Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters which belong to Roald Dahl, Warner Bros. Pictures and Tim Burton. There is no intent to gain anything or anyone.

CatCF (movie) Alternate Universe

choc·o·ci·ol·o·gy n. 1. The study of human chocolate behavior, especially the study of the origins, organization, institutions, and development of chocolate society. 2. Analysis of a chocolate institution or chocolietal segment as a self-contained entity or in relation to chocolate as a whole. o. from choco(late)- (Spanish, from Nahuatl xocolatl : xococ, bitter + atl, water.) + logy, study (Greek "logi" see "logy") adapted from sociology by C. Bucket (see sociology)

Chapter 34 - Dark Mares Running Through the Night for a New Beginning

Charlie really wanted to go find his friend, however his parents convinced him to wait. After all, he would see Willy in the morning and there was no telling where the candy maker was currently.

"He probably has a problem to fix or something," Mrs. Bucket informed her son.

"Why didn't we hear anything?" Charlie asked curiously. He found it quite odd.

"Maybe he has a pager and it vibrated," Mr. Bucket said.

The boy didn't say anything, but he found that an even stranger notion. Where would Willy have gotten a pager? And why would he? Somehow, the chocolatier did not strike Charlie as the type to carry such a thing. It seemed too intrusive for such a reclusive and private man. One thing was true and that was he would see his friend in the morning and would probably spend most of the day with him. That thought made him semi-content to wait.

- W - C - F -

Willy hastily stripped and stepped under the warm shower. As long as he stayed there, he could pretend the tears flowing down his face were regular water drops. He lathered up a lavender washcloth and began to scrub diligently. A brief glance at his sore wrist showed that it was turning spectacularly Technicolor in blues and purples. Yuck! He was grateful the brace that Dr. Luke had put on it was waterproof. He'd hate to have to take it off and put it back on. Of course, he would probably have to find someone else to put it back on. His mind scrambled around looking for distractions which flowed in and out of his thoughts with the splashing water. No matter how hard he tried, they treacherously circled back to that movie.

The chocolatier did not understand how it had gotten on the Recommended List. Why would his Oompa-Loompas suggest something so awful? A tiny portion of Willy's mind stepped back and examined the situation objectively. If he was being truthful, it was a very good movie and he might recommend it to anyone - anyone that is, except himself. It was a truly horrible and traumatic movie for him. Of course, his friends did not know that, because he had never, ever said a word. It was part of his greatest shame that his own fa-fa-fa . . . papa had run away from him. How many people had their moms and dads run away? He was positively certain that had happened to very few people. One maybe, but both? No. He was a horrible, unwanted discard.

Willy was shivering constantly as he stepped out of the shower, his tears finally stopped. He wasn't cold, he was . . . He didn't know what he was. He hastily dried off and dressed in a clean pair of pajamas and fresh gloves. He hoped he hadn't offended the Buckets! With any luck, they would think he'd gone to take care of something, an emergency of some sort inside the factory. Yeah. He tried to think of what he could claim it was if one of the Buckets (Charlie) brought it up. Possibilities jumped around his thoughts, but nothing stood out. Maybe they wouldn't ask? Maybe . . .

The chocolatier retreated to his high, soft bed. He pushed the button so the sweet scent of melted chocolate filled his room along with a quiet roar. The shaken man stepped up and slipped under the covers, curling up in a ball of misery in the absolute center. He closed his eyes, only to blink them open as perfidious memories clawed at his heart. He froze and gazed with blind, unblinking eyes at the remote ceiling as the flashback took hold.

The boy child named Willy Wonka stared in disbelief at the gaping hole where his home had once stood. His stomach clenched tightly, only to drop. It felt as if a giant had hammered a blow into his middle. The very foundations of his existence were gone. Willy stood there, staring, he never knew how long. Darkness fell and cold seeped deep into him. He waited; waited like a bewildered, abandoned dog certain his master would come to retrieve him. Cold raindrops finally pulled him from his daze. His father was not coming back for him, he knew that. He had said he would not be here when Willy returned and one thing the boy knew about his father, Dr. Wilbur Wonka, always kept his promises.

With heavy heart and steps, Willy turned and walked away from the site of the only home he had ever known. He walked shakily down the street, toward the nearest police station. Since he was a toddler, he'd been told repeatedly to go to a policeman if he was ever lost. He felt more lost now than he had ever dreamed possible. Distantly, he wondered what they would do with him since he was unwanted and homeless.

The boy shuffled mindlessly in the line of people, waiting to speak to an officer.

