A/Ns: Sorry this was so late. I was sick, and then things kept popping up faster then I could beat them down, and yeah. Here it is. Mea culpa. The next chapter will be along posthaste.
Also, the charming and talented Lady Yatexel did a rather lovely illustration for this chapter, which can be found here: www. deviantart. com/ deviation/ 21305807 /. Her gallery proper can be found at this address: ladyyatexel. deviantart. com /. Everyone, go tell her how wonderful she is. Remove the spaces to make the hyperlink valid, you know the drill.
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She wakes up in the morning, a pain in her jet-black head
Decaf coffee in her hands and a Marlboro Red
She drives down to the office in her Japanese car
With her radio blasting, she dreams of taking it too far
Today she'll pay the bills
She won't think about the thrills that pass away
- "All-American Girl," Melissa Etheridge
Sara woke late her first morning in her new apartment, stretching and turning over to stare out the small window at the street. Late September sunshine poured through leaves already beginning to go brown and gold around the edges, and she smiled sleepily at the sight of a young woman chasing a little boy – her brother, possibly, or her charge – down the street. The boy was carrying a book that must have been the older girl's, judging from the way he was waving it at her while running backwards and laughing.
Charlie had never had the chance to tease her that way. By the time she was old enough to look after him she was long crippled…
The memory left a sour taste in her mouth and she frowned as she climbed out of bed, the serenity of the early morning shattered. Sara closed the curtains and went into the small bathroom to prepare for the day.
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The first order of business was buying groceries. There was a small shop only a block and a half away from her apartment house; as being crippled and car-less made her ability to shift large amounts of groceries long distances, this had been a major factor in her taking the apartment. Even so, she would only be able to carry a bag or two and would have to make at least a trip a day, something she had no particular problem with. It wasn't like she'd have anything else to do.
The shop was terribly small, but it was clean and had the basics; Sara was a competent cook, and her apartment's kitchen was more then adequate. The proprietor was a short, rotund Mediterranean man who sat behind the cash register with an expression of dulled interest on his face. Sara paid for her groceries by cheque, and the man's face lit up slightly when he read her name.
"Bucket? Any relation to that boy?"
Sara paused.
"…No. No relation at all, I'm afraid."
It seemed best not to draw attention to herself.
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A cold wind began to blow as she walked home, her groceries on one hand and she hurried along, head bowed and cane tapping a rough staccato beat against the pavement. A few leaves drifted past her, and not for the first time she wondered at how swiftly fall and winter set in to the city; it was almost as if the place couldn't wait to die.
The warmth of the building came as a great relief and she took the steeps stairs up to her landing carefully, leaning heavily on her cane. She stopped to catch her breath before opening the door, then began the intricate juggling process of getting out her keys and finding the right one, only to drop the whole ring on the floor. Sara said a very rude word in French and began to kneel to pick them up.
A hand, much swifter then her own, picked them upfor her and she straightened to find herself looking directly into a pair of soft blue eyes.
"Are these yours?"
"Um… yes."
He smiled at her and handed them back. His hair was blonde – he was average-looking, with a kind smile.
"I'm Arthur Harrington – I live on the fourth floor. Are you the new tenant?"
"Yes. Sara Bucket."
"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Bucket. Can I help you with your things?"
"Oh – yes, if you don't mind, that would be very helpful. Thank you."
"No problem," he said, taking the bag from her. She opened the door without any trouble this time and took her groceries back.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrington."
"Call me Arthur."
"…Very well. Arthur. And please, call me Sara."
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Willy Wonka had no idea what to do. This was fairly unusual; there had, of course, been points in his life where he had been faced with such a question, but usually he had an answer within a few moments of thought. The situation he now found himself in was, however, one entirely beyond the scope of his experience.
He wanted Sara to come back. Specifically, he wanted Sara to come back and be happy to see him, and understand that he hadn't meant – had definitely not – done that thing she'd said he'd done. He hadn't. Well, maybe he had, but he hadn't meant to, and he'd been influenced by the drink just as she had and it never would have happened if he hadn't drunk it with her, so there!
He'd only wanted her to smile for him!
