The Great Glass Elevator was moving upwards, but Willy's head was bent, following the scene beneath his feet: George and Terence, hastening off the roof, the door closing behind them. Willy imagined the snick of the latch as he saw it close, and when it did, his fingers poured the coals to the rockets. The gentle lift-off George had so carped about, transformed itself into a headlong escape.

Jaw clenched, Willy threw back his head, letting the rushing of the Elevator drench him in the darkness it was cutting through. That paren! That paren of a paren! A paren once removed, and removed entirely from him, and in the ability to provoke him with a patently meaningless poke, those distinctions made no difference at all! How did parens DO that?

The ire Willy was feeling smoldered in the flatness of his stare, that feeling vying with the feeling of sickening inadequacy that seeped at its edges. He knew, master manipulator of chemicals that he was, that this was an internal war of chemicals only, each of them surging in turn to vanquish the other, but none of this was welcome, and certainly not now! Drat to Hades the parens and their triggers! He wouldn't feel like this! He didn't HAVE to feel like this! He wasn't twelve anymore. The adrenaline was beginning to taper. That was good. Disgust crept into the mix. He'd shed paren creativity crushers years ago. One, anyway.

Willy's scowl at the thought would frighten ghouls, and seeing it, it frightened Charlie.

Willy had neatly boxed that killjoy up in the memory of a certain disappeared townhouse. Or so he'd thought. Yet now, a persnickety old paren, not even his, using a pinch of criticism, a dash of implied belittling, a dollop of dismissive distrust, had brought all those same feelings rushing back, as fresh as this morning. Disgust won the day. A recipe is a recipe… His own dear Pater had known it well, and used it often… But this recipe was poison. With a heavy sigh, Willy squished his ire, quelled his weakness, and with all his heart, wished that for this recipe, he'd find an antidote. One that worked. Always. He felt a tug on his coat. Investigating, Willy found himself looking at fabric covering the top on a knee. Not an Oompa-Loompa, then. Oh. Yeah.

"Charlie."

Wide blue eyes were turned up at him, searching. Willy's fingers played amongst the buttons, and the Elevator settled back. Willy fell silent, running through the possibilities. This wasn't the mission. The mission was George, with them, and it hadn't got done. It hadn't got done, because his habit was to run from parens and their denigrations, as he'd once again done. And now, there was nothing to be done. They were done. Done was daunting.

"Do you know, Charlie, that I make a dilly of a piece of candy?"

The nod was solemn. "I do."

"This isn't candy." The sigh was hope escaping a dream. "I'll take you back to your—"

"My dad calls him 'Pops' when he gets like that." The moving arm and hand froze in mid-air. Charlie kept going. "He gets cross, and he works himself up. It was probably because of all the fuss over the man in the ambulance. He doesn't really mean it."

The hand was back in motion. What isn't meant is best not spoken.

"I'll take you back to your—"

"He hates it when my dad calls him 'Pops'." The hand halted again. "Grandpa George used to repair clocks. He likes everything to be prefect, like clockwork. He's not my dad's father, he's my mum's father."

Gripping news, but I can't imagine why I care who's the what to anyone…

Willy's hand was moving again, and it was stopping Charlie's heart. Charlie couldn't let this end this way. If it did, it would be the beginning of the end of everything… Willy hadn't said anything, but it was plain he was thinking something.

"Did Grandpa George saying what he said remind you of your father?"

Willy's hand instantly arrested itself. To Charlie's delight, it got better. Willy dropped his hand, and made a half-turn, the goggles trained directly at him.

"No."

Delight evaporated. The tension between them was as thick as the ensuing silence. The word had been said so softy, Charlie knew it couldn't be true. He stood, uncertain, his mouth half open.

"I'll take you back—"

"What do the stones mean?"

The question was almost a cry. A cry whose note of desperation reached a place that was normally walled off. Willy took a step back, his face softening. A new train of thought started up, with the memories far kinder.

"They don't mean anything, Charlie." Except to me. "They're in a place I used to play, and I play there still. They're the form it takes."

