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Is It Scary	By : Idolhands Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 18216 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
Please be aware that the volumes/chapters of this tale are out of order. Be sure to pick the NUMBER of the Volume, not the number assigned by Adultfanfiction.net. I cannot control this problem, sorry and thank you for reading.
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Title: Is It Scary, volume XVI - Have You Seen What I've Seen?
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: Mature Demented Audiences
Warnings: For dramatic and adult themes, alternate Paganism, sex magick, implied incest & adulterous undertones (did I?), an explicit under-aged/adult slash ('shota' or 'chan') relationship.
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Freddie Highmore and Johnny Depp. The world wouldn’t be half as wonderful without their madness. *smiles*
Summary: More mystery, creations, and Oompa-loompa insights as Charlie attempts to keep everything in order for school tomorrow. Mr. Bucket has more time to reflect on what reflects above his glass-covered oxygen capsule. Wonka’s emotions shift nearly as fast as his elevator, this time leaving even Mrs. Bucket caught off guard!
"Who's the fairest of them all?
It was toward the end of Charlie’s day. He had spent some time with his team after his ‘lessons’ officially ended. To his absolute joy, with the help of his four young Oompa-loompas, they had taken a mere spark of imagination and successfully turned it into a tangible confectionary marvel. What a special feeling, to take nothing more than an invisible idea and breathe life into it through the belief of your vision. No wonder creating things, no matter how preposterous or theoretically useless, had kept Willy Wonka busy and entertained over the span of decades. It was such a great feeling! Like dreaming! Or flying!
…or being in love.
Yes, today had been simply “splendiferous” as his…he still couldn’t quite think it, as his mentor would say. As he sat, the Oompa-loompa nurses reported that Wonka was a blur throughout the factory, whizzing around everywhere and brimming with ideas. The little people all said that they hadn’t seen him this happy or excited since they first came to the factory over fourteen years ago! And he’d only said two ‘oops’ and one ‘whoopsie’ – a new record in lack of destruction and accidents! A permanent dimpled grin stayed on the boy’s face as he sat loyally by his father’s side in The Puppet Center and Burn Unit, thoroughly engaged in reading books and making notes. His worries were soothed by the knowledge that Willy Wonka was a mastermind who could handle anything. Well, anything except his own father. The boy still felt badly about that.
As Charlie searched his thoughts, Mr. Bucket was surprised to find his eyes open and something resembling sunlight filtering into them from inside the narrow room with the towering ceiling. The patient had survived the night. Looking left, he saw the familiar half-melted face of ‘Johnny’. Yes Johnny, apparently Mr. Wonka had named all the clockwork mascots at some point. The family had noticed this when they got their full tour; it was difficult to decide if that was a caring or deranged gesture. It turned out this specific uncertainty would be a great pattern with the chocolatier.
Dreading the possible velvet-coated view of said man, he moved his eyes more slowly to the right. Above his glass cylinder though was an endearing sight. Charlie! And he was wearing normal clothes! Yes, a checkered button shirt under a stylish sweater…that had up and down stripes looking like linked W’s (similar to the ones on the Oompa-loompa uniforms).
Now, now, I’m sure it’s only a coincidence - he forced himself to think. Then his eyes drifted to that little gold ring. But before he could curse or contemplate the thing that seemed to have become a permanent part of the boy’s body, his eyes focused on the bright red, tennis-ball sized candy that his son was diligently working his mouth over. Why had Willy Wonka invented a candy that you could “suck forever and would never get any smaller” exactly too big to fit into one’s mouth? Especially the smaller mouth of a child who most presumably would be doing said…uh, sucking? The father couldn’t help but notice how Charlie’s tongue was twisting and running under the object in a method that seemed far too knowledgeable for a child of his age. Following that thought, the boy pushed the ball halfway into his mouth, clamping his lips around it, using suction with audible persistence to hold the candy into place as both hands were employed to turn the page of his sizable tome. The spine revealed that his study was a book about Leonardo DaVinci. Mr. Bucket was thoroughly impressed that his young son was studying such an ancient and accomplished figure of history. At least some part of Wonka was rubbing off on his son in a positive way!
Uncertain as to why, Mr. Bucket found himself closing his eyes nearly shut to keep Charlie from realizing that he had actually awoken. The father decided that he wanted to observe his child a moment longer without his knowledge. It was a rare opportunity, especially lately.
The engineer carefully traced the subtle curve of his three-quarter’s profile; the roundness at the apple of his cheek when he smiled at some text or perhaps a whimsical thought, the way the tissue sank at the points where he gratified his urge for more of the Incredible Gobstopper’s flavor, the thick fan of his fawn colored eye-lashes above sparkling blue-green eyes, the hypnotizing flawless texture of his fair skin. He had to admit to himself that there was a beauty even if he was a boy, a fairy-like perfection about Charlie at this time in his life that would fade. Dare he add…unappreciated? Was this how Wonka saw things? Was this embodiment of childhood innocence and simplicity what he sought to grasp? There it was, dangling in front of him all the time. Would a lonely old misfit be able to resist? But sexualizing a child was wrong. That’s all there was to it, yet…the way Charlie was licking that candy would suggest otherwise. So would some of his outfit choices of late. Surely the boy wasn’t aware of himself in such ways yet. Had he himself been? Could he remember?? Regardless, Mr. Wonka struck him as the sort who didn’t deny himself much in the way of temptation. After all, look at his candy, his clothes, and his entire factory!
