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Head Games	By : Idolhands Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 4720 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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.

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Title: Head Games, part II
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: PG (this chapter)
Warnings: hints at incest
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Christopher Lee, Blair Dunlop, and Johnny Depp - my apologies & gratitude for the imagination that they spark in me.
Thanks to: "pet_pet_angel" & "marama_tsg" of LiveJournal/FanFiction.net/Deviant Art for beta work.
Summary: Father and son reunited again. Time may pass, memories may fade, but feelings remain. Perhaps the only way out of Hell is to dig down deeper.

"Mind over matter"

Leading from a nearly invisible vehicle lays a shadowed trail of footprints, alongside them, sharp holes made by a walking stick. The path disturbs a flawless field of endless snow and grey sky - such a long journey to make to my lone domicile. Though the last steps must be the hardest.
I surmise this from the fact that I’ve been watching the bird-like movements of a figure up and down my stoop, index finger alternately jutting out and back again at the bell. Having spent the entire morning peering out of an imperceptible crack of my front curtains in anticipation, pressing it wasn’t actually necessary. Should I reach out? No. That is not my way. Let Mohammed come to the mountain. Let fate decide once more.
The doorbell rings.
An unpleasant brassy sound, old device that nevertheless still serves its purpose. There isn’t need for anything fancier. However, it’s the first noise I’ve heard and doesn’t seem befitting of my guest. It would be impossible for me to describe exactly how I felt about today. How could I be certain that what was on my mind would be on his? Something akin to excitement rose in my veins, but I forced on the stoic quality I’d spent an eternity crafting and opened the door, my form filling its frame.
“Hiya…Dad.”
“Hello, Willy. Come in.”
I step aside to allow entrance. He does and shuts the door behind himself. This simple gesture is a marked improvement in his habits, as a child he only shut doors to slam them. Many commonplace manners escaped my son, like he was some sort of prince and others existed only to serve.
Willy stands completely still, looking far up at me. It’s not that he’s short, although he’s not tall either (even in those heeled shoes), it’s simply that I’m rather lofty; 203.2 centimeters or six feet, eight inches, to be exact. I like the difference. It suits us, the roles we still play to one another. Furthermore my son has a slim frame to my sturdier one, allowing him to look elegant in the ostentatious garb he wears. He’s fancied such fashions since youth, clearly more than making up for every object I forbade, took away with harsh lectures on not spoiling children. Today, he wears a top hat and embossed cane, patent leather boots and floor length coat with fur trim – ideas of royalty rather than his true humble origins. I however, am in a three-piece suit, somber, traditional, blending with the monochrome interior. Willy is like a bouquet of spring flowers, exploding with pattern and color, looking so out of place that one could consider it offensive. But…he is my son.
Attempting to restore order where my guest so easily removes it, I offer to take the fanciful overcoat. He appears overwhelmed by even this modest gesture, shyly turning. Wordlessly I assist in sliding his garment off, noting the satin lining.
I’m suddenly assaulted by a familiar cacophony of rich and delicious fragrances, more intense than the first time he paid visit. Each individual smell is like a note of varying pitches in an exuberant melody: sweet sugar, shelled cocoa beans, cooked milk, vanilla seeds, candied citrus peels, ripest berries, toasted spices, roasted nuts, and even floral fragrances under all that. The more I breathe, the more enticing fragrances I can detect.
It is I who stands stunned now, stupidly holding the warm and scented coat.
Along with his hat, Willy has pulled off the owl-like sunglasses and turned around. A pair of eyes, similar to my own, but with a mystifying purple tint are revealed. They are the exact color of that fragile glass vase he was so fond of staring at the world through. His slight smile fades to concern and the irises loose their glimmer.
“Did-did I do something wrong already?”
Can he still read the subtleties of my features so well? I try not to sound too harsh.
“Willy, you promised me.”
“I didn’t.”
His pitch trembles like air blown through a silver flute. The cane is lifted up to show me that even it has been emptied of the usual rainbow confections.
“I swear I didn’t!”
My voice is more like a tuba in comparison. “Then why does the entire place now smell of candy? You promised not to bring so much as a gumdrop into my home.”
“Oh. Uh, gee is it really that strong?” Face contorting, mirthful laughter chimes out. “That’s um, that’s just how I smell Dad. The Buckets comment on it, but I thought they were exaggerating.”
I look at him stunned again.
Shoulders squeeze together and in a small voice he says, “…sorry. I’m allergic to cologne or I’d try to cover it up. My soaps and conditioners don’t even have fragrance in them. I’ve got terribly sensitive skin, ya know. Heh.”
He IS a candyman, through and through.
He repeats, features suddenly (and enticingly) innocent, “…sorry.”
As I proceed to hang up his coat, I manage to confess with my back turned, “No, it’s alright. It’s actually…pleasant.”
“Really?!” There is utter delight in his voice, the exact opposite of the trepidation from a second ago. My words affect him this drastically. I try to fight the elation of power that I hold over his being.
“Yes, really...if not a tad overwhelming.”
The shy smile returns. He places his clear walking stick into the umbrella stand. “I um, hope I’m not interrupting anything. You must be busy, being famous and all.”
“Well, I’m not world famous like you. I shouldn’t imagine that I’m any busier than you, especially with an heir to train. How is the…the boy by the way?” It would be rude not to ask, although part of me is envious of Willy getting a chance to partake in raising a child, something I lost; and such a calm and obedient boy, one who will never run away.
My expression stays very much the same but Willy’s is suddenly shifting by tiny degrees in dozens of ways, only to finally espouse a strained, “He’s great. He’s…really, really great.”
Gloves squeak. He’s squeezing his hands nervously for some reason.
“Oh! I nearly plum forgot!” He bends down to pick up a parcel brought with him. I’d been so focused on his being that I hadn’t even noticed it. “I’ve got a present for you! Sort of a host gift.”
I look at the oddly shaped, thoroughly wrapped item. It looks highly unorthodox. I force a smile. “Er, why don’t we continue upstairs? I’ve prepared afternoon tea.”

Author’s Notes:
The actor Christopher Lee is in fact six feet, eight inches tall.
I was compelled to continue this although taken an unexpected amount of absorption. I’ve also been trying to develop my style.
More works by myself and many found at http://www.fanworksfinder.com/smartsearch.php?search=IDOL%20HANDS&tag=author
This story has been cross-posted to "darksidewonka" at LiveJournal and at FanFiction.Net
Comments appreciated. Arigato.

Care for some classical music to go with the reading?
Emil Gilels Beethoven.zip - http://www.mediafire.com/?btyjhz5xdgg
Mixed Beethoven.zip - http://www.mediafire.com/?2io90cdhjyy
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Head Games