A/Ns: Ah yes… the cute. It is, at long last, here. The chapters are coming rather quickly now, because it's more fun to write them this way then when they're on the outs… anyway. The author cannot be held responsible for any cavities that may come as a result of reading this chapter.
Also, Copenhagen? Best. Play. EVAR. At least of the last decade. Go see it. I command you.

Lum: …Sara's thirty years old, give or take a few months. I'm not sure what you mean by "act her age," exactly. She's an adult, and is behaving as one.

SpadesJades: I regret to inform you that your curiosity must remain unsated for the foreseeable future, as I have no intention of describing the exact events of The Night. I might do it as a laugh to show to my friends, but I will not post it publicly; however, should I decide to write it for my own personal amusement, you will receive a copy. Just don't hold your breath.

Tool of a Higher Power: …Okay, I bite. What made you shiver about her almost beating the crap out of him?

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When I get this feeling,
It's hard for me to come back down
And I know I could be
That everything you need
And I know this could be
A freefall back to me

- "It's About You," Train

The audience rose to its feet as one entity as the three actors came out to take their final bows. The applause rebounded throughout the small theatre, roaring like thunder and Willy Wonka winced and covered his ears, stealing a glance at Sara. She was standing with the rest of them, albeit unsteadily due to not being able to clap and hold her cane at the same time, looking as if she'd just emerged from a trance and clapping until her hands stung. His heart lept a little when he realized that she was smiling – it wasn't quite the smile he'd been looking for, but it was so very close. It still wasn't directed at him, though.
But he was getting there.

This was the first major outing he'd been able to brave since the dinner two weeks ago. He had wanted to do thing the way the books said to, but he could only stand so much time in public, and no matter how carefully he ensured no one would see him, there was still the chance that someone would find out who he was and then the whole media circus would start up again. And there was the additional concern that this time Sara would be caught up in it, and he didn't want that. She was a very private person.

Though… if the media started hounding her, she'd have to come back to the factory. He rather liked that idea – except it would probably upset her.

In the interim, they'd written to each other. He was bad at talking over the phone; actually even worse then he was at speaking face-to-face, so they'd sent notes back and forth. Sometimes he would send flowers with the notes, but never more then that. The books said they didn't know each other well enough yet for him to send anything else.

This evening, though, he'd found that when he was with Sara it was somehow easier to be outside the factory. It still made him nervous to be so far away from the machines, and even more nervous to leave Charlie in charge (because while the boy was wonderfully gifted, he didn't like to think of what would happen if there was a real emergency while he was gone) – but somehow he was less nervous then he'd expected to be. Being with Sara seemed to calm him down.

He hadn't understood the play they'd seen – Copenhagen – apparently, it was about these two men and a woman, who was married to one of them, and they'd met sometime during World War II and been colleagues before it and the atomic bomb was in there somewhere, but he couldn't figure out how it all connected. Normally he'd leave, but every time he glanced over at Sara she'd seemed completely enthralled, so he'd sighed and gone back to trying to figure it out. Now she turned to him while they waited for the theatre to empty so that they could leave without drawing attention to themselves, still smiling faintly. It faded as she studied him for a moment, looking for something – and then the searching expression was gone.

"Did you enjoy the play?"
"Um. It was nice."
"…you didn't understand a word of it, did you?"

Her voice was rich with amusement; her face softened into something that was almost, but not entirely, a smile. It was more like her mouth turned up just a little at the edges; still, with the soft lights of the theatre behind her, it seemed almost like she was glowing... and the way her hair was bound loosely on the back of her head was really very nice, with strands left to tumble down her neck…
She looked oddly at him.

"Do I have something on my face?"
"What? No."
"Then what's wrong."
"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. It was nice. I like spending time with you; that was nice. The rest isn't that important."
"…I see. That's rather a compliment, Mr. Wonka. Thank you."
"It's the truth…"

He really does have marvelous eyes, Sara couldn't help thinking. Not exactly brown, but they can't be any other color… Though she could almost convince herself that they were a very dark purple of some shade; and they kept shifting. Sometimes there was nothing there, and then there would be a change and they'd deepen or sharpen – you never really knew…

Moving almost in unison, they broke off eye contact. Willy began to study the box decorations with great industry, while Sara simply stared at her hands, a light flush of color spreading across her pale skin.

"We should probably be going now. It's getting late."
"Yeah… Um. Sara?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind… um. What exactly was the play about?"

To his immense surprise, Sara laughed. It wasn't entrancingly bell-like or anything like that – it was more like a soft alto chuckle, gentle and engaging… She should laugh more.

