The sunrise that had found Charlie asleep, had, five hours later, found Willy Wonka awake, contemplating his chicken-heartedness of the previous day, but not with much caring. Today was a new day, and throwing aside the covers, he got to his feet, stood atop the great expanse of duvet, kicked the covers into a semblance of order with his toes—he didn't want their folds interfering with what he contemplated next—and flapping his arms, his nightshirt flapping with them, he crowed, a loud, raucous, happy crow. He was a Sumatra, rugged and feisty, and nothing could stop him for long— today, or any day!

There was no one to hear him, the myriad armoires holding his myriad clothing entirely disinterested. They flanked him along the curved walls in a broken horseshoe shape, half to one side of the bed, half to the other, stopped by the great, curved, floor to ceiling window that, across a no man's land of plush carpet, with a lone, wing-backed arm chair at its foot, faced the bed. Its frosted glass revealed the state of the day by the strength of shadows, and little else. Today, the wing-backed chair had one.

Having finished his morning's inspiration, the crow, he bowed to his silent armoire audience, the only audience he ever allowed in this room, for this was his room, his private and entirely personal room, where, with no exceptions, he, and only he, set foot. It was the only sacrosanct rule in the Factory. He often didn't sleep here. He had rooms all over the Factory, with as fine a selection of clothing in them as anything in here, though with not so many choices. The Factory was so large, and the work so engrossing, it only made sense … Why waste time trekking miles and miles for something as mundane as sleep? Sleep: Can't work with it; can't work without it … He'd learned that. But there were times when it was worth the trek to this sanctuary of sanctuaries. Last night had been one of them, and Willy was the better for it.

He wasn't done. Testing the springiness of his mattress by rising to his toes and bouncing in place, Willy made some mental calculations regarding the remaining distance to the end of the bed, and to the start of the broad, shallow steps that brought one up to the wide dais it sat on. He'd have to move back. He kicked a pillow out of his way, his back now against the pale, ivory leather headboard that dwarfed him. This oughta work.

He chuckled to himself, drew in a breath, composed his mind, visualized the move as he'd like to make it, saw himself in technicolor grandeur achieving it, stepped forwards with arms outstretched, halted, overbalanced, fell forwards, bringing his arms in to his torso as he did so, and, just before the coming face-plant, tucked his head, made a flawless shoulder roll, sprang back to his feet, and finding himself out of mattress, pushed himself into the air, feet together, landing on the carpeted dais, his knees momentarily bent as he stuck the landing. Along with his rising, wide-spread arms, and widening smile, he rose to his full height, and then clapped his hands together above his head.

"Ha! Yay! Take that, Mr. Gene I-can-do-a-shoulder-roll-wanna-be Wonka! So can I! And on a soft surface!" Bounding over to the solitary chair, Willy popped his top-hat onto his head, and humming, headed for the bathroom. He'd learned yesterday from one and all that Charlie had left in a frightful huff the day before that, and, hearing that, Willy couldn't be happier. He'd buttonhole Joe on the Chocolate Room bridge later on, and see if there wasn't something they could do together to pass the time.

Mr. Wonka wasn't at breakfast, and the Buckets weren't surprised. When Charlie was away from the Factory, Mr. Wonka's social forays declined like daylight hours in Winter.

"Do you think he's gotten over that movie, anyone?"

"That would be hard to say, dear, with us not seeing him to ask him," said Mr. Bucket to his wife, turning the page in the book he was reading.

"Please don't read at the table, dear. It's rude, and you'll get jam on the pages."

"Don't be a Wonka," sniffed Grandma Josephine.

For a change, it was George who came to the man's rescue. "You, my good woman, better hope Mr. Wonka gets over it, and stays a Wonka. He's Charlie's future, and our bread and butter. But we don't need to see him. You mark my words, we'll know if he's over that torturous travesty by the taste of the new candies he makes."

His head down, Grandpa Joe pursed his lips. George. Using words like 'torturous' and 'travesty'… And yet he'd stayed until the end. Grandpa Joe began to think he'd let himself down, letting himself out of the horror when he had. Once again curious, he lifted his head. "What did—"

"Has anyone heard from Charlie today?" asked Grandpa George at full volume, with a scowl for Grandpa Joe.