The medical patient wondered if he was loosing his mind to even entertain such notions. Calm yourself, Mr. Bucket, you’re going off the deep end again. No point in this endless speculation. What if, just what if, Willy IS simply this awkward man-child who only feels comfortable expressing himself around their son? Could it be that sexualizing the old candy maker was as wrong as doing the same to a child?
His eyes widened unexpectedly as they focused on the embroidery of Charlie’s cuff – it was, without a doubt, a neatly stitched capital “W”. Perhaps it was because he was male, but that certainly resembled someone claiming their territory; sort of like that supposedly platonic jewelry. He growled under his breath from frustration. There was simply no way of knowing which way their relationship was going, but their affection for each other certainly was growing!
The two sets of eyes finally met each other, causing the boy to cheer out, “DAD!”
Arms wrapped lovingly around the glass as the side of the child’s face got squashed against its transparent surface. He kissed it, leaving a mark, then shouted, “I’ve missed you! I’m so sorry you got hurt! So, so sorry! I feel like it’s all my fault because I wanted you all here in the factory with me and then I got all cross at you and I thought…I thought…”
The words poured out of him as did tears. It both pained his father and pleased him to see the child upset over his condition. Mr. Bucket shook his head back and forth to dissuade Charlie of his guilty notions.
Slim brows raised upward in sympathy as he wiped away his tears. As he did so, several of the Oompa-loompas had rushed to the boy’s side, one with a tissue in hand (which was edged in swirled W’s). The pot-bellied men in the thick white cotton jumpsuits all glimpsed inside the pod and waved cheerfully, though nearly no expression appeared on their dark-tan faces. The father contained inside couldn’t help taking note of how attentive the diminutive people were towards his son, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen an example of that; yet another occurrence that initially seemed endearing but was now becoming provocative.
While one was hand signing a message to the boy, it made Mr. Bucket recall Loki. Yes, one of them had spoken to him! Hm…might’n every one of the tricky imps secretly speak English then? How would the family know? See, it was sneaky things like this that forced him to analyze the chocolatier in such dark lights. There WAS a lot about his world that was ominous, all lurking right under the candy-coated surface…rather like his eyes. His stomach churned thinking of them. How could a human being have such alien looking eyes? He’d never seen anything like them. The engineer paused on that thought. Paused greatly.
“Dad! Look wot Mr. Wonka gave me today! It’s a pocket watch like his, only smaller. See?” The embellished golden object was placed clearly into his view. “It can show the time in ANY country, some I’ve never even heard of, and if you open it up and flip it over…all of these dials represent the planets in the solar system! This little one even shows the orbit of Halley’s comet. Isn’t it the most amazing thing?! I knew you’d like it because you’re so good with machines. I told him how you took all our appliances off the street and fixed them yourself!”
He leaned closer to the speaker box as the two Oompa-loompas stepped away. In a soft voice he said, “Dad, I know you’d like Mr. Wonka again if you got to know him better. He told me some personal stuff today. We really have a lot more in common than you might think. He knows wot it’s like to suffer, to be cold…only he didn’t have any family to help make him feel better. In fact, he didn’t have anybody in the whole wide world. Isn’t that dreadful?”
Mr. Bucket only blinked in response. The words weren’t what he’d expected. Charlie had been clearly put in the middle of the two of them and was trying to play peacemaker. He nearly felt shamed for his previous thoughts. And then a shadow loomed over the child, one wearing a very distinctive hat.
“Oh good. He’s awake again.” The subtle flat tone under the statement would suggest the exact opposite of exuberance, but a toothy smile as unnatural as the ones on his puppets was presented with practiced radiance.
Charlie immediately turned around. He embraced the man, “Mr. Wonka!”
The chocolatier gave Mr. Bucket a very penetrating stare as he put one arm around the boy, the other clutching his cane. A message was being sent that tended to support the embroidery of those cuffs, something akin to ownership, and the fact that he’d done nothing to force his heir to feel so affectionate towards him. Like it or not, a distinct jealousy was the effect. And like it or not, both men felt engaged in a juvenile competition.
Turning back around, Charlie looked at the two of them looking at each other. A slight pink tint arose in his face as his eyes darted nervously between them; he’d acted on impulse, forgetting his father’s paranoia, as well as Mr. Wonka’s lack of patience on the matter - time for a big, fat distraction. Oh yes! “Mr. Wonka says that he’s going to fix your arm better than ever!”
A puzzled look came from the restrained patient under glass, that statement was a lot different than the “that arm looks like a goner” one from yesterday. He looked up as the corners of Mr. Wonka’s bright lips curled slightly. The confectioner tilted his head to the side in a singular positive nod.
“And the Oompa-loompas are going to have a Moon festival soon. We’re going to be the guests of honor!” The boy looked very hopeful, but his father’s face still looked unsure of how to feel. Mr. Bucket tilted his head back up to look at Willy (who had not removed his hand from the child’s shoulder).
Charlie looked up at him as well, “Can I tell him the rest?”
“Of course, my dear boy. Who else should?” His sweet look at Charlie shifted as soon as the boy looked back at his father. It had faded to something distant, like an observer in a theater act.
Leaning close, the boy whispered excitedly, “You and Mum can get married for real! Mr. Wonka’s going to see to it.”
