A/N: Thank you buckets (no pun intended ) to all of you that supported this chapter of mine: Miran Anders, word junky, Devilish Kurumi, ack, Nautical Acronym, TheHomicidalManiac777, The Island Hopper, Hellsfirescythe, Amorette, tinks-belle85, Sailor Fire Dragon, DibMagician, The Maine Coon Cat, Super Lizard, tenshi-no-fushigi, Countess Vladislaus Dragu, Wicked Seraphina, Telanu, onnawufei
This not being a style I'm all that familiar with, I've floundered several times already – and this is only the second chapter. :P But Wonka (and Wonka adorers) have the power to keep me in my chair, swinging my legs, and trying to figure out what happens next. Lolz. So for that, I thank you. :)
A few general things that have been asked more than once, though: No this is not a one-shot story (obviously. Lolz. I might like to twist fate a little, and instill a leetle cruelty to my characters, but I'm not THAT mean, Wicked Seraphina! Lolz.), but I'll try my best not to draw it out too long so it becomes boring, either. Ten chapters or so, give or take a few.
That first chapter – I don't know if it was evident – was kind of like a prologue. An analogy for the 'let go, jump in' theme. From now on, the story will become slightly more complex, slightly darker, and who knows, I might even introduce a bit of romance further along.
As for "Wonka should be calling Charlie by name." Yes, I know. And I do have an explanation for it. It'll appear in… thinks, a later chapter.
And lastly, a clarification for Amorette. I hope I'm interpreting this correctly. If so, I absolutely agree that Charlie is still fascinated by Wonka's genius, and on the candy-factory level, Charlie and Wonka are still on the student/mentor premises. But through all other sense, I have somehow come to see Charlie and Wonka as equals, as friends, as… well, who knows. Lolz.
Btw – I'm so glad to see all these beautifully, stupendously written Wonka fanfics around. :) Just last week, there were only (gasp!)… 12! Lolz.
Anyways, finally, I present you… drum roll... chapter two!
"Mint leaves - crushed, walnuts… hazelnut crumbs… a glob of dark… chocolate…melted?"
Charlie read the ingredients out loud as he carefully added them one by one into the syrupy mixture. He regarded the resulting product dubiously. It seemed very – odd, (not to mention very unattractive). The entire concoction was a dark brownish-green, very similar to what he would have called 'mud', with bits of – stuff, swimming around. It was so undesirable, he thought, that he didn't even have the words to describe it.
But Willy Wonka knew what he was doing. He always did. He never worried that something might go wrong – because in the end, the product always turned out so incredibly…
Right.
He sighed. This was his first time making a new their new invention by himself. Mr. Wonka had always been beside him, always more excited then he was… "The bestest thing in the world," he had said upon many occasions, "is being able to make what you feel. Yeah. Look!" (And he would always hold up a handful of goop or whatever it was that he was making.)
Yet this time, Charlie hadn't seen him in the inventing room at all. An Oompa had told him that Mr. Wonka had given him the go ahead to start the new project without him. He thought this was oddly out of character.
In fact, he hadn't seen Mr. Wonka since that day he tried to fix the water spouts almost a week ago – or more than a week ago. It was sometimes very hard to keep track of time in the factory.
This, he thought, was also strangely out of character. Mr. Wonka had always been all over the factory (sometimes at the same time, it seemed) – Charlie could almost swear there was more than one of him.
What happened, then? What went wrong? For when Mr. Wonka was out of character, the 'always' that Charlie had grown so used to seemed to end. It unnerved him.
Charlie thought back to the past few weeks, looking for things that may have upset his strange mentor. This, he found, wasn't so easy, as the things that upset Mr. Wonka were quite different from things that upset other people. For example, he would look sadly at a layer of dust that covered a table or particular piece of equipment, yet he could care less about the mess they made while creating candy. In fact, the messier a place was, the happier he looked.
He hated things that remained still or neglected for long periods of time. He preferred things that whirled in perpetual motion and made lots of noise.
The last time he was at Charlie's house, he found a wad of bills. He had stared at it for a long while, muttering and frowning to himself. But that problem had been solved when Grandma Georgina had said, "why, we don't need these little pieces of paper in this place!" and cheerfully threw the entire wad into the fire.
Then what…? Suddenly, Charlie remembered with a jump of guilty conscience. This was an anniversary. Not any anniversary, though. A death anniversary. The elder Mr. Wonka passed away around this time two years ago. Although he had never observed father and son being terribly close, this, he thought, was enough to upset anyone. And Mr. Wonka was a sensitive someone.
'I. Am. Such. An. Idiot.' He thought, giving himself a mental kick with each word.
