A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your lovely reviews. I have this urge to say a 'thank you' for every person who reviewed – but I think you get the point, neh? As much as I say I write for myself, you guys have made every time I update a chapter ten times brighter. :)

Hmm - I had a lot of trouble with this chapter. It sounds quite broken in some places, to me. And also very out of character. Although I discovered some wonderful clips of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on yahoo, which have helped me immeasurably. Drop me a note and tell me what you think, neh? My thanks.

And the chapter... at last.

Oh yes. Please don't kill me for this chapter's... err, abrupt ending, shall we say.

… So this was Willy Wonka's "Mine". And Charlie was there.

He was also very disoriented.

For a wild moment, he scrambled to grab a hold of the edges of the glass elevator door, and clung to it tightly once he had found it. Unfortunately, being glass (and quite slippery), he felt his fingers slide slowly – almost imperceptibly slowly – downwards. He was dizzy. And this dizziness wasn't pleasant. It wasn't quite nauseating, either. It was merely bewildering.

Charlie closed his eyes. He shook his head vigorously, waiting for the world to right itself. Literally.

For Willy Wonka's suite – if 'suite' it may be called – was entirely upside down. It was also made out of glass. Almost quite.

Feeling his knees tremble, he wondered what ingredients Mr. Wonka added to his earlier candy creations. Especially that unremarkable, beige, rectangular, fizzy candy of which he just had a piece. Something must have been a hallucinogen.

The glass elevator had brought him to the end of a glass hallway, made out of a glass so fine Charlie wasn't even sure whether it was there half the time. In fact, if it weren't for the seven heavy oak doors that lined the two sides of the hallway (strangely asymmetrical, there were three on one side, and four on the other), Charlie would not have been able to rightly tell where the floor ended, and the walls began. Of course, the entire thing being upside down, meant that the doors were hinged so that the top ledge touched the ceiling, as opposed to the bottom edge resting on the floor.

And these doors – they were not comforting in themselves, to be sure. They were painted the most lurid colors of what Charlie assumed made up the rainbow (but who ever heard of a metallic magenta, or neon puce, rainbow?). The seven double doors were tall, imposing, intricately designed, and would not have looked the slightest out of place in an old Victorian villa (minus the colors). However, their presence in this glass hallway made the entire scene seem even more absurd and ludicrous.

Bad. This is bad, Charlie thought, very bad. These colours are bad.

He stole a glimpse outside, and saw grey misty clouds swirling about him. Above, around, below… He was reminded with a jolt of unhappiness how far up the elevator had taken him. These clouds were unpleasantly chilly looking, depressing, and worst of all, the movement made him sick (especially when, as far as he could tell, he felt like he wasn't standing on anything).

Charlie managed to turn a loud yelp into a much quieter wince, but couldn't keep a gulp from escaping his throat. The result was a noise that sounded much like an elephant in pain. The sound almost made him wince again.

He turned his attention quickly back to the hall, and his eyes focused on a large fountain in the smack middle of the hallway. It was brilliantly lit, and the crystal was carved in the most elaborate of angular planes, so light fairly sparkled in all directions. Upon closer examination (Charlie by this time, had taken two steps away from the elevator, and dimly behind him, heard the unmistakable – and not altogether comforting – sounds of it moving off.), he found it was a not a fountain, but rather, a crystal chandelier protruding from the floor.

You see, in his astonishment of the whole place, he had forgotten everything was upside down. Poor me, he thought. If he had considered it carefully enough, he would have found that this was the exact thing Mr. Wonka would have said upon seeing his frantic facial expression, presumably to clear things up for him.

But all it all, it was a beautiful chandelier. Even Charlie had to give it that (after he had gotten over the shock that it was a chandelier).

Gingerly, he glanced past it; half fearing what was still in store for him, half hoping that there was something to bring him back to reality. What he found, albeit very strange still, made him feel more comforted.

Probably because it wasn't glass.

Or it was right side up.

Or both.

At the end of the hallway, was a thick, velvet, purple curtain. It hung from the ceiling, and was long enough that several inches swept the glass floor beneath. Especially in comparison to the glass everything else, this seemed very rich, warm, and inviting to Charlie. He could almost feel the texture of the curtain, which he imaged, felt very much like Mr. Wonka's coats.

He was sure this was where Mr. Wonka was. The entire suite fairly screamed, "Wonka lives here", but beyond that curtain, he was sure, was the true "Mine".

Charlie took several steps towards the curtain, before hesitating, biting his lower lip. He was rather nervous. Sometimes, he didn't know what to say when his mentor sank into one of his 'moods'. This was made harder because Mr. Wonka usually didn't like people to know when he was in a particularly unpleasant mood – whether it be loneliness, anger, or frustration. Anything except pleasantly excited.