This did NOT produce the effect the child had hoped for as a rare look of fury stretched out his father’s face. As far as the boy had seen, his father was mostly laid back and good-natured. This ruffle in his temperament was recent and alarming. Charlie immediately backed up and into his secretly amused mentor. Muffled shouting followed, while the words were not clear, the straining of his neck, veins and muscles were. So was one question as the head titled and bobbed specifically at the chocolatier. The boy could make out, “Did he?! Did he?!”
“Yes Dad, he did tell me, but I’m not mad. Please don’t be upset.” There was a slight squeak in the sound of his voice and his hands were raised up to his chest in a surrendering motion, shaking slightly. The boy remembered how his father had given up a chance to visit the factory, giving in to Grandpa Joe’s desperately pleading eyes & youthful exuberance. His father had been patient, but perhaps he’d been bottling up too many emotions lately.
A repetitive beeping alarm began to sound from the incubator.
“Wot’s that?! Is something wrong?!” Charlie was getting frantic, his entire form looked tense and thinner than usual.
Mr. Wonka calmly bent forward past the boy and examined the computer panel, pushing a few buttons, and suppressing a giggle as he responded, “His blood pressure shot up, that’s all.”
The candymaker’s grin shifted to a sneer as he noticed the kiss imprint on the glass. Whether motivated by jealousy or disgust or a combination of both, the chocolatier quickly removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat and polished off all trace of the token of affection. The soiled square of fabric was passed to a passing Oompa-loompa who carefully gripped it by the outermost corner, mimicking his employer’s caution and trotting away.
After that act, Mr. Wonka added, in a tone of falsely concerned chastisement, “Mr. Bucket you really should try to calm yourself, this isn’t good fer your condition. Not good at all.”
The engineer’s tolerance for these charades reached a limit. Though muffled, it was clear what the engineer had just told Willy Wonka to do to himself, a set of words that the boy had been told never to say. A clamoring noise echoed through the long hall as one of the Oompa-loompas dropped a metal tray full of puppet repair devices.
Mr. Wonka rolled his tongue around in his mouth, eyes half-mast, silent, but clearly perturbed.
“Mister Bucket, I am shocked at you!”
All the males looked toward the familiar woman’s voice.
“Willy’s only trying to help.” Added Mrs. Bucket as she gracefully walked over to the enclosed bed, standing opposite the pair. The long, flowing dress she was wearing slowly swirled to a standstill.
Oh, what a sight for sore eyes she was! How beautiful his wife looked in the flowing Victorian garb, her skin seemed lit from within and the purple lips added a sultry quality. A dreamy look met hers. Maybe a real wedding wouldn’t be so bad?
“Honestly dear, we’ve all been worried sick about you! Mr. Wonka was the only one that managed to cheer up poor Charlie last night. As a matter of a fact, he cheered all of us up!” Her hands were on her hips, but even miffed her features looked kind. Good to the core, just like her father and her son. She stated, “Go on then, apologize.”
Daydreams were shattered and a look of twisted disbelief followed. He was the injured man! He deserved the sympathy, not weird ‘Uncle’ Willy! His wife continued to look at him with her no nonsense face. This was important to her. Perhaps he did over react, but who wouldn’t?! She was still looking at him. Reluctantly accepting her request, he turned his head back to the right and quietly groaned. Could Wonka look more pleased with himself? Was that possible? He shifted his gaze down, looking directly at his concerned son as his lips clearly spoke. “I’m sorry.”
Charlie nodded in understanding, one hand twisting around the band on his finger.
Mr. Wonka pursed his mouth, adjusted his stance slightly, then let out an, “ahem.”
A very deep breath and the engineer raised his eyes for the brief second that it took to say it a second time. Only the words were followed by the distinct thought, “that you are such a controlling, immature, damaged, unhinged, and…oddly entrancing individual that my son has decided to care for so deeply.”
Wonka’s smug grin faded as he wondered what else was in Mr. Bucket’s dark eyes. He really hated those reflective eyes; they reminded him of a similar pair that stared down at him in constant judgment when he was growing up. Once upon a time, even his own weren’t so dissimilar. How nice they changed to something far more unique and dramatic. Why didn’t everybody’s?
“That’s better.” Started Mrs. Bucket. “Now, we’re one big happy family again. Oh, we’re SO proud of you for saving that worker dear. Especially your father.”
The woman looked back up at the chocolatier, his face lost in thought. Assuming her husband’s harsh words had still left a sting on the easily upset creator, she decided to give him an ego boost. “Willy, it might impress you to know that George was saying that your Wonkavision project has given his son a chance to make a real name for himself, he even saw his name printed in a technology article today. And I was thinking that without you, us Buckets would probably have lived a modest existence at best. But now, it seems like the sky’s the limit!”
Mr. Wonka was broken out of his trance. He looked sincerely flattered at the woman’s witty compliment. It was the warmest that he’d looked since he entered the room, like ‘the kind man’ that Mrs. Bucket was so certain existed within him. Slightly breathless, he stammered, “Heh. Well, I..that is…”
Charlie smiled, “Mr. Wonka promised to make my wildest dreams come true and he’s really doing it.”
“Judging from your imagination young man, that must be one burdensome task. I hope he can keep up!” Teased his mother.
Willy wiggled his eyebrows, as that infamous gleam appeared in his eyes, “I sure like tryin’!”
The boy and the candymaker looked at each other with an affection that one might say matched ones that the parents showed for each other from time to time.