Silence reigned again, but this time, there was no tension in it. It seemed as if the moment might last forever, but when it ended, Charlie was afraid he'd hear those four words again. There must be something. At a loss, knowing Willy was leaving more unsaid, Charlie looked at his feet.

"What are they doing?"

"What?"

"Look! The limousine is back. What are they doing?"

Willy looked at his feet, and through the glass, to what was going on below. Umm, Charlie brings us back to the present, a much nicer place. The limousine is indeed back, but is it the same one? They all look alike.

"I don't know. Is it the same one? How can you tell?"

"I guess I can't. Should we look?"

"Might as well."

Willy brought the Elevator downward, but not by much. Terence was lounging on the sidewalk, watching Grandpa George, his head stuck through the half-open passenger-side window, harangue the driver. With a brief wave, Terence acknowledged the Elevator, only to return to his lounging. His head might be half in the limousine, but George's arms were outside it, and they were gesticulating wildly.

"He does get worked up, doesn't he?"

Charlie smiled, and felt his heart starting again. Willy was sounding like his usual unusual self, and the sun may as well have been coming out.

"With just about everyone, over just about everything," affirmed Charlie.

"Good to know." Willy paused. "He reminds me of a snapping turtle." They watched a minute longer. "Remind me, Charlie, if I need a snapping turtle, to get him. I'm glad I'm not that chauffeur. Is this going to go on much longer?"

The question answered itself. With his hands pushing against the car, George extracted his head, shaking it disgustedly. The limousine drove off, and George, hearing the Elevator, looked up. He looked away again immediately, embarrassed at the way he had behaved earlier, but too proud to own up to it now. Willy stiffened too, making sure not to make eye-contact, but when George looked away, Willy caught Terence's eye, and using gestures, Willy repeated his offer to give them both a ride back to the Factory. Charlie looked on, pleased, and Willy smiled.

"Are you sure he hates being called 'Pops'?"

Charlie laughed outright.

"I'm sure."

"Because this could be my opportunity."

Charlie laughed again, but the opportunity wasn't to be. Terence gestured back that it would serve George right to walk, and George, awash in the awkwardness he'd created, that caused him to stare fixedly at the pebbles in the sidewalk, making him oblivious to the offer, had no say. Willy chuckled.

"That answer all right with you? If you understood it?"

Charlie nodded.

"Fine with me. The walk will do him good."

"Good. Then I'll take—"

"They don't have a form."

Willy shut his mouth and cocked his head. Changing subjects in mid-thought was nothing new to him, he knew Charlie was on about the stones again, but why was Charlie doing that now? The wrinkle had been smoothed, no more ironing needed, and yet Charlie was still at it.

"They do."

"They don't."

Willy stood impassive, considering. George and Terence ambled on their way. Willy watched their backs, deciding. They had a minute. Or two.

"I'll show you."

"Please."

Willy's hand reached for the Elevator's buttons, and for a change, Charlie was silent. Willy almost laughed. In no time they were across town, and at the Lot. Charlie expected Willy to land the Elevator, but that didn't happen. Instead, Willy maneuvered to the end of the property opposite the street, and away from the other houses. There was ambient light from the houses and street, but the back of the lot was in deep shadow. Unless they landed, they would see nothing.

"See," gestured Willy. "What'd I tell ya? Form"

Perplexed, Charlie looked down. There was nothing. He looked back up—Willy was nodding encouragingly—and so he looked down again, thinking Willy meant his eyes would adjust, and then he'd see, but they didn't. He couldn't see a thing. Flustered, he finally looked back at Willy. Willy had taken off his goggles, and his eyes were alight with mischief.

"Here," Willy said, handing the goggles to Charlie. "Put these on, but very slowly. They're adjusted for me, and I don't know what your eyes are like at all. You could be blinded by the light if the adjustment isn't right, and I'm thinking we wouldn't want that."

Charlie looked doubtful.

"Not permanently, but you wouldn't like it. I speak from experience."

"What are they?" Charlie was turning the goggles over in his hand, beginning to raise them to his face.

"They're my very own invention. A lot of the Factory is underground, and some underground is very dark, and I thought, hey!, why not invent see-in-the-dark glasses that you can use in the light? Then you wouldn't have a carry tons of pairs of glasses around. So I did, and these are them."