He moved towards a double door, stalling for time. And plus, he was curious as to what bizarre rooms would be behind these doors.

Gently, he tugged on both doorknobs, and the heavy looking pickle-green doors swung open without resistance.

In the middle of an empty room (and this room wasn't glass – it was very much bare with whitewashed walls), was a metal barber's chair. By the door, stood a small matching table with a pair of scissors, a comb, and a hand held mirror. Surgically bright fluorescent lights shone overhead, yet somehow, the room was dully lit. Charlie didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't that.

He closed the door quietly. The starkness of that room had been rather depressing. Really, quite unlike Mr. Wonka at all.

He looked at the next door (the metallic magenta) with slight hesitation, yet curiosity overcame him. Almost tiptoeing over, he opened the door carefully, expecting something bizarre and enchanting in this one, at least. The bright pink of the door had undoubtedly been the most eye-catching of them all.

It was Mr. Wonka's closet.

Very much a walk-in closet, it was filled with overcoats – from a bright red, to a deep plum, to black. Just pure black. It reminded Charlie of a fridge full of cherries. The effect was quite delicious, really.

That was, until Charlie caught sight of the shelves above. At first glance, it appeared to be stuffed with bright pink cotton. Or cotton candy. Or wool. Then, as he looked closely, he realized they were undoubtedly in the shape of…undergarments.

Charlie was suddenly reminded of the factory tour that day so long ago, when, in the glass elevator, they had passed by several wholly sheep. Not grazing sheep, but sheep being sheared – sheared of its heavy pink wool.

He recalled Mr. Wonka saying, with quite a nervous – or embarrassed, now that he thought about it – laugh, "Err, I'd rather not talk about this one."

Shaking with amusement, yet also slightly disturbed, Charlie quickly closed the door to Mr. Wonka's closet, deciding that he had seen more than enough. Honestly, there were some things about his mentor, he decided, which he just didn't want to know.

Turning, he found himself close enough to almost touch the curtain-at-the-end-of-the-hallway. There was nothing else for it.

He gripped the folds of the soft (oh, was it ever so soft!) material, and pulled it aside.

It was like a continuation of the hallway. The far side of the room pointed west – Charlie could tell, because through the glass wall, he could glimpse rays of the setting sun through the clouds. However, unlike the hallway, he found he wasn't afraid of the glass here. Rather, the walls and ceiling seemed strangely safe, and right, in this room. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the bed (the solitary article of furniture in the room, as far as he could tell) wasn't bolted to the ceiling.

Or perhaps it was the solid presence of the great candy maker, standing in the middle of the room. Although Mr. Wonka had never been particularly reassuring in any form or fashion, Charlie had – subconsciously, of course – grown to trust this strange and peculiar man. Wherever Mr. Wonka was, it must be all right.

He was facing away from Charlie at the moment, so all Charlie could see was his straight (Mr. Wonka never slouched), angular back, and his weird brown haircut partially covered by his hat. His posture looked quite relaxed, yet Charlie sensed that a tension that surged through his body, creating a painful sense of struggle.

For a man would hated anything still and silent, Mr. Wonka was standing both very eerily motionless and noiseless, at the moment.

"Good evening, Little Boy. The Earth says hello."

Charlie stared. Mr. Wonka had relived an old greeting – their very first greeting, at that – in what he assumed was an attempt to break the ice. The effect, however, was quite different. This time, there was no accompanying giggle, nor brilliant displays of pyrotechnics. In fact, ironically, Mr. Wonka wasn't using cue cards this time, but his voice was definitely more mechanical, and (Charlie could barely associate Mr. Wonka with this word) calm.

Yet it had the desired effect on Charlie. He found himself opening his sealed lips and blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

"This room isn't upside down."

Willy Wonka inclined his head so that he could probably see Charlie out of the corner of his eye. "It isn't. No. Of course not." Charlie could hear that his mentor was smiling – however slightly. "Do you expect me to strap myself into my bed? And all the blood would rush into my head, making me all dizzy and… red. That's what hanging from the ceiling does to you, you know."

"Well… I suppose, not really, I mean, it wouldn't be – "

"Yeah. It wouldn't be comfortable at all, you mean. Plus, then I would have to look down there at night. At all the streets and buildings and shops and people and – stuff…"

Mr. Wonka's voice grew a bit uncertain before fading into silence yet again.

It was a pity that Charlie didn't look down at this point, because if he had, it would have saved him a painful snub of the big toe. Alas, he was looking thoughtfully at Mr. Wonka, instead. As it was, he took a step towards the other man (although what he wanted to accomplished by that, even he didn't know.)

"Mr. Wonka, you've – " He started. It was cut off by a painful 'Ouch'. Charlie's big toe had made contact – very painfully, at that – with something hard and metal, which was sticking out from the floor.