An urgent tug on the chocolatier’s pants interrupted the moment. Wonka leaned down to listen as the native man, no taller than his employer’s knee, started to whisper into his ear. Willy’s face tensed up again, “Tough nuggies! I don’t care HOW important my father says it is, I am NOT talkin’ tah him again. I’m havin’ a real swell day and I’m not about to let him rain on my parade!”
Mr. Bucket looked concerned at his son at the same time that he finally took note of how many times he had seen an Oompa-loompa speak, not sign, directly to the chocolatier.
“Dr. Wonka called today.” Charlie explained.
“I SAID I don’t want to talk about him!!” The candy maker’s high voice carried across the entire room. Willy now looked as aggravated as his chief engineer had a moment ago. Without prompting, he immediately took a large breath and calmed himself down. “Sorry. He, uh, I know Charlie tried but it’s so…er, there’s still…mmn.”
As usual Mr. Wonka was at a loss for words to describe emotion. After an awkward set of seconds, the man settled on making a simple statement in a sad tone, “He just doesn’t get me.”
It pained Charlie to see him so torn. Who wouldn’t want to be loved? But his mentor kept trying not to want it, so it wouldn’t hurt, only it did hurt. The boy could see that and he remembered the estranged father and son’s silent embrace. It had been a giant leap forward, but there was still so much unsaid. “He does care about you Mr. Wonka. I know he does. Please don’t give up.”
“Wilbur…” Murmured Mrs. Bucket in a distant voice.
Charlie tried to recollect if he had ever told his mother Dr. Wonka’s first name. Perhaps he had.
Willy’s glittering, vulnerable eyes were caught by Mr. Bucket just then. As soon as eye contact was made, their appearance and the chocolatier’s countenance immediately hardened. He attempted to make his voice jovial again despite the audible waver. “Um, the Sandman needs to spend more time with yer Dad, Charlie. Cells repair the most damage while we sleep and I want him as stabilized as possible before we start workin’ on him. Plus you’ve got tests to ace at school tomorrow.”
He cheered up slightly as a thought suddenly crossed his mind, “Hey, just wait until yer old school chums see you arrive in the Great Glass Elevator!”
The still conscious patient made an objection. Although Charlie’s mother couldn’t quite understand him, his son could. The boy replied to him, “Why not? It’s perfectly safe.”
Mr. Wonka frowned at the next statements. The father said that he wanted at least ONE part of his boy’s life to be ‘normal’. He was going to stand out enough in his old school for having won the contest in the first place, no need to rub it in further. Please, for him, couldn’t he simply walk as he always had done before?
Despite the chocolatier’s extremely distasteful expression, Charlie couldn’t refuse his ailing father. Also, he did have a point. “Okay Dad. I promise, we’ll walk.”
The Englishman gave a slow, appreciative nod as his eyelids drooped closed again. His descent into slumber felt more intense than usual. Had Willy done more than check his blood pressure a moment ago?
As a matter of a fact, if one studied the chocolatier closely they would realize that his smile was more a gritting of teeth than any form of approval. The smile stayed nailed to his face as Mrs. Bucket pressed her fingers to her mouth in a kiss and then to the glass that her love lay beneath. The toothy smile did not fall as they were inside the elevator either. His devoted heir kept looking up at him, but Wonka would not meet his eyes, his wheels were too busy turning and winding like the ones inside Charlie’s new pocket watch.
“It’ll be alright.” His mother said, “Mr. Wonka is good with children, aren’t you?”
“Hauh?” Wonka twitched his head in shock, disgust in his tone, “I don’t like children.”
“But you make candy and you’re so very good with Charlie. You must like them a little.” She sweetly insisted while placing an arm around her son.
Wonka gave a lop-sided grin. With no confidence whatsoever, he simply replied, “O.K.”
After a fidgeting pause he pushed another button on the elevator, Confessing Room. “Uh, I got something I need to attend to. I’m not sure if I’ll make it to dinner tonight. ‘Kay?”
His heir looked up at him with concerned, swollen eyes. Wonka only glanced quickly at him then back out toward where the elevator was headed as it roughly shifted in mid-air. Mrs. Bucket gripped both arms around her son in order to stay steady. The device really could’ve used some seatbelts or something.
Faster than anything else possibly could have, the vehicle reached its new destination, happily dinging upon its unexpected standstill. The room it stopped at was more of a long hallway with a red carpet down the middle. It was similar to the optical illusion hallway that the group of Golden Ticket winners entered when they first came to the factory, but without velvet ropes to prevent anyone from ‘wandering’ off the chosen path.
Willy stepped off, shoulders slouched, turned around with a winning smile and charmingly tipped his hat, “I’m sorry, but this is most important.”
Mrs. Bucket and Charlie were whooshed away as an Oompa-loompa in a well-tailored three-piece suit came out to meet him. The boy strained to see the very last glimpse of his mentor, eyebrows upturned, lips parted.
“You care about him a great deal, don’t you Charlie?” Said Mrs. Bucket.
Her son looked back at her. There were nearly tears in his eyes again. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to answer. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
For a second he paused on his accidental choice of words. They harkened to a commitment that was weighing on him and one he was looking forward to his parents making officially.
“Buck up, it’s going to be fine. You’ll see. We’ll get through this together. Just like we always do.” The woman leaned down and wrapped her arms completely around him, this time snuggling into him and taking a deep breath. However, instead of her child’s usual clean, delicate smell, her nostrils were filled with a familiar tantalizing, complex aroma that she now knew was more than just candy bars and gumdrops. She ceased moving.