The man at the desk frowned as he looked at the dazed youth standing in front of him. That odd dental gear was too much! His face twisted into disgust. "Yes? What is it, son?"

I'm not your son! You wouldn't want me! My own pa-parents don't want me! "Yes sir, I've . . . lost my . . . home, sir."

The officer's frown deepened. "Wait here." He gestured to another man who came over. They whispered to each other, gestured, pointed and finally nodded. "Go with this man."

Willy blindly did as he was told. He went where he was directed, sitting beside an empty desk. The officer left him to speak to another man, this one in a rumpled tweed suit.

Cool, frosty eyes examined the boy. Questions were asked and Willy answered automatically. Name? Willy Wonka. Parents' names? Dr. Wilbur Wonka. No mother. Address . . .

"It's gone, sir." The man had not believed him. Eventually, he was prodded into a car and they drove to where home used to be. The police detective's mouth dropped as he stared at the empty slot in the row of townhouses. He scratched his head and shook it. He decided the boy was lying about the address. People did not move townhouses, especially not in a few hours. They returned to the police station and Willy followed listlessly back to the hard chair beside the man's desk.

"Runaway," the man said into his phone. "Yeah. Gave a weird story about his father running away and taking their home with him. . . Yeah, he provided the address of a place that'd been torn down. Don't know why he'd make up an impossible lie like that. Kids!" The man nodded to the person on the other end. "How soon can you send someone to get him?" He snorted. "That long? What are we suppose to do with him for two, three days?" His eyes stared coolly at the boy huddled beside his desk. "Yeah, just get somebody here as soon as you can." He stood and gestured abruptly. "Family services can't pick you up for awhile, so you'll just have to stay here."

Willy went where he was prodded, the heavy hand on his shoulder pushing him toward the stairs. They went down into the bowels of the building. The hallways were dull, dingy and grungy with filth. Peculiar, sharp, acidic scents filled the air. It made Willy's stomach churn. He was wide-eyed as he was pushed into a cell and the heavy barred door clanged shut behind him. He cringed into a corner on the bunk as loud, harsh voices called out nasty, malevolent, vicious words. He curled into a tight ball, his eyes burned as he was unable to sleep.

A shudder ran through the chocolatier's frame as he threw himself out of his bed. He spun around, a sob caught silently in his throat. Ancient terror scrabbled in his mind. He paced for several long moments, to finally sit on the window seat, curled up in a corner, staring outside at the rain glistening in the streetlights. He'd known that the memory of his dad's leaving would come back that night, known as soon as he realized that his friends' home would probably be destroyed in the storm. He'd held it off all day with the knowledge it would eventually claim him when he was most vulnerable - night. He just hadn't expected it to go so deep or long. He could still smell the revolting scents that surrounded the jail cells at the police station. He frantically took a deep breath, trying to recapture the sweet, soothing scent of melted chocolate that should fill his rooms at night. His insides quaked as the cruel scents from his memory warred with the sweet scent of the present. Revolted, he staggered to his bathroom and heaved into the toilet bowl.

Willy rinsed his mouth with water to remove the bitter bite from the back of his throat and then shakily wiped his mouth with a damp cloth. Exhausted, he returned to his bed, once more curling up in the absolute center, only to have the cycle repeat itself over and over. Unable to stand it any more, Willy retreated to the window seat in his office. He curled up under the soft purple blanket. His hand shook as he touched the window pane, part of him was vaguely grateful that his nightmares and flashbacks had not gone past his dad's departure and the two nights he'd spent at the police station. He closed his eyes as he struggled and shoved mightily at the door to his childhood memories, finally slamming it closed on them as the time for his day to begin arrived.

With an exhausted sigh, Willy Wonka rose from his seat and went to the bathroom. He examined himself critically in the mirror. His pale complexion emphasized the dark, bruised looking circles under his eyes. He grimaced, knowing there was no way to really hide them. The candy maker dressed slowly, considering what excuse he could make for his hasty departure and his fatigue. As he placed his top hat on his head, he finally decided to blame them on the mythical trouble that had called him away if they asked. Truly, trouble had dragged him away and kept him awake. His troubled memories were fully to blame, but the Buckets did not need to know that part.

The chocolatier stopped by the elevator and pushed the call button. Its arrival was announced a few second later by a musical ding. As he had expected, there was a laundry basket full of new clothes for the Buckets. The Oompa-Loompas were as efficient as always. He picked it up and went to their door. He knocked softly, not wanting to wake them if they were still asleep. Not getting a response, Willy cautiously opened the door and peeked inside. It was still dark and quiet. He slipped in, nudging the light switch with his elbow, and placed the basket of clothes on the sofa. He turned to leave, only to pause. His head tilted to one side as he examined the thought inside his head. With a nod, Willy turned back.

