"No Regrets"

When Joe Bucket groggily opened his tired old eyes, the last person in the world that he expected to see sitting across the room was Mr. Willy Wonka.

At first, Joe thought that the fancifully dressed inventor was perhaps a remnant from what he felt like must have been a pleasant dream. A few blinks later to clear most of the blurriness and sleep from his eyes, however, confirmed that Willy Wonka was not a figment of his failing mind, but was, in fact, very real.

Regardless of the fact that the Bucket family had been living with Willy Wonka for many years now, and his presence was certainly not a rarity within the Bucket home, Willy had never quite gotten used to being what one would call a "social" kind of person. It was only when Wonka's protégé, and Joe's grandson, Charlie, was present that Mr. Wonka seemed to be at ease and engage with the rest of the family; for once Charlie was removed from the scene, Wonka would withdraw into himself, seemingly becoming unsure and awkward with the remaining family members, it was as if Wonka needed Charlie to give him confidence. It made little or no difference however, if Charlie was there or not when it came to the more "emotive" situations, for Wonka simply did not know what to do with himself and therefore he avoided any such situation as if it were a snozwanger in heat. Three such "emotionally involved" occurrences that Wonka had avoided had been the deaths of the other grandparents within the family unit; George, Georgina and Joe's own dear wife Josephine. As the seniors had come closer the ends of their lives, Willy had simply disappeared from the Bucket household, feigning some illness of his own or that he had a desperate amount of paperwork to do as his excuses for his absence. Of course, everyone knew that Willy was never sick and most certainly never did any paper work as he abhorred the stuff, but even still, no one was offended by Wonka's absence during the last days of the elders. Wonka had always been present at the funerals however, looking tired and ashen faced; sitting next to his heir, and gripping the boy's small hand until white knuckles showed through his translucent violet gloves . . .

With all of these things considered, Wonka's mere presence within the room was a surprising event in and of itself, not to mention the fact that he was there alone. It was surprising because Joe Bucket, who had outlived all of the other grandparents despite being the oldest, was now finally on his death bed.

Willy Wonka was perched cross-legged upon an ancient looking, yet sturdy chair that Joe recalled had been made by himself many years prior. The chocolatier showed no indication of being aware of the old man's visual appraisal as he sat sipping a steaming something that emanated the delicious aroma of semisweet chocolate and something else that Joe couldn't quite place, from a small cup decorated with delicate "W's" around it's rim.

It was on this rim, and the ruby lips that lighted there, that his old eyes finally rested, before slowly making their way up the pale face to Wonka's mesmerizing amethyst eyes, hidden now by dark lashes.
A moment later and the smoky lids slid open and the mesmerizing eyes in question darted in Joe's direction.

Wonka gave a startled little jump, nearly spilling his drink as he realized that Joe was awake. "OH! Oh, my! (nervous giggle) I'm so very sorry, I didn't realize that you were up and about or I most certainly wouldn't have just kept on sitting here not sayin' a word and sipping my drink as if I had the whole day to myself, but then again this drink here just so happens to have one of the most scrumptious flavours that I've come up with in quite some time, just made it this morning actually, and so it's kinda difficult to keep track of your surroundings with so much tastebud stimulation going on, not that I'm calling you a 'surrounding' or anything . . ."

Joe's head was starting to hurt from trying to force his tired old mind to keep up with Willy's verbal tirade, but at least it confirmed one suspicion; Wonka was indeed very nervous about this

situation.

Joe gave the broadest smile that he could muster to the chocolatier. "It's (deep breath) It's all right, Mr. Wonka. I'd . . . I'd only just woken up."

Wonka responded with a toothy, yet nervous grin of his own. "Oh, well then that's . . . that's good. The last thing I wanted to do was scare ya to death-"

Mr. Wonka realized his lack of tact a little too late and he visibly winced, his dark brows knitting together in distress.