The boy looked up at his mother with a weak smile and the humble Bucket mother managed one back, adding no comment as she stood back up. Her approach would be more circumvent, less accusatory, she wanted his point of view before she decided anything.
Mrs. Bucket asked simply, “How did your lessons go today?”
“Good.” He said vaguely, while occupying himself with adjusting the strap on his book-bag.
“What did he teach you?” Her voice was calm even though she knew full well when her child was trying to avoid something.
She’d never known him to be deceptive, only protective of things that he was afraid would worry others, he could be very private that way. She remembered when the family was nearly starving to death, shortly after Mr. Bucket lost his job, how the boy never complained; instead he began to leave ten minutes earlier so he could walk more slowly to school, he stopped playing in recess according to his teachers, conserving all his energy unbeknownst to them. And still, this remarkable child refused to take a gram of anyone else’s food. Even when his mother put her own onto his plate it was merely left behind, uneaten.
Although he started slowly, in a short time Charlie Bucket was brimming with excitement about all of the things that he had learned that day (the one’s suitable for his mother’s ears). The subjects ranged from Mayan culture to the subtle under flavors of chocolate to Issac Newton’s physics, foreign language, musical instruments, candy sculpting, and a myriad of things that led up to even aliens! Her child looked so alive, so ecstatic and engaged. He mimicked Mr. Wonka at times and seemed annoyed in his little boy way about things that the chocolatier wanted to teach him but said he wasn’t ready for yet. Those words gave the mother a small sense of relief.
Then his expressions changed as he recounted the argument between Mr. Wonka and his father. “Mr. Wonka doesn’t want to be told what to do, but Doctor Wonka is only worried about him. Then they fought about whose fault it was that they didn’t see each other for so long but that doesn’t matter anymore. They’re both in pain and too proud to admit it.”
A large sigh followed.
After that Charlie got quiet again, his eyes went dull, his head tilted down. She could tell that he was trying to be brave and not show his full emotions. It was a habit he had picked up from his father.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Said Mrs. Bucket.
“…you guys would never…just disappear if I made you mad would you? I mean, what if I disobeyed you and did something VERY bad?”
The mother looked at him with concern. “Charlie I know you would never do something you thought was wrong, but even if you did, you’d always be my child, I could never abandon you, neither could any of us. You’re the light in our lives!”
The boy paused. Then spoke again. “Dad said that I’m the only one who understands Mr. Wonka and sometimes I feel like that’s true. It makes me feel really special that he..needs me for more than inheriting the factory. I…I like it.”
The child’s eyes stayed on the floor, turning left then right, returning to glance back up at her. “Is…is it wrong to care about someone so much?”
“No.” She said, then added with only a hint of something more in her voice, “I feel the exact same way about your father.”
Charlie’s mouth dropped open in surprise at the statement.
“Besides, I often think that Willy needs all of us…even if he’s too ‘gosh darn’ stubborn to admit it.” The sentence was said with a smile in her voice.
The elevator dinged again, signaling their arrival at The Chocolate Room where their cottage nestled. “C’mon we still have four other people expecting dinner and I’ve got an urge to bake again. What do you say to pizza? I got the recipe from one of the Oompa-loompas at work. It’s fun to make and everyone can put whatever they want on theirs!”
The boy gave his mother a nervous look, wondering about what she had said a second ago. His mind quickly drifted to the subject of dinner though, it had been many years since he had tasted the traditional Italian food, “Sure, sounds great. If we all make our own then I won’t have to eat Grandpa George’s stinky anchovies.”
“Oh, you just say that because you’ve never tried them. They’re not so bad once you give them a chance…most things aren’t actually.” She took his hand as they walked toward the house. With a silly grin reserved for her son, she playfully asked, “So, are you going to put extra cheese on yours, little mouse?”
Charlie giggled exactly as a happy young boy should.

Back in The Confessing Room, it was apparent to the mini-psychiatrist that Mr. Wonka was in a terrible muddle. He couldn’t even get his coat off, in order to slip into his robe, without assistance.
The man’s state was a great contrast to the rumors that had reached Jung’s ears about him bustling with happiness and bursting with new inventions. Then again, the little people knew full well how moody Willy Wonka could be. In fact, the chocolatier’s multi-faceted personality was this Oompa-loompa’s inspiration to study psychology when he discovered its existence. There had been SO many things about the world that they had been completely unaware of on their remote island, but they were eager and fast learners, quick to adapt without abandoning their own ancient culture.
Having carefully removed his shoes and replaced them with his embossed velvet slippers, Mr. Wonka placed his top hat, his jacket, and his vest onto the coat rack near the red and black shoji screen where he changed; formality could make him strangely modest at times. Being comfortable was important to his analysis, but the removal of clothes was practically symbolic of the baring of his soul that the great inventor was about to allow, something that left him much more vulnerable than being nude.
It usually took the chocolatier a good ten minutes to get himself situated onto the long red, armless couch - plenty of time for Jung to double-check the notes on their last session. In the past, listening to Willy talk about the Buckets and his growing attachment for his heir was tricky since Oompa-loompas had a far different social structure than most of the other societies that he’d read about. The tiny people had a ‘group way’ of raising children that was closest to the methods of African tribes, only they didn’t have “a village raising their children” out of a moral standard, the Oompa-loompas truly never knew who their real parents were! It simply didn’t matter to them.
