Gah...sorry this took so long. I'm not really happy with this chapter at all, my muse has been completely useless lately unless it has to do with Phantom of the Opera. So I do apologise for any errors, grammatical, spelling, or Mary-sue, and I humbly submit to any and all helpful suggestions. weeps at lack of own talent, lately

Nicole attempted to arrange the covers around her in a comfortable manner, fidgeting slightly as she tried to untangle her legs. Her efforts, however, seemed to be in vain, and when she glanced over at her host, Wonka was giggling mercurially. She pouted slightly and protested, "They're grabbing me!"

"Yes," he said, his eyes lighting up like strange blue lamps,"They will do that. I designed them that way, do you like them?"

Eventually Nicole managed to beat the unruly bedclothes into submission, and they snuggled into her legs affectionately. "Well, they are rather frustrating..."

At this, Wonka frowned, his eyes extinguishing themselves as quickly as they had lit, "I see. I don't move a whit in my sleep, but I always enjoy untangling myself in the morning, so I invented these self-wrapping bed covers...I suppose I didn't realise that it wasn't a universal pleasure."

Nicole found herself infinitely sorry that she had said anything, and she offered up a sad smile as a sacrifice. "It's lovely, Mr. Wonka," she said, sincerely, and at this her host smiled most charmingly, bringing her heart back up from her stomach like a thoughtful winch.

The night passed without much event. Nicole found that she felt terribly cheeky, having asked to stay the night again, and she wondered perhaps if she'd overstepped her boundaries. But he had allowed it, so she wouldn't complain. Not that she would, in any case. She found that she really did enjoy spending her nights in Wonka's cushy bed, with a warm, masculine form just next to her. He was almost fatherly, except that Nicole all ready had a father, and did not need another.

Her cheeks tinted pink whenever she thought of exactly what was happening. She was in bed with a man, a grown man! It seemed so scandalous, when in reality, it could not have been more innocent. She chuckled slightly, almost inaudibly, and pressed her face into the pillow with glee. Her small hands had entwined around the satiny edging on Wonka's blanket, and the pillow smelled of milk chocolate and hazelnut, lulling her to sleep with its sugary soft lullaby.

The young girl was sleeping, now. He could tell because of the pattern of her breaths. He hadn't been intending to, but he'd been subconsciously monitoring them, for lack of anything better to do. Wakefulness would not allow his eyes to shut and his brain to turn off. Wonka was used to being unable to sleep, but usually because of inspiration. But he wasn't inspired, now...just restless. He rolled over, taking great pains not to move Nicole, and faced her. She was lying the opposite way, with her back to him, and her torso contracted and expanded with every sweet breath she drew.

Wonka had never had children of his own. He had never married. As a matter of fact, he hadn't had so much as a girlfriend since University. He'd become a sort of father to many children over the years, albeit a distant and eccentric one...and now he had the opportunity to be one up-close (though admittedly still eccentric), but he wasn't sure paternal was how he felt toward the slightly chubby girl snoring lightly in his bed. Friendly, more like. He did not really see Nicole as a child, but more of an equal, merely a good friend. Granted, she was childlike in many respects, and it was because of this that he allowed her to spend the night in his bed. Where as with a grown woman, it was simply not done; but Nicole was still young enough to be a child for this reason. She seemed to be becoming the exception to every rule, and much to Wonka's amazement, she did not seem to be trying to do so. She would be less likeable if she had.

He very slowly reached out, and patted Nicole's head lightly. She cooed, and Wonka smiled to himself. He closed his eyes and, wondering what on earth sugar plums were and how he could make them dance, eventually persuaded sleep to visit him.

Nicole awoke to a small, concerned face. An Oompa Loompa. It smiled at her as it saw her awaken, and bade her to rise. It was time for her to leave. She turned as she stood, and looked at the prostrate form of William Wonka, still sleeping, on the bed. His head was half-off the pillow, and the blankets were hopelessly tangled about his legs, smug in the puzzle they would present to their owner in the morning.

"Miss Nicole, hurry up, the sun is almost up!"

Nicole snapped out of her reverie, and smiled at the Oompa. "Oh, I'm sorry. Thank Mr. Wonka for me when he wakes, please?"

"Of course. Shall I tell him you'll be back tomorrow?"

"You may tell him - Oh, where is my other shoe? Oh, thank you - You may tell him that - oof! - Er...what was the question again?"

"Shall you be back tomorrow?"

"Oh. Er, yes, if he likes," Nicole replied, not entirely awake yet. If she'd been entirely awake, she might have caught the strange look in the factory worker's eye, the keen smile on his face.