- W - C - F -

Charlie woke to a delightful scent tickling his nose. Startled, blue-green eyes blinked open and took in his new room. He stretched and slipped from the soft, warm, comfortable bed, pausing only to check that Oriana was still sleeping soundly. He padded to his door on bare feet and opened it. He took a deep appreciative breath and followed his nose to the kitchen. There, he found Willy Wonka with an apron tied over his clothes, busily beating something in a bowl. "Good morning, Willy!"

Willy jumped and whirled around. He smiled brightly. "Good morning, Charlie. Did you have a good night?"

"Yes, I did," Charlie noted a certain lassitude in his friend's movements that spoke of exhaustion. "What are you doing?"

"Making waffles," Willy responded. "Would you like plain, blueberry, strawberry, chocolate chip or pecan?"

The boy blinked at the offered selection. He was not used to choices and he'd never had a waffle before. The chocolate chip waffle sounded intriguing. Chocolate for breakfast? However, he decided for something simpler. "Plain, please."

Willy nodded and turned to pour some batter in a strange looking appliance sitting on the counter. He closed the top and hummed to himself as he waited. Charlie found a seat on a barstool and rested his chin in his hands, watching Willy work. The candy maker sat the bowl down and pulled out some oranges. He cut them in two and pressed the halves on a juicer, twisting them firmly to get all of the delicious juice from them. As Charlie watched, he began to notice something strange. Willy was working mostly with his left hand. Was he left handed?

Willy winced as he picked up the pitcher and hastily put it down. He swapped hands, pouring with his right from the lighter juicer into the heavy pitcher in his left hand.

"What's wrong with your hand?" Charlie asked with concern.

"Nothin'," Willy responded, quickly turning away to check the waffle maker. He flipped it over and opened it up, pulling out a perfect, golden waffle. He transferred it to a plate and placed it in front of Charlie. He nudged the butter and maple syrup over to him. "There you go, Charlie, one plain waffle." He smiled with bright artificiality.

"Willy," Charlie drew his name out, his brow furrowing with worry. "What is wrong with your hand?"

"Nothin'," his friend gave the same response in a squeakier voice. He reached over to place a glass of orange juice and another of milk in front of the boy.

Quick as a flash, Charlie caught hold of his right hand. Willy let out a little pained yelp as he pulled away from the boy's grip just as Mr. and Mrs. Bucket came out of their bedroom. "Fresh clothes on the sofa," Willy chattered swiftly and bobbed his head, ripping the apron off, "there are laundry chutes in the bathrooms. Just drop your dirty clothes down them. I'll be back later. Bye!" With that Willy practically flew out the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket blinked at each other. What in the world?

"Charlie, what just happened?" Mrs. Bucket asked as she joined him in the kitchen area, while her husband went to call in to work.

"Willy," her son frowned darkly at the closed door. He was sure he'd felt something in that too brief instance. "I think he hurt his hand," he informed her.

"Last night?"

Charlie's head tilted and he blinked in thought. "Yesterday, in the elevator." Well, it had looked like an elevator even if it didn't act like one. How many elevators could fly? "When he got us before the . . ."

"Tornado," his mother finished softly. "Oh dear." Why hadn't he said something? She wiped her hands on a dish towel and looked at the breakfast things laid out on the counter. She began to make waffles from the batter for Mr. Bucket as he came over to join them.

"Maybe I should go find him," Charlie slipped off the stool.

"Finish your breakfast, Charlie. He'll be back in a bit. Give him a . . . moment to get settled again," Mrs. Bucket stated wisely. "We have to remember that he's not used to people."

A few minutes later, there was a timid knock on the door and it eased open. Willy edged cautiously inside. "I, uh, forgot my hat and cane." He reached for the items on a stand beside the door.

"Willy, have you eaten yet?" Mrs. Bucket asked quickly.

"No ma'am."

"Come have something," she said, gesturing over to join them. She wondered how to find out about his hand. She didn't want to scare him away yet again.

Willy slowly walked over and sat down beside Charlie. He smiled back when the boy smiled warmly at him.

"Are you alright?" Charlie asked. "You look tired."

"Yeah, I, erm, had some problems crop up last night." Willy looked down at his plate. "I'm sorry I left like I did."

