rest his cheek against it.

"Willy," he said softly. He'd never used the chocolatier's given name before. "I'll come back," Charlie whispered. "Of course I'll come back. I could never leave you."

(to be continued . . . )

First, the bad news . . . As much as I hate to do this again, I'm afraid that I'm going to need to delay the next chapter by a week. I managed to fall far enough behind during the holiday season that it's been a struggle to keep up with this story. As it is, I've been writing each chapter the week it's due, and then barely having time to get it beta'd and properly edited. One week without posting will give me the time to properly catch up again -- ideally, I prefer to have at least a week to edit each chapter. I'm sorry about the delay, but my writing really will be better for it.

And now, the good news . . . The Wednesday after next, it's Christmas at the factory! Until then, I always appreciate any comments, questions, or constructive criticism you might have. As always, thanks for reading.