"Do you feel like we've been ditched?"

Charlie smiled at his dad's mock frown of disappointment. Willy had taken off for points unknown, and the family had returned to their little house.

"I think we have," agreed Nora, slipping her arm through the crook of Noah's elbow, and leaning against him slightly. Turning her head as he patted her arm, she burrowed her forehead against his shoulder. "I'll try to get over it," she pretended to sob. "But I don't think I will."

"Whatever will we do?" moped Joe, joining in.

Disentangling herself from her grinning spouse, Nora made for the kitchen. "We'll make lunch," said she, grabbing a pot and various other cooking accouterments, "and then, we'll eat it."


Willy spent what remained of the day with Doris, watching her, at his direction, take and make phone calls. What was left after that he spent with Eshle, investigating the state of a piece of long disused machinery.

"I can't see Noah objecting to this," said Willy, deciding he'd use it. He swept from the room while Eshle made arrangements to make that so.


With Sunday's noon show a short-show, and Sunday's evening show a no-show, people's curiosity was again piqued, so Monday morning found a knot of people, including the media, clustered by the Factory's gates. Willy, gazing at the spectacle from his office, sighed. Charlie, hunting for one of the clear panes of glass that he might use to see through amongst the multitude of frosted panes, glanced at his benefactor.

"I don't think any of those news outlets took my phone calls yesterday seriously," Willy tsked, while Charlie continued hunting. "Think Oompa-Loompa height and you'll find one. I had some put in for them. I'll have some put in for you."

"You don't have to. I'll grow," said Charlie, not wanting to be a bother. Willy's suggestion was good, and Charlie soon found a pane that he could use in time to see the Wonka trucks leaving the courtyard. "There goes the candy."

Willy took out his pocket watch, checking the time. "Seven-thirty, sharp; goody, goody, but ya know, the shops that took my advice are already stocked. I had 'em stocked last night. These trucks are mostly for show, and because I'm hoping their tractor beams will work." Willy placed his palm against the window, leaning into the pane. "Oh, look! They are! There goes a hefty portion of the crowd after them, and, I see with glee, not just the hefties in it." Standing back and looking down at Charlie, Willy's lower lip pushed itself into a pout. "Gosh! D'ya think my candy means more to them than I do?"

Smiling, Charlie shook his head. "Who's driving the trucks?"

Willy giggled. "Not you. Not me. Other people. I had a heck of a time finding a driving service that respected my rules, but I finally did find one, one town over. This town doesn't get me."

"If this town doesn't get you, why did you build your Factory here?"

Pulled up short by the question, Willy let his eyes lose their focus, seeing not what was before him anymore, but instead seeing what was behind him. He was back at Cherry Street, in his flat above the shop, a candle burning on a small, square table set beside the stool he sat on, his bed behind him, and his plans for his Factory taking shape before him. He liked the candle light late at night like this. It let him see what he needed to see, and let the shadows it left intact act as a cocoon. Because he was uncomfortable, for no reason he could readily fathom. Twisting in his hands the pencil he'd lately used to finish some shading, he wondered. Why was he building his Factory here? Because this was his home town? So what? He had no real friends here. So what did that matter? That didn't disqualify the place. He had no real friends anywhere.

There were reasons for that. Forgetting the pencil for a moment, Willy twisted on his perch, panning the shadows, as if, in a corner, those reasons might be lurking, ready to sound off. All was quiet, and he turned back, thinking about it another way. He tried to imagine a somewhere else to build his Factory. He had traveled all over the world. Surely some other place would be more practical; more congenial. He stared at the candle's flame, watching it dance. He waited for the scene to bloom, but his mind remained a blank, as he knew it would. Dorothy had said it: 'There's no place like home; there's no place like home'. The line repeated silently in his head. 'There's no place like...'

The end of the pencil he'd been using found its way into his mouth, and he carefully used a canine tooth to mark it. He twisted the pencil and made another crater in the soft wood. And another, and another; the important thing was not to chew the pencil in two. A candy coating would make this taste better, but bitter was good, right now. There was a reason to build here; to be here; to live here, and Willy knew what that reason was. Why he wouldn't consider building anywhere else. He took the pencil from his mouth, and resigned, turned back to his designs. This was the only place where his dear, caring, doting pater would have no choice but to see it. To see what his son had wrought…

"Look! There goes dad!"

"Wha…"

"That's a pretty fancy car!"

Willy had made a sound, and Charlie was grateful. It was hard to know what question would send him who-knew-where, but Charlie didn't think he could stop asking questions. Did Mr. Wonka mind? Charlie slid his eyes up and to the side to check, but Willy's hand was back on the glass, as if to touch the departing auto, his attention with it.

"It's a Rolls Royce, ya know." He paused, watching the remnants of the crowd part before it. "Ya know why I got that?" Willy's chortle prevented any answer. "Because it rolls, and it's a Rolls."

Charlie grinned. "Should we follow it?"

"Ya mean roll on after it? Nah, we gotta let the Press pack up." Willy rocked on his heels, wondering how long that would take. "Breakfast good?"