"Not a peep," answered Mrs. Bucket, with agreeing nods from the others.

"Not a peep," they all murmured.

Joe admitted defeat. They were not going to tell him.

The morning slipped away, with the rift in the family widening in the way that the continental shelves were widening: unseen, but inexorably. It was plain, Grandpa Joe could see, that the family wanted to talk about what they'd seen, but not in front of him. The resulting pussy-footing needled him, and after lunch, with slumping shoulders, Grandpa Joe took his feeling of defeat with him on his customary walk, ending it, as he customarily did, staring down into the churned chocolate of the river, churning along.

Some days, Grandpa Joe wondered what diving into it would be like, but felt the height too great, and the river too shallow to go any further than wondering about it. Other days, Grandpa Joe hoped its viscous depths would show him visions of the future, like a flattened crystal ball made of chocolate, but it never did. It only ever showed him the way Life was: murky, and unknown, flowing ever onward, with a veil too opaque to see behind; a veil too heavy to lift. Charlie had thought this chocolate his salvation…

"Do they let you out at night? Late at night?"

Whispered words, so close Grandpa Joe could feel the wind of them on his ear, startling him to the point that he felt himself tottering towards finding out the reality of his wonderings. "E-yaa!" he managed in distress.

"Sorry," said his startler.

A gloved hand caught his shoulder, and Grandpa Joe regained his balance. "Oh, thank heavens! Mr. Wonka! It's you! Where did you come from?"

"My mother's womb? This town? I was born here, ya know. How far back do ya wanna go? Most recently from behind you. Why?"

Grandpa Joe was confused. Why ask 'why'? Wasn't 'why' plungingly obvious? "Why?" he mouthed, still coming to grips with his near tumble.

"What?"

Mr. Wonka's smile was as cheery as hot chocolate on a blustery winter's day. It was a mistake to follow Mr. Wonka's invitations down whatever rabbit holes he might devise for you, and placing his hand on his chest, to steady his heart as much as his breathing, Grandpa Joe went no further. He'd learned that much in all these years in the Factory, and likewise, after all these years he remembered the day of the Tour, when, first thing, Mr. Wonka had shown himself adept at doing just that: sneaking up behind people, but not without help. "Was I that preoccupied?"

"You were," affirmed Mr. Wonka, removing his hand from Grandpa Joe's shoulder, and stepping away. "I was forced to resort to drastic measures, but then, things have been leaning towards the drastic lately." Mr. Wonka, arranging his frock coat just so, took a seat on the rock-candy stepping stone beneath Grandpa Joe, just as he had the other day. "Don't you agree?"

It was another rabbit hole, Grandpa Joe could tell, but maybe he'd turn the tide on Mr. Wonka. He'd try. "What was the question you asked me?"

"Don't you agree?"

"No, the one before that."

"What?"

Mr. Wonka's expression was as innocent as a new-born lamb's. Grandpa Joe laughed to himself, conceding Mr. Wonka the better player. "What was the first question you asked me?" Grandpa Joe reflected. "Today. The one that caused you to take drastic action to avoid having to bin this batch of chocolate."

Mr. Wonka grinned, but without the expected added chuckle. "Ah! That one! I asked: Have you missed him since?"

There were reasons the family left Mr. Wonka to Charlie, and feeling like your brain was being made into a pretzel when you were around him was one of them. That hadn't been the question. It didn't sound anything like the question. That question had been something about night-time, but this one… there was no need to ask who was meant by 'him'. "Have I missed him since he left? It's only been a couple of days."

"Nah, not that." Mr. Wonka shook his head. "I mean since he moved into the Factory."

Oh. With a quick, sharp look at the man who had changed so little since that day, Grandpa Joe turned his attention back to the chocolate flowing beneath them. Such a serious question from Mr. Wonka. It was unexpected. Not because Mr. Wonka couldn't be serious—he could, however briefly—but because it was personal, and because Grandpa Joe hadn't thought Mr. Wonka would ever want to know the answer.

The river flowed. Oompa-Loompas worked along the banks. One lost control of a pumpkin he was placing. It rolled and bounced unexpectedly, caught by a compatriot before it could land in the river. Work stopped. A cackling verse about slippery fingers and sticky ones burst out. Work resumed.