"Then we shall expect you."

Nicole was having a hard time focusing on her schoolwork. Maths numbers swam in front of her eyes, their numeric monotony melting under her gaze into darkest chocolate, swirling and tempting, liquid potential just begging to be tasted...Nicole reached out a greedy finger to catch some up...

"Miss Heltquist?"

Nicole's head jerked up to look at the face of her maths instructor, who was wearing a most peculiar expression. She blanched timidly and shook her head, mouth opened in horror. "I don't know the answer, I'm sorry!"

"No, no...nevermind the apology. What was that about Wonka chocolates?"

Nicole's eyes widened to match those of her classmates, all trained on her. She felt a blush beginning deep in her stomach, then spreading out across her skin, a burning pink that claimed her face. She'd been talking in her sleep? What had she said?

"N-nothing...I'm sorry. I'm very fond of chocolate..." She mumbled.

"Yeah, that's obvious, fatso," one unkind boy a few seats away whispered, though not quietly enough that Nicole could not hear him. Her blush strengthened.

"No...no...you said something about getting into the factory. What was that about a...a whatsit...a hobbling rabbit?" Her teacher's eager and credulous eyes bored into her.

"I don't know...I expect I was dreaming. I don't remember saying anything!" she protested and finally her professor subsided into obvious disappointment, and reprimanded her for falling asleep in class and getting everyone's hopes up. Nicole vowed never to do it again, and, unlike most children who fall asleep in class, reallymeant it.

Wonka was having a hard time focusing on his book. It wasn't that it wasn't interesting, but...he was just distracted. He wondered if she was on her way, now. The sun had gone down about half an hour (possibly less, Wonka was impatient) ago. Surely she should be here by now, shouldn't she? She should be here!

He needed his gloves back. He had spares, of course...but those had been his father's. And, well, all right, he didn't get on with his father, but it was the principle of the thing. They were his gloves, and he wanted them back. Yes, that was certainly what he was impatient about. He definitely wanted those gloves. Definitely.

Wonka bookmarked his page (he would never do anything so heinous as to dog-ear one of his beloved tomes) and set the book on the bed beside him. He shook his head and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine. Why wasn't she here? He needed the gloves! Wonka began to fret, rubbing his gloveless hands together wretchedly.

Now, why had he given her the gloves in the first place? Certainly it wasn't at all required. He didn't care if her friends knew that she'd gotten in. No, not even if she wanted to impress them. After all, why would he want anyone to know that his factory was less than impregnable? Just because she seemed so nice...and he knew she wanted very much to prove that to her friends...And why should he care about how she felt? She had trespassed onto his property, and imposed upon him for lodging and hot chocolate and company two nights in a row, and...

And yet, Wonka didn't seem to mind. He hadn't been lying when he'd said it got lonely. And she seemed to be nice enough, honest by nature. It also may have had something to do with the fact that while he could sometimes be slightly grumpy and occasionally downright ornery when his temper flared, he was a generous soul at heart. And, of course, his soft spot for charming, well-read children (so few about these days, sigh...) contributed.

And, a small, smug part of him piped up, Now you know she'll come back tonight...

Wonka shook his head. He hadn't meant to think that.

And in the meantime, you've got her sweater.

At this, Wonka actually recoiled in offense to his own mind. Surely this was all nonsense! Wonka had always prided himself on his visible lack of what was generally considered sanity, but this was getting ridiculous. He couldn't possibly have just thought that. She was just a child, for heaven's sake!

Wonka chided himself thoroughly and looked back at the small, innocuous black sweater sitting beside him on the bed. It seemed to be watching him. He turned his gaze from it, but he still knew it was there. It's probably still warm, he thought to himself, against his will. It probably smells like her.

He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, as if it might move on its own. Honestly, Wonka didn't trust it not to. Perhaps it was putting these strange thoughts in his head...

At that, even Wonka had to admit that he was going a bit far. It was a sweater. Wonka knew magic when he saw it, and the only magic that sweater held was to keep a particularly nice young girl warm in the cold weather. He reached out and petted it, slightly. It was obscenely soft, and he couldn't stop himself stroking the fabric lovingly between his fingers. Wonka was a sensual person...Hmm, no, perhaps it would be better stated to call him "sensory." He loved the feel of soft or smooth things, hence his incurable attraction to velvet, silk and satin.

He loathed lace.

The cotton blend of the fabric called out to some deep part of him and his hands, unbidden, brought the cloth to rub against his cheek. Despite himself, he gave a little sigh and smiled. It was so terribly soft, and it did smell nice...