"I'm sorry too," Charlie commented. "It was a good movie. I really enjoyed it."

Willy nodded, unsure of what to say in response. That darn movie had caused him enough trouble.

"How would you like your waffles, Willy?" Mrs. Bucket asked.

"Chocolate chip, please ma'am," the candy maker answered, mindful that he needed to get his daily requirement in. He began to wonder if there wasn't an easier way of doing it. It wasn't that he didn't like chocolate. He loved it! It just was awkward making sure he'd eaten enough. He stared off into the distance out of the window as his thoughts chased the problem around.

"How many?"

"Just one, please," Willy responded absently.

Mother and son carefully craned their necks, examining his right hand. It was hard to tell, but there was a telltale outline of something on it under the glove.

Willy resurfaced to the here and now and became aware of their regard. He pulled his right wrist protectively to his chest and blushed slightly.

"Willy, what's wrong with your hand?" Mrs. Bucket asked gently, but firmly, in the no nonsense tone mothers used on their children when they expected obedience and an answer.

His face twisted and he started to speak, only to stop and then try again. "I bruised my wrist," Willy finally managed to say. "It's nothing, really."

"May I see?" She asked hesitantly as she placed his waffle on his plate.

Willy paused, only to shake his head. "It's okay. It's been taken care of." He nodded and appeared to focus his attention on his waffle, making his signature out of the chocolate syrup as he poured it.

Mrs. Bucket exchanged looks with her husband and decided it would be better to not press the issue. They'd just have to keep an eye on Willy and try to make sure he really was as fine as he insisted. Charlie was right, the poor man looked exhausted. Breakfast was finished in relative silence, each of them wrapped in their own thoughts. Mr. and Mrs. Bucket wondered what they would find when they checked their house. Willy's mind was currently bouncing between candy snow, his daily chocolate requirement and the paperwork he planned to do that day. Charlie was thinking about the movie, while shooting concerned peeks at his friend.

After finishing breakfast, the Buckets examined the clothes that Willy had brought them. They were astonished that they were brand new and their sizes. As with the baskets of food, there were not any tags or anything to indicate their manufacturer. Where had the chocolatier gotten them? How did he know their sizes? "Willy, you didn't have to do this," Mr. Bucket exclaimed.

Willy brushed it off. "Hurry and get dressed." He looked at his young friend. "Bring Oriana with you to my office, 'kay?"

"Okay Willy," Charlie nodded obediently.

Willy left for his office, granting them some privacy.

- W - C - F -

Mr. and Mrs. Bucket left Charlie at Willy's office, promising to return for lunch. Willy was sitting at his computer desk, tapping away on the keyboard when Charlie entered. He smiled warmly at the boy who was trying to hold onto a book as well as the energetic kitten as he nudged the door closed. "Just put her down," Willy instructed. He stood and fixed a small bowl of warm milk. He carefully added a few drops of vitamins the kitten needed and placed it on the floor mat. Oriana bounded over and eagerly began lapping up her breakfast. The friends smiled at the kitten.

Willy gestured Charlie over to his window seat. "I found something I think you'll like to see," he said.

"What?" Charlie asked.

His eyes were bright with curiosity as Willy picked up one of the large, beautifully bound books lying on the seat. "They're photo albums from my candy shop."

"Really?" Charlie eagerly accepted the proffered album as he sat down.

Willy placed a packet of brightly colored sticky arrows beside Charlie. "Look through them. If you find any photos you want, mark it with an arrow. I'll get copies made from the negatives for you. I'm sure you'll find pictures of your . . . Joe Bucket in there."

Charlie nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. He carefully examined the first photograph. It showed a very young man in a top hat and frock coat, standing in front of the Wonka shop which looked freshly painted. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," Willy responded after a glance at the picture. He returned to his workstation and got back to the reviews, raises and bonuses.

Charlie studied the first picture, surprised at how young Willy looked in it. He looked really young, not much older than Charlie was now. He shook his head. That didn't make sense. Maybe Willy Wonka was one of those people who never looked their proper age. He sneaked a peek at Willy. He certainly didn't seem very old even now. Grandpa Joe had said that the shop had been open for five years before the factory was opened. The factory was fifteen years old, almost sixteen. That meant Willy had to be at least thirty nine, probably older, in his early forties at the youngest. Yet, Charlie looked over at his friend as he concentrated on his work. He looked younger than that. He scrutinized the picture and thought again that Willy looked young. With a bright face and shining, proud smile, he still looked painfully, fearfully young.