Grandpa Joe remembered how things had changed when the family had moved into the Factory: how he had stopped being the one Charlie had gone to for stories of the amazing Mr. Wonka. Charlie's eager eyes… his bated breath; the give and take that brought closeness. The amazing Mr. Wonka could supply those stories hence, and make new ones. Charlie had had less and less time for Grandpa Joe, Charlie's eyes asparkle at other wonders. It had been hard. He had been lonely. The times he'd had to bite his tongue, so as not to call Charlie back, and make things harder. "Yes," Grandpa Joe replied, softly. The swirls of the river curled around and back on themselves as they made their way to their futures.

With a nod, Mr. Wonka let the answer die between them. The chocolate at the base of the fall had reached the bridge before he spoke. "I could see that," he finally said, meeting Joe's eyes. "I don't know what I could have done about it."

"Done about it?" Grandpa Joe shook his head in wonder. "Why, I wouldn't have wanted you to have done anything about it. It had to be that way. You're Charlie's future, and when the generations next to come set foot on their path, there's nothing for the generations they leave behind to do about it … Except to wish them well on their way." Grandpa Joe paused once more, the wrinkles on his brow deepening into furrows. "Are you his future? He's worried about that."

A corner of Mr. Wonka's mouth turned up, in what might have been the birth of a smile. It was still-born, but his voice was soft. "That's up to Charlie."

"Not you?"

"Charlie."

"I don't understand."

Popping to his feet, Mr. Wonka hefted his walking-stick as if he were leading a band. "This morning, I've tumbled to my senses, and with my senses made sensible, I can assuredly tell you that I have high hopes that Charlie does understand, and if he does, one day or another, it will all work out for the best. So relax. Those furrows you're making are making me antsy."

Happy to oblige the man who seemed almost his normal cheery self, with a grin, Grandpa Joe complied with the command.

"Goody. That's much better. Now. Speaking of the best, shall we speak of the worst? Have your relatives relented? Have they told you the tale of the remainder of that movie?"

"Not a word," sighed Grandpa Joe. "I accept defeat."

"Never accept defeat!" Mr. Wonka paused, dropping the hand holding his walking-stick to his side. "I'm sorry I had to close the Factory."

"I'm sorry you had to close the Factory, too, but you HAD to close the Factory. I know that."

"It changed me."

It had. Grandpa Joe had been with Mr. Wonka at Cherry Street, and he knew it first-hand. There was no need to agree. He let his eyes drop. He heard a sigh from above.

"I thought the world of Mr. Wilder."

"Eh?" Grandpa Joe raised his eyes again.

"If I'd seen that movie while I was in my Cherry Street shop, I think I'd have laughed at it, if not with it, but I'm thinner skinned since the spies, and I didn't expect to find betrayal in celluloid, and most certainly not by my formerly favorite actor.
"That's why I left: thin skin. Why did you leave?"

Grandpa Joe cleared his throat. Why had he left? In one word. "Ethics."

A grin and a shake of the head from Mr. Wonka. He sank to his heels, squatting, eye-to-eye with Grandpa Joe. "Eshle and Doris have told me they'll tell me the rest of it. I don't want them to. I want to see it. With you."

"With me?"

"It's time we had our own adventure, without Charlie. What d'ya say? Do they let you out at night? Late at night? I'm swamped today."

Grandpa Joe's grin lit up his face. "THAT was the question you asked me!"

"Of course it was, and you still haven't answered it. So what's it gonna be? I can tell there's stuff about Charlie in it that we don't know, and we should. I think it upset him, and I can't have that. Can you?"

"In the Television Chocolate Room?"

"Natch."

"When?"

"Ten."

"I'll be there!"

Mr. Wonka sprang to his feet. "So will I, and don't tell a soul."

Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films, and the musical version of Matilda. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Squirrela: Thanks so much for your review. Here's an update, but not one that gets us off that cliff you mention. Enjoy! Hi, Random Guy: Sounds like a nice idea, but what I don't know about zombies would fill a library. Perhaps you might write such a story? Are you enjoying this story? You have me wondering. :-D