Willy Wonka had tried to adopt that attitude once he learned it. He daydreamed about being raised as an Oompa-loompa, but it was of little comfort since he didn’t have a tribe growing up either. Although his workers couldn’t help him further understand the true nature of families, the chocolatier tried every one of their customs, even those he found distasteful, in order to get closer to them. It amused the jovial people at times but as they got to know more about their complex savior, those actions honored them.
Jung also knew that modern societies would not support the level of intimacy that had developed between him and the boy, so much so that Wonka had not been entirely forthcoming with his therapist about the situation. The Oompa-loompa’s namesake did not believe in norms; The Rescuer and the Restorer were cosmically perfectly matched, compatible in their similarities & complimentary in their deficits. Carl Jung’s philosophies would point to archetypes and the unconscious collective at play in this situation, factors that went far beyond age or gender.
Now, most people needed a therapist to help them connect with their subconscious or ‘sleeping’ mind, but Willy Wonka seemed to be gifted with a subconscious SO powerful and well-connected, that his dreams would spring to life! The downfall of this ability though, was that he had an extreme lack of understanding in his conscious or ‘waking’ mind. The small man had made a note of that on his miniature steno pad along with many other scribbles. In fact, Jung had hundreds of used stenos in his personal quarters, referring to them as needed. His patient was probably the most involved mind in the world, it was a full time job keeping track of the inner workings of this unique brain.
While many of the Oompa-loompas felt comfortable sharing their own concerns or thoughts about the chocolatier, the psychologist obeyed his code of privacy and never divulged his own. He was known as, “the quiet one”. It was a deviation from the usual gossipy way his people operated, but then many of them had acquired deviations since learning about modern society and the inner workers of the vast chocolate factory. Eager as children, they absorbed everything like a sponge, with Willy Wonka as their guide to the vast faults of the new world that they were separated from.
Wonka laid full length upon the couch in his velvet patterned robe and matching slippers, arms crossed over his abdomen. This was a common method among psychoanalysts to put the subject into a more relaxed way of thinking. It worked well for the chocolatier who was usually in dire need of relaxing. What appeared to be an endless hallway lay directly in the middle of the entire place. It gave the chocolatier a feeling of being connected to everything, despite allowing himself this rare time to stay still and reflect. It also ensured that no one would be able to hear a single thing that he was saying, for not even the unusual sound of his voice could travel that high or far over the menagerie of noises caused from running the expansive facility. Yet in their little bubble of space, his words sounded clear as a bell.
The Oompa-loompa placed his glasses onto his face and positioned the short pencil above his chubby pad. As usual the tiny man simply gave Willy an expectant stare. Jung seldom had to actually speak.
“It’s about my father…” Began the chocolatier.
Fortunately the psychiatrist had brought two notepads with him. This was always a lengthy subject.

Mrs. Bucket was alone in the house with her thoughts, she was carefully slicing and dicing various sorts of fruit that she’d cleaned earlier; strawberries, bananas, kiwis, grapes, star fruit, plum, pineapple and Charlie’s favorite, the snozzberry. Amusing sort of things they were, very unusual shape in their whole forms, practically…phallic. She blushed at the thought. Then laughed out loud when she thought of the name of the man who introduced the family to them. ‘Willy’.
Oh dear, that was a much needed chuckle, thought the mother to herself. Still, it brought up the subject of the two of them. What were the odds that an old man who thought like a child would find a child wiser than most old people through a worldwide contest of golden tickets in chocolate bars? Too bad he didn’t get out more or he might have met Charlie by sheer chance on a morning stroll. She laughed again, but less audibly this time. Life really was funny sometimes.
A well-chilled ball of dough waited for her in the rear of the refrigerator. Mrs. Bucket yelped as a quirky voice came from right behind her left ear, “Whatcha got there?”
“Willy! You practically scared me out of my skin!” She leaned into the cold air of the appliance in order to maintain some personal space. “Why didn’t you say something instead of sneaking up on me like that?”
“Cause I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Answered the man plainly. His head was tilted to the side, eyes examining her in a detached sort of way. The frilly apron she wore was the exact same one Charlie had borrowed earlier that morning to gather candy apples.
“Do you often enter our house when you think no one is about?” She said half-joking, arching her way around him since he hadn’t budged an inch.
“Well, I wouldn’t say often.” Was said with a laissez-faire attitude.
A bubble of a laugh escaped her mouth; only Willy Wonka could be so blatantly rude without realizing it. She had to forgive him due to his lack of upbringing though. It wasn’t like the Bucket family had any secrets to hide…especially not anymore.
“Where the heck is everybody anyway?” He swung his head from left to right, assuring that there weren’t any grandparents or charming heirs about. The chocolatier came up behind her again, looking over her shoulder, watching her roll out the chilled dough into a wide circle. “Ooh! Whatcha’ makin’?”
Questions, questions, and impatience! Exactly like a child, she thought. With enthusiasm she stated, “Everyone else is on the lawn since we decided to have a picnic this evening, this is dough, and I’m making dessert pizzas.”
“DESSERT pizzas?! That’s a swell idea! Why didn’t I ever think of that?! Lemme help! I want to help!” One didn’t have to look at him to hear the broad smile in his voice. It also would have been easy to imagine little hearts over his head. Wonka’s love for new dessert ideas was nothing short of tangible.