Suddenly Wonka felt like a pervert. He opened his drawer hurriedly to shove it inside, but realised too late that he'd grabbed the wrong drawer. The terrible din started for the second time in two days, and he screamed in startlement before slamming it shut, throwing the sweater across the room, and violently tossing himself onto his bed and covering his head with a pillow.

He panted for a moment and allowed his nerves to smooth themselves out before emerging into the light of the lamp again. About twelve Oompa Loompas were standing around his bed in a neat half-circle, looking at Wonka with concern. He let out another cry of surprise and twitched, slightly, but relaxed almost immediately afterwards. One of his workers stepped forward wordlessly and handed Wonka a cup of hot tea. He took it, sipped it, and sighed. They always knew.

"Thank you, Nobby," Wonka said with a smile, "My nerves were getting the better of me."

"You had ought to stop working so hard, Mr. Wonka."

"Hmm," said Wonka,swallowing a mouthful of tea, "Perhaps so. Do not let me detain you."

As he waved his hand in a kind dismissal, it was almost magical the way the Oompas disappeared. Wonka smiled slightly, and leaned back onto his cushions. He turned to look beside him for his book, but saw that in its place was Nicole's sweater.

The china Wonka held clattered together, and a bit of tea fell into his lap. How had that gotten there...? Obviously one of the Oompas had retrieved it and put it back on the bed, while he was under the pillow. That must have been it. Obviously the sweater couldn't have gotten there by itself! Was he going mad?

"Oh well," he sighed, nudging the sweater away slightly, "At least I'm not talking to myself."

The irony of that statement sunk in. Perhaps I really am crazy... Wonka thought, deliberately internally. Then:

Oh goodness, Wonka realised with a shock, I'm thinking like an adult.

Wonka took a long draught of tea. He needed it.

When the soft knock-knock at the door finally came, nearly a half-hour later, Wonka's nerves were just about frayed through. He sprung up and flew to the door, opening it with a genuine smile and a bob of his head.

"Good evening, Miss - oh, my...My dear, whatever can be the matter?" Wonka's demeanor instantly changed, and he put a reassuring hand on the sniffling Nicole's shoulder.

Nicole did not reply, only looked down at the floor in dejection and shame. Even as Wonka's comforting touch massaged her shoulder, she could not bear to look at him. She wasn't sure how she'd even managed to make it all the way to the factory. She probably wouldn't have, surrendering her sweater to him, if she hadn't told the Oompa specifically that she would return.

"My dear, why are you crying?" A hand found Nicole's chin, and tilted her face upwards. Wonka's face hovered far above hers, concerned and framed with dark brown hair that it would be redundant to describe as chocolate. Her tears obscured his face rather a lot, but it didn't soften the blow his two brightly blue eyes gave Nicole. She turned away and shamefully reached into the pocket of her dress.

When her hand returned, it contained a single lavendar glove, marked with the letter 'W'. And only the one.She held it out to Wonka, who took it, gingerly, and inspected it rather like a birthday boy would inspect a deflated balloon. His face creased itself into a look of reluctant disappointment. She knew he was upset, and didn't want to be. He wanted to think highly of her, at least as much as she wanted him to, and somehow that was worse than when she thought he would shout at her.

"Oh," he said, at length, and this single syllable sent an alphabet of tears rushing down Nicole's sorrowful face.

"I don't know what happened, Mr. Wonka!" she cried, "I had them both, I did, and I kept checking to make sure that they were both there, but just an hour ago...I'm so sorry!"

His gloves! His favourite pair! How could he have been so stupid? Wonka was a trusting soul, by nature, though he had often learned, the hard way, that trusting souls often meet misfortune. But he'd really believed that Nicole would be responsible...would take care of these gloves the way they deserved... He was hurt, and angry, and to top it all off, now hisright hand would be cold, too.

Wonka held the glove like a baby bird who had fallen out of its nest, and looked at the tearful young lady before him. He wanted to comfort Nicole, but hadn't he specifically told her...?

Something inside Wonka slapped him. They're gloves! Fabricated objects! Nicole is a living, breathing, feeling being, and she is hurting. Isn't that more important than gloves? Yes, even more important than your favourite gloves. You have more pairs, after all!

The glove was suddenly on the nightstand, unattended, and Nicole's tear-stained face was buried in the plush contours of Wonka's dressing gown. His hands rubbed her back gently, assuringly

"Hush, my darling, there, there. No need to cry. I have more gloves," he soothed.

"B-but those were your favourites! Your father gave them to you!" Nicole wailed.

"Shhh, shh...It's of no consequence. I don't get on with my father, anyway. Do stop crying. Here, I'll send for some hot chocolate."