"Oh, my gosh," cried Charlie. "These are so cool!" Charlie was holding the goggles a few inches in front of his eyes. Through them, he could see everything. It was so exciting, he didn't know what to look at first. His head was darting everywhere, trying to look at everything at once.

"Slow down, Sport," laughed Willy, "you'll make yourself dizzy. You're making me dizzy."

Charlie had the goggles full on now, with no ill effects.

"Why are some things green? It's hard to see the details. No wonder you knew what was going on in the street. I didn't know how you could tell."

"Magic," smirked Willy. "The green is the way infrared light is read. Ha! When there isn't enough of the light you can see to see, I fill in the hole with infrared. I'm working on that. Changing the green to look like what you would see if it weren't green. But I haven't got that yet. These goggles are better than any of the other designs around, because mine mixes the kinds of light, in just the right amount, so you can use them in any light."

"Like transition sunglasses."

"Yeah. Like that. So wha'd'ya think?" Willy held his hand towards the ground. "Form."

And Charlie stopped laughing with glee—these goggles were fantastic—and remembered why he was here. He looked. There was form. Green glowing form, in the shape of… something. Something with frills; the scalloped stones were frills when you saw them from up here. And from up here, you could see it was something that had layers. Frilly layers, but with big, broad, smooth places, too. It reminded him of something, but he couldn't think what.

"Get it?"

"I can see it has form, but with all this green, I don't really know what it is. Is it a bush?"

Willy peered into the darkness. "You think that's a bush?" And then he giggled. "I've never asked anyone what they thought it looked like before. If you think it's a bush, I'm a terrible artist. But most people thought the narrator of The Little Prince had drawn a hat, when he'd actually drawn an elephant swallowed by a boa constrictor, so I don't feel too bad about it." But for a moment Willy was sad. He'd never asked anyone what it looked like before, because before, there'd never been anyone he wanted to ask. And in another moment he felt tranquil. Because now there was. And because he was sure that without the infrared green bolloxing it up, Charlie would get it. "That elephant in that boa constrictor. It did look like a hat. You had to be in the right frame of mind to see what it really was. Night, through infrared goggles, may not be conducive. Ya wanna take a walk?"

"Sure."

"Give me my goggles back. I don't want to mess this up, and hit someone's house."

Reluctantly, which made Willy laugh, Charlie relinquished the goggles, and Willy bought the Elevator down in the Lot, for the second time in one day. It had to be a record.

"This landing pad is where the toolshed used to be," said Willy as they exited the Elevator. The thought made him shiver. It was also where he'd seen the Pater that night, emerging from the leaning structure into the chance spot of moonlight, wiping his hands. "I'm sorry I don't have another pair of goggles for you."

"That's okay. It's easier to see on the ground."

Willy nodded, and in silence they strolled around the perimeter of the stone design. Willy was in no hurry, and neither was Charlie, the surreal aspects of the experience overwhelming for both of them. It was one thing to meet your hero, even move into his Factory, but it was another, living in his present, to visit, with him walking beside you, his shrouded past. It was no less odd for Willy. He'd played here as a child, in this very spot—the locus of the few happy memories he had of this place—made and shared with a grown-up who had cared for him, and loved him, and whom he had loved. And now here he was, the grown-up, sharing this place with a child special to him. Go figure.

Having walked the perimeter, Willy, the click of his walking-stick marking their steps, led Charlie in decreasing spirals to the oblong stone that wasn't the design's center, but was. He stood beside it, lost in thought, and it took all Charlie had in him not to reach out and take Willy's hand. He was so silent. Long minutes later, Charlie felt finger tips on his shoulder. They were soon withdrawn, but Charlie knew that whatever else that was, it was also permission to speak.

"Did Terence come here when you lived here?"

"He did. Twice, but once would've been enough. I tended towards high hopes in those days. Usually dashed." Willy paused. "Are you feeling better now?"

The question caught Charlie by surprise. Charlie had been feeling frantic, but how did Willy know that? Willy had been wrapped up with his own issues… no time for Charlie. Or so Charlie had thought. He swallowed, wetting his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Yes."