Charlie nodded. "You should come by some morning."

Oops; how'd we get there? Ducking his head, Willy returned his attention to the gates. "See? They're packing up."

Charlie took another look out the window. From this height, one had an excellent view of the gates, and the people gathered at them. It made him feel funny. He'd stood so often at those very gates, his eyes closed, his nostrils distended, trying with all his might to get sustenance as well as pleasure from the delectable scents wafting from the Factory's stacks. Had people in the Factory watched him do that? From down there, the Factory was faceless. Stone and steel, glass and brick, one forgot there were live people in it. It was its own self. Charlie followed the thought, and his face colored. He could feel the heat in his neck, and before it went farther, he stepped back, lowering his head to hide his face.

Willy, sensing the change in his charge beside him, stepped back with him, but said nothing, not sure what had happened. But seeing Charlie's chagrin, it came to him. What had happened was where they happened to be, and where they had happened to be in less happy times for Charlie. Had Charlie guessed? It seemed so. If so, he had a right to know for sure. Suddenly, the breakfast conversation was looking a lot more attractive.

"It is a wonderful view."

Charlie looked up. Willy had said it so softly, with none of that silkiness. The comfort its simple sincerity gave Charlie was sweeter than candy.

"I don't look out of this window very often. I'm usually underground, where most of the fun rooms are. But one day, I did look out this window, and saw the most wonderful thing. It was a child, a boy, in love with my Factory, drinking it in, with closed eyes, the rapture he felt reaching me."

The heat came roaring back, and though what Willy was saying was true, Charlie felt nothing but embarrassment that his inmost secret thoughts were so easily read by a person Charlie hadn't known was reading him. It was his turn to speak, he should say something, but his mind couldn't put his feelings into words, and he found himself tongue-tied.

Another person would have knelt; put his arm around Charlie's shoulders. It was easy to see the boy was mortified and needed support. Willy turned away. "Don't be embarrassed," he said, putting space between them. "Think how I feel: I had no idea the condition you were in. I had no idea that that shack, sorry, at the bottom of the hill was yours. It's very hard to see detail from up here." Yes, it was hard to see detail, but what would clobber anyone over the head was easy to see. "If anyone should be embarrassed, it's me. I was selfish. I took joy from your joy, and never lifted a finger to find out any more about you than that you loved what I love."

As he listened to the words, Charlie could hear his own breathing. He'd given someone joy. Joy! How special was that, and it hadn't cost him a cent! It hadn't cost him anything, because when he was near the Factory, joy naturally bubbled up in him. He must have had so much of it, that it had spilled out, and run under the gates, and across the courtyard, and up the steps, and up the walls, and through these very windows to Willy Wonka, and Willy Wonka had been there to receive it, and he had, and it had given him joy … Charlie felt that joy course through him again, and hugging his arms to his body, lest he run over and hug Willy, he rose up on his toes and danced a little, circling jig, as his Grandpa Joe was wont to do when he was happily excited.

At the muted sound of tapping feet on thick carpet, Willy, his back to Charlie, turned round. "Have you flipped your lid, kid?"

"No! I'm happy! It doesn't take money to make a difference! I made a difference for someone! You! I can't believe it!"

Willy, always happy to feel happy, began to smile. "Believe it. You give me the most interesting ideas." Charlie had stopped his dance, and begun to laugh. There was an edge to it that Willy could appreciate, but that he knew Charlie's parens wouldn't. "Are you going out of your gourd, lord?"

"No, but you have to admit, Willy, it's too funny!"

"I don't have to admit anything, and what's funny?"

"That you say you never lifted a finger. Look where I am! Think about how I got here!" Breathless, Charlie had to pause. "Are you joking?"

"I never joke," which is a joke, thought Willy, "but I meant at the time."

With fifteen feet between them, they took appreciative stock of one another. It was odd to think they'd interacted with each other before they'd known each other, but odd is the way the world sometimes works, and oddly enough—or not—odd, they both knew, was working for them. What they had in common was proving more than enough to weather storms they might encounter later. It was good knowing that, because a storm of publicity was brewing whose front had arrived. They both knew neither would like it, but they'd get through it. Charlie grinned.

"Do you know what my mother always says? 'All's well that ends well'." Charlie darted to the window. "Should we check? See if the coast is clear?"

Tilting his head like a crow eyeing a coin, Willy thought about mentioning Shakespeare. Yeah, no, who cared? Charlie was right that right now the coast was the important thing, and he was doing something about it. In another minute so was Willy. Standing where they'd started, standing shoulder to shoulder as it were, the two partners in candy found that the coast was indeed clear.


I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading; reviews are nice; so are favs and follows, and I thank you for one, some, or all.

February first: certainly a day on which a fanfic set in the 2005 world must post, and so I do. 'The Wizard of Oz' makes its way again into this saga, and is the source of the 'there's no place like home' quote. My heartfelt thanks to Squirrela, XXCandyLoverXX, Vagabond Scribbler, The Island Hopper, and mattTheWriter072 for your reviews. Guest, that was an interesting idea that has become 'The Incinerator'.