Everything had gone so dreadfully wrong…
There had to be a solution. There generally was, somewhere. That was one of the very few useful things his father had taught him, that you could generally find an answer to any question if you just looked hard enough, only the problem was that he had no idea where to look –
Willy came up short in front of a bookshelf and turned away to resume pacing.
Then he turned back.
Of course!
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The first arrangement was delivered to Sara's apartment exactly a week after she'd moved out of the factory, almost to the hour. The flowers had no card, and when Sara demanded some hint of the sender's identity, the deliveryman just shrugged and said that the order was placed directly to the store, by telephone, and he didn't know any more then she did. Reluctantly, Sara took the flowers – azalea and purple heather – and found some water for them, putting them on the windowsill in her bedroom.
When all's said and done, they were rather pretty.
The next arrangement came a week later, just as the old one was beginning to wither. The azaleas were absent, replaced with honeysuckle, though the heather remained. A third came her third week in her apartment, then a fourth, and so on until November. Had Sara been paying attention, she would have noted that while there were slight differences in each bouquet, the meanings of the flowers used followed a common theme: admiration, affection, and concern for her welfare. When she was hired by the Landons in mid-October, they came accompanied by a spray of clover, which she dimly remembered were lucky flowers; that was all the note she took of their meaning.
In the second week of November, the pattern changed.
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Sara hurried up the stairs to her apartment, bunching her skirt up in the hand that gripped her cane so as not to trip over it. She's been held late by the Landons – they were wonderful people, but she sometimes got the feeling they existed in a completely different world then she did, one where crippled women without a car never had any problems getting home during rush hour.
The deliveryman had already been and gone, as was evident by the slender vase left just to the right of her door. Sara said a word her parents would be shocked to hear her use. Whoever the mystery flower-sender was, they sent a vase with every bouquet; at the rate it was going she'd have more vases then glasses by New Years. The flowers this time were a deep purple hyacinth and a dark pink rose, the edges fading to red.
Next to the vase was a chocolate bar.
A Wonka chocolate bar.
Sara's breath caught. Whoever they were… they couldn't know. Could they? There was no way –
She gathered up the flowers in one hand and gingerly picked up the chocolate with the other, carrying both into her apartment. The flowers she set down on the coffee table; the chocolate she carried with her groceries into the kitchen.
If she had looked out the window just then, she would have seen a very familiar figure in a velvet coat and top hat standing outside and craning his neck to see in her window. But she didn't.
The doorbell rang. Sara left off putting her groceries away, ignoring the chocolate bar, and went to answer it. Arthur from upstairs was standing there, grinning sheepishly.
"Ah. Sara. My mother visited today, and you know how mothers are always convinced you still need taking care of, no matter how old you are?"
"I am familiar with the phenomenon, yes."
Arthur held up what must have been a year's supply of cookies.
"Would you mind helping me eat these?"
Sara looked at him carefully. It seemed odd to her that he would show up immediately after the flowers. And if she looked back over the past month or so, he had been an almost constant presence – not obtrusive, certainly, but always on the periphery.
Whichstill didn't explain the chocolate.
Hadn't she mentioned to him in passing that her little brother had been fond of them? Glossing over the larger truth of the matter, of course, in keeping with her policy of not drawing attention to herself, but she had mentioned it. And that her grandfather once worked in the famous factory.
Arthur wasn't bad-looking, either.
Sara smiled briefly.
"Of course. Please, come in"
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Willy was able to see most of the kitchen from his position, but not the living room; therefore he missed the exchange between Sara and Arthur. He did see her lead him into the kitchen, and could hear them talking, as she'd left the window open a little bit to let in the night air. The small alley between townhouses where he stood was small but mostly clean, and thankfully lacking the usual strange, unidentifiable smells that tend to linger in alleys. The only light came from Sara's kitchen window and the pale glow of the streetlamp just outside the entrance; the lamplight served mostly to backlight the glass elevator, which he'd parked on the sidewalk. It was slightly less cold in the lee of the building then it was out on the street – at least here he was protected from the wind.