Taking note of Wonka's anxiety, Joe was quick to come to his aid with a change in subject. "It's very nice to see you again, Mr. Wonka, it's been a while since I saw you last."

Wonka seemed to relax only slightly. "Ah-ah yes. I've been . . . ah, very, very busy these last few days . . . ah, paperwork up to my left earlobe you see . . ."

Joe gave a knowing, yet pleasant smile. Wonka was the same as always, why Joe even recalled Willy using a very similar excuse many, many years ago in a little candy shop on Cherry Street . . .

Joe Bucket decided not to allow himself to recall anymore of that particular conversation with Willy Wonka and instead asked a question that suddenly came to mind.

"Completely understandable Mr. Wonka. But may I say that I was quite surprised to see you sitting in that chair when I woke up, as it was my dear grandson who was there as I went to sleep."

Wonka brightened considerably at the mentioning of his heir. "Oh! Ya mean Charlie? Yes, well he was here when I came in but I decided to give him a little break so that he could get some rest himself you see. He's downstairs with his par-err huff 'mom' and 'dad.'"
Well now, this was an interesting development. Wonka had actually asked the boy to leave?

Wonka laid his cup on Charlie's bureau sighing deeply, and then seemingly drawing encouragement from the thought of his heir, he flashed a genuine smile at the elder Bucket and rose to his feet.

At first Joe thought that Wonka was simply going to move his chair closer, but instead, Wonka straightened his coat and then made his way over to Charlie's little bed that the senior Bucket was occupying, to sit tentatively on the edge.

If Joe had one sense that had not been affected by age it was his sense of smell, and at that moment a new smell caressed this sense. It was both warm and fresh all at once, like molten chocolate with a splash of berries. It was Willy Wonka.

Joe would later blame it on the rarity of being alone with Willy Wonka that caused a long buried emotion creep to the surface of his consciousness as he indulged in the exotic smell of the other man. It was an emotion that he felt an old man such as himself had absolutely no right to have or ever have for that matter. But return the emotion did, and along with it came a memory from long ago. . .

w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w

Joe Bucket fumbled with his key ring, searching desperately in the dark for his key to Willy Wonka's candy shop. He glanced around nervously to see if anyone had spotted him, feeling incredibly guilty. Joe was the only employee that Mr. Wonka had given a key of his shop to and Joe had felt beyond honoured to be so trusted. Of course, Mr. Wonka had given him the key with the intent that Joe only use it in the very rare case that Mr. Wonka was ill or if Joe arrived in the morning before him (which was also an extremely rare occurrence as Mr. Wonka lived in an apartment just above the candy shop). Mr. Wonka had most certainly never intended for Joe to have a little excursion to shop in the wee hours of the morning and Joe would never in his life have thought that he would ever be doing such a thing . . .

He finally found the little silver key and inserted it into the lock, and with another quick glance around, he turned the key to open the door and stepped inside. No, Joe Bucket had never intended to ever visit the shop this terribly late, but a very desperate situation had arisen. Earlier that night he had just settled down under his bedcovers for a well deserved rest when he had suddenly remembered that the gift that he had made that day for his dear Josie for their anniversary in the morning was still in the candy shop. He had then made a snap decision to go back to the candy store to get the gift. At the time, it had seemed like a wonderful idea, but now as he tip-toed towards the back of the shop, he was no longer sure that his wonderful idea was all that wonderful.

He carefully peeked around the entrance to the back room and breathed a sigh of relief as the moonlit room appeared to be deserted.
Joe carefully made his way towards the back of the room where he had left Josie's gift; a flower that he had fashioned from translucent pink sugar. It was quite a pretty little thing although a little lopsided, but Joe was quite proud of himself as it was most certainly his greatest effort in the way of creativity. He was nowhere near having Mr. Wonka's talents but . . .

Joe stopped dead in his tracks, for just ahead of him, in what appeared to be the very spot of the flower, came a sudden blue glow that had nothing to do with the moonlight. The sound of someone humming (singing?) a merry little tune then followed and Joe began to panic. Surely he would be caught now? Had the person heard him yet? Seen him?