“Alright, don’t get over-excited. Here’s a lump to play with.” She chuckled and plopped the dough into his anxious, grabbing hands.
He examined it with delight: sniffing and pulling at it immediately, even plucking off a small piece and carefully chewing it. One would have sworn a pleased five-year-old had shouted, “Why this is cookie dough!”
“Mmn-hmm.” She answered calmly while continuing to expand the circle with the rolling pin. “I planned to put whipped cream cheese filling and fruit on top like a torte.”
“Ya know yer doin’ that rolling the hard way. Let me show ya sumthin.” Mr. Wonka had begun to spin his dough upon his index finger, the blob quickly becoming amorphic, then expanding into a circle as he lifted it up above his head for room.
Mrs. Bucket had stopped her task and was watching in amazement.
Willy giggled, releasing the disk into the air only to have it land spinning back onto his finger of the opposite hand. This gesture was met by applause, which prompted the chocolatier to attempt a bow while keeping his creation air-borne. Unfortunately it spun free and landed on top of his head with a…
Thwuck!
Mrs. Bucket immediately placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her own chuckle as the man stood up with a dough-covered face. He looked like a gooey ghost. She lifted up an edge to reveal his overconfident features gone sheepish. “Are you OK under there?”
“Nuthin’ hurt but my pride. I’m great at spinning the stuff, it’s those landings that are the tricky part.” He managed a wavering grin that gleamed even under the shadow.
After the woman carefully removed the dough, she started to wipe the powder off of his face with a damp towel. It was a miracle how little age showed, could her father be mistaken about how old the chocolatier must be? Everyone had been much too polite to ask his actual age. Was it good skin or...something more, like the magick that they’d recently been educated about.
As she became lost in thought, the pale-skinned creator squirmed and contorted his features at her cleaning efforts. Mrs. Bucket chided, “Silly Willy, no wonder Charlie loves you so much.”
Wonka suddenly lowered his eyes from her gaze. The subtle gesture of avoidance caught her attention. In a voice more innocent than accusing, she dared, “Mr. Wonka, what are your feelings toward my son?”
He didn’t move but his entire body stiffened. Awkward giggles interspersed the noncommittal response. “I…uh…gee, yer really puttin’ me on the spot here, aren’t you?”
She kept looking at him in a nearly identical fashion to the way she had looked at Mr. Bucket after his blasphemous instructions. Willy wouldn’t be permitted to back out of the question.
He took a large swallow, eyes darting across the floor in searching thought. What should he say? A quick intake of breath like he was about to do something that took great courage preceded his next words. There was a lilt in his tone, “I won’t lie to you Mrs. Bucket…”
The gloved hands worked hard to convey an impact of emotion that Wonka’s words were meant to carry, “I-I’ve gotten more fond of Charlie then I ever could have imagined. And we all know what a great imagination I’ve got!”
She didn’t look scornful but she didn’t laugh, only continued to look at him; analyzing every nuance of this important exchange.
The chocolatier’s lips drew downwards in a look that conveyed he felt as if he were failing. He continued, “What I mean is, he’s worth more to me than…than every last doggone cocoa bean in my whole factory. I- I’d feel lost without him at this point.”
A desperate and frightened look stayed fixed on his face, the hand in front of his face clasped until it squeaked, “I don’t think I can explain it better than that without breaking into rhyme. Was that good enough?”
The woman’s eyes had grown glossy as he had continued to speak, partly because of how open and sincere the typically arrogant inventor had become and partly because she herself felt the same way about her son; he was worth more than anything of value that she had. Was Wonka finally starting to understand the meaning of love? How disabling it must have been to be raised without a mother and to be abandoned by his father as a child, hated by his competitors, then betrayed by his workers, but under it all there was STILL a human being.
Unable to keep herself from doing it, she embraced him, gripping him and the dishtowel in her hand tightly. “Oh, Willy that was perfect.”
If Wonka thought this moment couldn’t get anymore awkward, it did just then. Two panicked, lavender eyes peered over her shoulder as he neither pulled away nor returned the gesture.
“There still is good in you.” She whispered as he shivered under her touch.
His eyes closed, for a few seconds he was silent and enjoyed the scent of her…distinctly female somehow with the scents of baking blended in: fresh bread, herbs, vanilla, and ripe fruit. Every part of his exposed skin could only feel softness; skin, hair, cloth, she was even close enough to discern the roundness of her bosom pressed against his own vest encased chest. Time stood still, rewound, and played an alternate future inside the inner workings of his psyche.
Mrs. Bucket felt one velvet-covered arm finally succumb and slide up the back of her silk dress, pulling her slightly closer and sending a puff of heavily perfumed air toward her nostrils as well. It was like being hugged by a fuzzy chocolate bar, seductive and impossible to resist. Was this how Charlie had managed to get coated in the scent? She herself was starting to feel that she was enjoying this originally innocent gesture too much. The dominant vanilla and fruit smells blended well with his darkly chocolate essence.
A man’s voice, far less like the sound she was used to hearing said quietly, “If there’s still good in me, my dear woman, then why do I only see monsters? Why can’t I see the Unicorn?”
This time she was the one to shiver, more noticeably though, as the effect of an ice cube running down her spine accompanied a quagmire of emotion. “I…I don’t know but someone has to fight the monsters, don’t they?”
It felt like the words came from someone else’s mouth.