Thinking back to last year, he remembered that Mr. Wonka had not been so terribly upset. Certainly he had not gone into reclusive hiding for a week. Maybe there was something more this time. Additional influences.
He wondered whether there was anything he could do to console Mr. Wonka. But… all he was good for was to listen, and the only comfort he could bring were through words. And words, he had decided long ago, were meaningless.
Yet maybe Mr. Wonka was lonely. Charlie imaged him sitting on top of Fudge Mountain in the middle of a whirling snowstorm, half frozen and very much alone. He imagined Mr. Wonka's smile, frozen in place – not because he wanted to smile, but because he couldn't do otherwise. Charlie shivered. Perhaps it would be enough just to find him and be with him for a while.
That's it. I'll go visit him, he decided. At least I can tell him the marshmallow medium is ready.
He had reached the door of the inventing room, when he paused, realizing with a sickening frustration he had absolutely no idea where Mr. Wonka might be. All in all, the factory was a large place. Which was in itself an understatement.
The obvious solution was that Mr. Wonka would be in his room. After all, one's room was meant for sulking, for raging, for crying (although Charlie had trouble visualizing Mr. Wonka raging – or crying, for that matter). Yes, he decided, I'll try his room first.
This decision in turn posed some difficulties, as he had never been to Mr. Wonka's private rooms. In fact, he didn't even rightly know whether Mr. Wonka had a room. Certainly he had never mentioned it, or hinted where it might be. But that was ridiculous – every self-respecting humanoid needed some sort of escape once in awhile.
Charlie sighed, massaging his forehead. Why do things always have to be so incredibly difficult? Finally, he made the goatlady call for help. If anyone knew where Mr. Wonka's room might be, it would be the Oompa Loompas.
He watched as a little woman came up to him, and bowed respectfully. In his turn, Charlie bent down almost double, in order not to be looming over her.
"Sir? You are done with the equipment?"
"What… oh right, yes. Yes I am. But I was wondering, rather – have you – have – you haven't seen Mr. Wonka lately, have you?"
The Oompa paused, thick brows furrowed. " No Sir, but I believe Boss is in his room."
Charlie felt elated. Finally, some light shone on his confusion. Things were going well. "Is he? Can you tell me how to reach him?"
His spirits quickly dropped as the Oompa's face fell. She didn't know, or wouldn't tell, Charlie thought. Which means I'll probably be spending the rest of the day – week, month, however long it took – looking for Mr. Wonka. Or worse, worrying about Mr. Wonka.
But the next thing he knew, the tiny figure was tugging at the hem of Charlie's shirt, pulling him forwards with a surprising about of energy for such a small person. He followed, curiously.
The Oompa Loompa brought him to the infamous glass elevator, sliding open the door and motioning for Charlie to step in. He did so, willingly. Although he hadn't quite figured out how to sense the presence of this elevator (but much better than Mr. Wonka), nor could he yet call the elevator upon command like Mr. Wonka could, but he had still used it many times in the past.
He looked down at the Oompa for further direction, and saw that a little arm was pointing towards the top of the elevator, above the very first row of buttons. Almost at the top of the elevator, there was a shiny, silver button. Looking up in dismay, he saw it was labeled "Mine".
"That's it?" Charlie whispered. The Oompa Loompa nodded. He stared. It was so tangibly close, yet beyond his reach of 15 years. In fact, he doubted Mr. Wonka could reach it very easily, either. With his outstretched cane, maybe. Now he understood why the Oompa had looked so discouraged.
How like Mr. Wonka, to have the access to his room be a small, shiny, out-of-reach button on top of everything, and labeled 'Mine'. He imagined this was some sort of snide joke his self-loving Mr. Wonka made towards the short population of the world. He imagined Mr. Wonka chuckling to himself, and the ghost voice of his mentor whispered gleefully in his ear, "Shorty." Honestly, how rude of him.
As Charlie considered how he was going to reach the button, or whether he should bother trying at all and just let Mr. Wonka freeze, the Oompa had bowed and left him. Reasonably enough – unless Charlie planned to toss her into the air like a tennis ball, there was no way the Oompa could help him, now. His father could probably reach it, but by the time he returned with him, the glass elevator would probably no longer be waiting here. The prospect of a factory-wide hunt for it didn't appeal to him in the slightest.
He stretched, testing the limits of his arm. He jumped. He even retraced a few steps out of the elevator and took the jump at a run. But no matter what, his fingers always fell a few inches too short of the button.
"Gosh darn it!" He swore, pulling a Mr. Wonka in frustration.
He scowled at it. He raised his eyebrow. He pouted. More Mr. Wonka.
Nothing.