"Ouch!" Wonka echoed with vague empathy. "That sounded like it hurt."

Charlie barely heard him. He stared at the obstacle in his way. On the elegant glass floor, sprawled like a huge rug, was a framed painting. Not just any painting. Nestled in its golden frame, against a brilliant black background, was depicted a giant set of dentures. The teeth were lily white, surrounded by thin pink lips.

The effect would have been quite grotesquely repugnant, had the mouth not been smiling – a wonderful, warm and fuzzy, cheerful smile.

"What – " He began, and felt he needed to take a breather before continuing. "What," he tried again, "is that?"

"What is that? Oh, that? I believe that's the sunset. Yeah. It's quite nice today – so nice you almost can't see it, see? Oh. That, you mean."

Wonka had finally turned around. "That – well. It's a painting." Then, as if he had just realized that wasn't the type of answer Charlie was looking for, continued. "It's a present, Little Boy. Was. It was a present."

"Oh. For you?"

"Nnnnoo, it's mine. It's from me."

Charlie didn't see how this made an iota of sense. "It's from you, for you?" Then, seeing Mr. Wonka's slight frown, added, "I mean, you had it made for yourself?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, Little Boy. Actually…" Willy Wonka brought his deep purple gloves together, and Charlie saw that he was trying to hide the fact that he was trembling.

Seeing Mr. Wonka thus distressed, he stepped around the painting, closer to the other man. Although they weren't touching (nothing would have distressed Mr. Wonka more), he hoped it would make the other man feel more secure.

"Actually what?" He prompted.

"I- I made it for – for him."

"Him?" Charlie asked, as if the emphasis made all the difference in the world.

"Yeah. Him. You know. Him. Him." Seeing Charlie raise his eyebrows, he made another effort and tried again, "My d-d-d-… my – my…"

"Dad", Charlie finally finished, as Mr. Wonka clearly couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Yes, yes, him."

Charlie smiled, feeling a sudden surge of warmth and affection for this man. Mr. Wonka might be a genius (quite an aloof one, at that), insane, mad, totally ignorant and very socially unaccepted – yet he thought he had never met anyone more considerate.

"Well, why didn't you give it to him?"

Sometimes Charlie wasn't the most tactful person. And Mr. Wonka wasn't the most receptive or observant person, but he did understand that.

"I couldn't give it to him – not by myself. I couldn't visit him alone. It's scary, you know. And then I thought and thought about it, and made up my mind to do it – to go see him, I mean. I think I wanted him to like me. (And here our dear Willy Wonka looked aghast at the thought.) But then, well, he was gone, just like that, wasn't he?"

"Oh." In his guilt that he had forgotten yet again, that was all Charlie could bring himself to say. Although he was somewhat relieved to see that his mentor didn't look all that upset. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry. Are you… doing well?"

Mr. Wonka looked at him, lips slightly parted in thought. He waited, assessing and expectant. This wasn't what Charlie wanted to say, and they both knew it.

"Mr. Wonka…" He collected his muddled wits. "You've been hiding from us – all week." He accused gently.

"Nuh-uh. No I haven't." Willy Wonka defended before he could help it.

Charlie raised his eyebrows.

A helpless giggle. "You know it's really weird when you do that? You really shouldn't do that, you know. Don't. Don't talk like that."

Charlie raised his eyebrows further still.

"Urgh. Fine. Though I hope you know I still don't like it."

He seemed to be struggling with himself. His eyes lost their bright focus on his protégé, and he muttered almost silently to himself. Charlie thought he caught words like, "should be time…", "he said I should…" and "I do, really, I want to…".

Curiously, Charlie waited a moment, then two. When over ten minutes had passed, and Willy Wonka had no apparent intention of explaining himself, he asked tentatively. "Mr. Wonka? What is it?"

He felt the violet gaze focus on him once more. A long moment later, Willy Wonka said in a calm (again? Charlie thought.) and unnaturally (thus unsettling) soft voice, "I think I'm going to give you something, first. I think you've won." He sounded particularly surprised at hearing the words come out of his own mouth

"Won? Won what?" Charlie asked, genuinely confused.

Slowly, the great candy maker reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a large, metal object.

A key.

He held it out. It was larger than his palm; it's shiny gold contrasting sharply with Mr. Wonka's purple glove.

Charlie reached for it. It was heavier than it looked, and the metal rested hard and cold against his hand. He traced the large, flourished 'W' slowly, and felt Mr. Wonka's eyes following it. He had realized what it was.

He had seen this key before. It wasn't used for anything, really, but it stood for much. Everything, in fact.

This was the key. THE key.

In his hand, was the key to Mr. Wonka's chocolate factory.