They didn't speak much at first, exchanging meaningless pleasantries about work and the weather while Sara set the small table for an impromptu and very, very late tea. Without quite noticing, Willy took his hat off and began playing with the brim as he watched. His neck was craned at just awkward enough an angle to be uncomfortable, but it wasn't nearly as discomforting as watching Sara with Arthur was. The urges he was getting with regard to the other man were very unlike him, especially the one that involved introducing him to a half-starved Vermicious Knid. Or possibly tying him to a tree in Loompaland and letting the whangdoodles get him.
As the kettle began to boil, Arthur noticed the Wonka bar, still lying meekly on the kitchen table.
"Oh, d'you like those?"
That's a very stupid question. Everyone loves my chocolate. I would never ask such a stupid question.
Sara got up to deal with the kettle as she responded.
"Honestly? No. I've never been overly fond of sweets, unlike my brother. Do you want it?"
"Not really. I haven't got the stomach for them either."
"Oh well."
And in one smooth motion, Sara picked up the chocolate bar as she poured out their tea, turned around and set the kettle back on the stove, then dropped the bar into the trash.
Willy nearly crushed his hat as the blood drained from his face. He hadn't just seen that. Had he? He couldn't have. She didn't…?
She did. She had.
And now she was smiling! Admittedly not the smile he'd seen before, the one that made her light up, but it was definitely a smile. The blonde man had said something that probably wasn't even very witty and she was smiling because of it! And she was laughing a little! And now their hands were touching, probably by accident but he wasn't pulling away and neither was she –
Willy felt sick. And strangely achy in the chest region. Furthermore, his head was filled with bizarre thoughts, most of which involved storming into her apartment and committing acts of violence against that visibly extremely dull and unexciting and mundane blonde… person. Who wasn't even very good looking! At the same time, though, he also wanted to crawl into his room and never come out again, while an even stranger urge to take Sara back to the factory and simply never let her leave again was quickly suppressed.
Obviously his former strategy was not working.
Luckily, he was fairly sure he knew what to do. According to what he'd read, there was still a way to fix this…
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The next day, Sara found a letter leaning against a vase holding a single yellow jonquil. Her admirer had never sent a card or note with the flowers before this, and though you'd never get her to admit it, Sara's hands trembled a little with excitement as she opened it.
Please meet me at eight o' clock tomorrow evening.
The address give was that of a fairly exclusive restaurant in the city proper, noted for its ability to provide the diner – should they be able to afford it – with complete isolation in a private room while they dined. Menus were worked out in advance and the food was pre-served, or if multiple courses were to be used, brought up by dumbwaiters. The card was unsigned, but had a number which the sender indicated she was to give the maitre'd.
It seemed odd that Arthur would surround their first meeting with so much secrecy. Then again, maybe he wanted to try and keep her guessing until the last minute. Obviously he had no idea she'd already figured it out.
I shall have to be appropriately shocked and surprised.
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Her initial impression of the restaurant was glitter. In stark contrast to the darkness outside – with the advent of winter, night crashed down earlier and heavier on the city every day – the interior of the restaurant shone and sparkled, light glinting off crystal and polished metal, stopping just short of overwhelming as it was absorbed by the rich carpeting and velvet hangings. Sara straightened her spine even more and gripped the handle of her cane. She would not be intimidated by the richness of her surroundings. Society's upper echelons could only exist because of people like her, people who worked day in and day out on their employers' behalf. She was the equal of any of them.
Still, she was glad that her sole piece of formal wear – a burgundy dress she had purchased on a whim (it was on sale) – did not seem completely out of place. It was true that most of the women her age chose to bear quite a bit of skin, but despite her comparatively high neckline and long sleeves, no one so much as glanced her way. The maitre'd who led her to the room number indicated on the card did so with perfect courtesy, and therefore she concluded that she was not too obviously an outsider.
She only had a few moments to admire the room – decorated in gentle, unobtrusive creams and beiges, with only a few splashes of blue here and there – before the door shut behind her and a nervous, slightly high-pitched voice greeted her.
"Um. Hi?"
The voice was not Arthur's. Indeed, it was the farthest thing from. She recognized it immediately – how could she not, when she kept hearing it in her dreams as she was forced to relive that night? The memories always faded in the morning, but the voice stayed with her…
Mr. Wonka!