The mother resisted the urge to shove him away, still sympathetic to his sensitivity. Instead she began gently pulling away, creating distance, but he held on to the bend of her arms and his hypnotic, possessed stare gripped her doe-like eyes, “Don’t deny yerself pleasure on my behalf or was I the only one enjoyin’ that?”
Flustered and now keenly aware that they were alone together in the run-down house, she started to wonder where the sprite of nonsense and dreams went? There seemed to be plans in those mysterious eyes, but plans for what? Was it a trick of her nerves or had a transformation taken place? Willy Wonka suddenly looked more like a man than an over-sized child. She hadn’t meant to say it earlier, but it was true that under all the gilding he was handsome. However merely having that thought was making her sick to her stomach. The mother finally responded breathlessly, “I was…I mean, we were just…”
Actually she wasn’t entirely sure what they were ‘just’. Why was she confused at all like this? Why was she suddenly uncertain what she was looking at? Was he a man or a giant boy? She shook her head causing the medium length, hazlenut-colored curls to fall out of place and started again, “I have this overwhelming urge to comfort you, but…but my husband is the only man that I’m not related to that I’ve ever been this close to.”
“I see.” Wonka quickly and coldly dropped his arms with the equal speed of his enraptured face. He swiftly brushed once at some flour on his coat, “And I’m not suitable to that sorta’ thing. I understand completely. Not that I give a fig.”
Mrs. Bucket forced herself to put on a small, encouraging smile. “No, no, don’t misunderstand me. I mean I think you’d make a fine husband but-*”
“Really? You do? That means a whole lot to me.” His eyes were oddly kind as he cut her off, but there was still a secret buried in them, a new sparkle had appeared. After a second, he added a gusty, “Well then, I do believe we have desserts to make.”
Grateful for the change in the atmosphere, Mrs. Bucket released a breath and smiled more naturally, “Yes, um, I do have a pre-made chocolate coated one that you could take outside to the others.”
Not wanting to offend him again, she immediately added, “T-that is if you’d like. I’m sure Charlie would enjoy seeing you and this cream cheese one will only take a few minutes.”
Suddenly she was very anxious to put him and her son together again.
The voice went back up to a strained pitch, responding to her urge to dismiss his company, “OK. Yeah. I’ll do that then.”
Only a soft jingle from his key fob and watch chain punctuated the silence as the chocolatier headed back toward the door with the beautifully decorated dessert pie: raspberries, blackberries, oranges, and candied flower petals decorated this one. Since he kept looking toward the floor, Wonka couldn’t help but notice that old and worn as the wood was, like Charlie had said, it was very clean; the woman did wash the floors every other day. “Mrs. Bucket?”
She looked up from her work, uncertainty on her face. “Mmn?”
Looking back from only the corner of his eye, he stated, “Thank you for the…comfort. I needed it.”
Then he was out the door like a shot. Leaving the woman with a piteous expression on her face. A few of her inner questions were answered but a lot more would seem to have arisen as a result. Only after he left did she notice the pile of fancifully wrapped gifts on their kitchen table. That’s why he had been in their house -- to drop off a surprise. Her hand rose to caress the heart-shaped female charm on the golden necklace. The word ‘goddess’ drifted into her mind.
Once outside, a wide smirk appeared on Mr. Wonka’s face. This whole experience was turning into a lot more fun than he ever expected. Yes, indeedy. Things were so seldom what they seemed. Every obstacle was simply a new opportunity in disguise, he thought. Then, with a quick jig of his feet, he continued on his way toward the rest of the family clustered in the distance on the lawn.
Author’s Notes:
ADULT FAN FICTION IS FINALLY BACK UP AND RUNNING! HORAY! I MISSED YOU ALL AND I HOPE PEOPLE STILL FIND MY TALE INTERESTING! Many times one of you out there, possibly without knowing, would inspire me in some small way to keep trying. Thank you for being your unique, thoughtful, wacky selves.
"Who's the fairest of them all" is from Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
The puppet's name WAS influenced by the a-DEPP-t actor who portrays the great Willy Wonka. Seemed appropriate. I imagine there is a Tim & a Freddie around too.
Charlie’s outfit was inspired from this illustration drawn by loony_lucifer: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v717/appleheadstudios/Wonka/bed3.jpg
In case ya missed it, these lines: There was simply no way of knowing which way their relationship could be going, but their affection for each other certainly was growing. are a play on the ones that Mr. Wonka sings in his boat before going through his tunnel in both the original book and first film.
The original book inspired Mrs. Bucket’s memories of her son’s inner strength & sacrifice.
I wondered why Mr. Wonka didn’t learn how to deal with families better through the Oompa-loompas and so I invented this alternate tribal situation for them, a kind of communal living that would be very unlike a nuclear family structure.
Since I began writing this story, I’ve begun research on Carl Jung and his philosophies. I find him to be nothing short of a genius. What started as an aversion to Freud has turned into a fascination with his successor’s concepts and a deeper understanding of myself. I would urge all creative people to read up on him. I DO think his method of psychology would work/appeal greatly to Willy Wonka.
I have been told that the word 'snozzberry' could be interpreted, thanks to English slang, as the head of a man's penis. Hence my description & reference in this adult-themed tale. I couldn't resist.
Silly Willy was my default icon in Live Journal when I first started and I think it describes the man well despite the undercurrents of his menacing side. At times, it could also be applied to me. Yes, I must always remember to keep that element of fun in my life. It’s what separates the grown-ups from the grown-up children.
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