"Well, it's about two physicists who were good friends before World War II – they learned from each other, built off each other's discoveries, and respected each other very much…"

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"…anyway. While that's the premise, I feel the actual story isn't about the physicists at all so much as our own limited sight. They say it quite clearly in the dialogue – you cannot see the space you inhabit. Each person can only filter events through their own prejudices, formed by their experiences and most importantly, their responses to those experiences; and as each person experiences different things and responds differently, no two stories are alike but all are true. Truth is nothing more then the places were individual perceptions overlap."
"Do you think that's right?"

Sara frowned in thought.

"I honestly don't know. I would like to think there are some certainties and undeniable truths in life, but I can't offer any proofs that there are."
"Oh."

The park the two were walking through was silent and dark, the trees bare of all but the last straggling leaves. The theatre loomed behind them, a solid stone monolith, and close-set streetlamps along the paved stone path plunged the area immediately beyond the walkway into darkness. Despite the limited visibility, Sara felt… safe. It was true that they were almost asking to be mugged or worse, but Mr. Wonka seemed not to even consider it a possibility and she was strangely reassured by his confident obliviousness. They were walking quite closely, but not touching; every time they came close, one or the other would ease away.

Willy had found himself drawn into her explanation of the play despite himself. She was very passionate about things like that, if the light flush across her skin and gesturing were any indication. He kept leaning in towards her, but he would always edge away at the last minute, afraid of something he couldn't name. Though he still wanted it, whatever it was… it was maddening, wanting and not-wanting at the same time. She paused, digging her cane into the stone, and turned to face him.

"Take you, for example. You don't see the world like anyone – surely you know that."

He had to nod.

"And yet, for you, what you see is what is. It's your truth. In your world, there is such a thing as a happily ever after, a fairytale – as magic and miracles."

She seemed to sigh heavily and looked away.

"You… believe. As does Charlie. You don't endlessly weigh the consequences of your actions, you just go ahead and do it because as you see it – in your truth – having good intentions and being a good person is enough. And somehow the world falls into like with your expectations… you have faith."

She walked a few steps away from him, back the way they'd came. He thought he saw her free arm – the one not holding her cane – wrap around her torso as she stared off into the distance and he got the distinct feeling that she wasn't talking to him anymore.

"I do not…"

He was equally sure she hadn't meant for him to hear that. Sara cleared her throat and turned back to him.

"As you have doubtless gathered," she said briskly, "I do not share the same decadent, happy-go-lucky view of the world. My own is so ingrained that if I tried to live life as you and Charlie do – always flitting about from one thing to the next, never thinking about how those around me would be affected and simply trusting all would work out in the end – I would fail, because that is not my truth."

He came up to her, purposefully going closer then he ever had before. Only a few inches separated them now… he wasn't sure why he was pushing her boundries, but he wanted to be close to her, just for the sake of being near her and also to identify whatever perfume she was wearing. Or maybe it was a lotion. He couldn't quite tell… whatever it was, it was sweet without being cloying but still held a sharp edge to it…
She backed away a little, and he closed the distance unobtrusively. Determined not to look at her face – because he knew from prior experience that he'd just get lost in the lines of her features and the way tendrils of her hair had come loose and rested against her far-too-pale skin – his eyes fell to his hands, currently hanging uselessly and somewhat dully at his side; her one free hand was clenched in her skirt. Without thinking, he reached out with his left hand and unclenched it, intending to let go and then finding that he really wasn't inclined to. His eyes wandered back up to her face.

"I'm really sorry."
"Whatever for?"
"I don't know… but… you know, that thing I have – I seem to have an awful lot of it."

He was barely aware of what he was saying, as his thumb had developed a mind of its own and decided to brush over her knuckles and back of her hand repeatedly and even through his gloves he could feel her warmth and how soft the skin was…

"I certainly seem to have more then I could ever use, so maybe – I mean, if you want – I could probably find a way to give some to you?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her hand tightening in his grip as though she was preparing to pull away. The something shifted – she relaxed and let her fingers curl around his hand, hesitantly.

"I… we'll see, Mr. Wonka."

He swayed in closer without even noticing, entranced by the way the lamplight played across her features. She was so close and normally he'd hate that but it didn't feel like an invasion at all when it was her…

Sara turned away.

"It's very late. We should be getting home."
"Oh. Um. I guess it is."

They fell into step and began walking back towards the theatre. Willy had parked the elevator – his preferred, if highly noticeable and eccentric method of transportation – a few blocks away from it.

"You know," he ventured as emerged from the small park. "Maybe you shouldn't call me Mr. Wonka anymore. I don't call you Ms. Bucket."
"Then what should I call you?"
"Um, Willy?"
"That's a ridiculous name for a grown man – or a child, for that matter. How about William?"
"That's stuffy!"
"Will?"
"Isn't that a piece of paper you keep around to tell people what to do with your stuff after you die?"
"Well, I'm certainly not calling you Willy."
"It's a perfectly good name!"

They continued to bicker lightheartedly in this vein all the way to the elevator, and most of the way to Sara's apartment.

They didn't stop holding hands until they parted at her front door.