Despite Joe's apprehension, he remained rooted to the spot. He allowed himself to relax as it became apparent that the unknown person was most likely unaware of his presence. In fact, he was now miraculously feeling drawn towards the now pulsating light and musical voice.

His feet began to move forwards as if on their own accord and soon enough, he was standing behind the wall of the cubicle from which the glow flowed from.

Joe's old heart felt as if it where about to burst from his chest. He should turn around right now. Just turn around, run out the door, and forget all of this ever happened. Explain to Josie in the morning that he had foolishly left the gift at work.

But he didn't turn around. Instead, he crept along the wall and slowly peered over the edge to see who could possibly be here this late.

It was Willy Wonka.

That fact should not have surprised him, in fact, it was obvious now that it could not have been anyone else. But to simply say that the sight before him was just "Willy Wonka," would have been a gross injustice. It was . . . it was like a vision. Wonka stood over Joe's little work table sideways to Joe's line of vision, holding in his gloved hand Joe's little flower. The glow, Joe now saw, was coming from the flower. Wonka was twirling it between his fingers, caressing it's petals and was holding it near enough that it appeared as though he was singing to the flower. Wonka's eyes were closed and small smile lighted his stained lips as he sang something hauntingly sweet.

In that moment, Willy Wonka was the most beautiful human being that Joe had ever seen.

Mr. Wonka stopped singing then, and the shimmering blue light dimmed, the soft glow of the moon returning to flood the cubicle once more. His eyes slid open and turned towards Joe. "You made this, didn't you?"

Joe was nearly breathless with shock but somehow managed to dumbly nod an affirmative.

Wonka turned towards him then, with his ethereal eyes glimmering in the silver moonlight and a gentle smile, "I do hope you'll forgive me, but I simply couldn't help myself. It was such a pretty little thing, and I am so drawn towards pretty things . . ."

And for the first time Joe finally noticed the flower that Wonka held extended in his hand. It was no longer a generic flower, it had become a rose. A rose whose translucent petals were a deep mauve that shimmered from sliver to blue, shining as if a morning dew had settled eternally upon it's petals. The rose was made from candy, and yet for all the world it seemed to be real, not real in the sense of organic, but real in the sense of life.

The entire image before Joe was enough for both incredible awe and unwarranted desires to arise within him. And with desire came a wave of guilt. He had a wonderful wife that he loved very, very much and even if he didn't, an old man like him should not lust after another man, most certainly not one as young as Mr. Wonka; and in standing before such a vision of youthful androgynous beauty, Joe Bucket had never felt older in his life . . .

Joe continued to stare dumbly at the rose, and although his jaw opened and closed he was still at a complete and utter lose for words.

A frown creased Willy Wonka's brow then. "Do you not want it now? I . . . I am sorry . . ."

Perhaps it was the fear of offending Wonka's feelings that gave Joe's vocal cords the kick start that they needed to finally produce an answer. "Yes, I mean no! I mean, yes of course I still want it . . ."

Wonka's smile returned. "Oh, that's good to hear. Are you sure you're not angry? I did change it on you after all . . ."

Joe was quick to answer. "I'm- I'm not angry, Mr. Wonka . . . it's . . . it's beautiful." -And so are you- but Joe kept that to his guilty self.

In the dark, Wonka appeared to blush as if he had heard Joe's unsaid words just the same. He handed the flower to Joe with a shy smile. "I'm glad you think so."

Joe didn't get the chance to respond however, as with a tip of his hat and a quick good-night, Mr. Wonka suddenly turned towards the exit, his cane and heels clicking in time upon the polished tile.

Joe once again was staring dumbly but Wonka turned once more towards him. "Oh, do be sure to lock up on your way out? And," His eyes were hidden then in shadow . . . "I hope your wife likes it as much as you."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the night.