"Good. Then if I say, 'We should get back to the Factory,' you'll let me say it?"

"Yes."

"We should get back to the Factory. Terence and Pops oughta be back there by now, and your…" with a smile, Willy held out a hand...

"Parents."

"Thank you…" The hand was withdrawn, "by now will think I've kidnapped you."

Willy had moved away, stepping around the stone. Charlie followed.

"I doubt they're worried. They've got the Factory."

Willy turned back, giggling to beat the band, and Charlie joined in.

"That's as cruel as it's true," coughed Willy, between laughs. "What were you afraid of?"

Charlie's brows met in furrowed consternation. Willy Wonka was a sly dog. All that laughing, but he was deadly serious about that question. And he'd known that Charlie had been afraid. They were nearing the long gone toolshed, but Willy had slowed. He wanted a real answer. Charlie thought about it.

"I was afraid you were going to turn me over to my parents."

"I was," said Willy. "I still am. As soon as we get back. You know that. And it doesn't bother you now. What was it really?"

What it was really, was devastating, and until he heard Willy ask, Charlie hadn't plumbed the half of it. But what he'd dared not think fully then, came flooding in now, and it was the worst thing Charlie could imagine. Could he even say it out loud? Didn't what you say out loud come true? He stopped where he was, tears springing into his eyes, blurring what was before him. He'd sat on that bench before, and he didn't want to find himself there again. Alarmed at the choking sounds coming from behind him, Willy whirled.

"Dear Charlie, what's this? You can say it."

And in the reassurance of that melodious voice, Charlie knew he could. Knew that, in all probability, Willy already knew what it was.

"I was afraid you were going to take me back, and turn me over to my parents, and never include me again."

In a trice, Willy was down on one knee, his hands clasping Charlie's thin shoulders, holding him at arm's length, but holding him.

"Charlie."

The support comforting, Charlie could only struggle with his feelings. His eyes were squeezed tight-shut, the tears forced onto his cheeks. Willy withdrew a hand, and took off his goggles. Charlie heard them clatter on the dirt, and felt the hand return to his shoulder. He took a deep breath, so he wouldn't sob.

"Charlie."

He wanted to, but it was more than Charlie could bare to open his eyes. He'd be staring into Willy's, he knew, and he didn't know if he could deal with what he'd find there. From the sound of Willy's voice, it might be compassion.

"It's all right, you don't have to open your eyes, if you don't want to. This is a miserable place, and miserable things happen here, and it doesn't surprise me a bit that it's touched whatever misery there is in you. It finds the misery in anyone who comes here. It's one of the reasons I own this lot, and why I'll never allow another house to be built here. But I want you to know, because grown-ups are always telling children that they aren't feeling what they're feeling, or telling them that what they're feeling isn't real, that what you were feeling was very real, and you were very right. I was gonna do that very thing."

Charlie's face lost some of its pinched look, and Willy paused to let what he had said sink in.

"I was right?" Charlie opened his eyes.

"You were. Trust yourself."

Willy let his hands drop, and sat back on his heel. For a minute, Charlie wished he'd kept his eyes closed. Trust himself.

"But I'm not right now?"

Willy pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket, and handed it to Charlie.

"Nope, you're not right now. Yer perseverance knocked it out of me. And as you brought it up, as miserable as I know this place to be, I brought you here so you'd know that. Remember it. You're in the inner-circle now. George is cranky with everyone, I'm way too thin-skinned when it comes to parens, and I love that you told me he hates 'Pops'. Knowledge is everything, and I may be out of my depth when it comes to other than candy, but between the two of us, we may know enough to make this work. Care to continue?"

Charlie, having dabbed his eyes, and blown his nose, nodded his approval through still misty eyes. Willy snatched up his goggles.

"Then wonderful, let's get back to the Factory."


Thank ye, readers; thank ye again reviewers. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Squirrela, linkwonka99, (who might be linkwonka88), and dionne dance: thank you for finding the time in your day to leave your reviews. I heartily appreciate your comments. Yup. Enjoy!