Just as he was about to give up and find another method, he remembered. A moment that happened not long after he moved into the factory…
Charlie stood on the banks of the chocolate river – he enjoyed its thick gurgling, and particularly enjoyed popping chocolate bubbles formed by the waterfall with a candy cane. ('No touching my chocolate with any part of your body!' Had been Charlie's first rule in the factory.) It always made such a sickening satisfactory, gluttonous 'pop'.
Suddenly, he felt a very chilly breeze blowing at his neck, causing his hair to stand on end. 'The wind', he thought, before remembering that he was indoors, and there was no wind.
The unsettling breeze came again. He turned, and found himself almost nose to nose with a very pale face, and wide, violet eyes.
"Boo."
Given all circumstances, Charlie screamed. He stumbled backwards, and almost fell into the river before catching himself.
His ghost straightened up, and Charlie recognized the weird haircut and dark top hat. Mr. Wonka was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"Got ya."
Charlie scowled. Even after a few months in the factory, he had come to realize that it was impossible to scold Mr. Wonka for anything. That was just the way it was. He settled with a "what are you doing !"
"Giving you a surprise, of course. Yeah. Do you like it?" He smiled playfully.
Charlie raised his eyebrows; rather bewildered and suspecting Mr. Wonka was making fun of him. "Like it? You must be joking."
"Joking? No, no. Not I. Not this time. I invented it myself, see. It's very very special."
He wondered if he had heard right. "Wait. You invented creeping up behind people and whispering 'boo'? And that's supposed to be very very special?"
"Huh?" Mr. Wonka looked momentarily confused. "You mean I didn't give you the - ?" He reached inside his coat pocket with a gloved hand, and sheepishly pulled out three small pieces of neatly wrapped candy. "Well, look at that. I guess I forgot." Giggle.
He motioned for Charlie to stretch out his hand, and dropped all three pieces into his palm. Charlie brought them closer and examined a piece. It was rectangular, beige, with a large 'W' – for Willy Wonka, he assumed – stamped on it. It looked altogether quite unremarkable.
The pieces rested lightly in his hand – always weightless. (Very appropriate to suit its function, Charlie thought now.) He looked up inquiringly at Mr. Wonka.
"This is great. Why, I invented it not long ago. Haven't been able to do it again since, though. Sometimes, candy is like that, you know. Yeah. But have one, and there's enough fizz inside to lift you off the ground, see? If you want, even enough to take you far, far away." His eyes fairly sparkled, and even his hair seemed to quiver with excitement. (In fact, now that he thought back to it, it might have been because Mr. Wonka had been literally bouncing with glee.)
Charlie examined this bland looking piece of candy. "Are you sure?" He asked skeptically, bringing it up to his lips so he could test this for himself. Willy Wonka stopped him.
"Not yet."
Those had been the days when, Charlie admitted, Mr. Wonka had been much taller than himself. At that moment, he crouched down, reaching out to grasp his heir's raised arm. Yet instinct – or his fear of touch – stopped him, and his hand hovered inches above Charlie's arm for a moment, before he hesitantly pulled it back. Charlie lowered his hand, anyways.
"There will be days, when you need them. Hold on to them until then." He looked at Charlie, his lips slowly curving into a smile. A real smile. From inside.
That was the bit Charlie remembered most vividly about the memory.
He also recalled thinking Mr. Wonka was exaggerating the whole matter a bit, but had slipped the pieces in his pocket, anyways. He then proceeded to forget about them. Until now.
There will be days, when you need them… Mr. Wonka's voice echoed in his head. He wondered what Mr. Wonka had in mind. Could this be one of them? Did Mr. Wonka know that one day, he would need to reach this darned button?
Eyebrows raised, Charlie stared suspiciously again at the piece of candy lying innocently on his palm. Well, there was nothing for it, really. Worse comes to worse, nothing would happen.
Slowly, he eased the sweet between his lips. A burst of flavor filled his mouth. He couldn't identify what it was, exactly – all he knew was that it was all so tangibly there. And so very delicious. Almost immediately, warmth spread from his very core, down his arms, his legs, to his fingers and toes, shooting straight to his head. He felt dizzy. Pleasantly dizzy.
At the same time, he was vaguely aware that he was floating. Higher, and higher. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw the imprint "Mine" loom closer. He made sure to press the button as soon as he could reach it. The elevator took off.
For once, Charlie failed to admire the exhilarating speed of the glass elevator, and didn't let out that gasp of delight every time it turned a sharp corner. In fact, he could barely feel it – that candy had overwhelmed his sense. He bobbed near the top of the glass pane, enjoying the sensation of being feather light.
By the time the elevator came to a stop, the candy had melted completely in his mouth, and he gently landed back on the ground. Resisting the desire to pop in another piece, he slid open the door, and stepped out, looking around for the first time.
So this was Willy Wonka's "Mine". And Charlie was there.