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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 III
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Warnings: hints at incest, Willy being Willy
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 to them.
Summary: Dr. Wonka and son reunited for a second encounter. Time may pass, memories may fade, but feelings remain. Perhaps the only way out of Hell is to dig down deeper. Tea with your demons anyone?
"It's the thought that counts"
A porcelain cup is carefully balanced in his purple coated hands, blowing on the transparent red-brown liquid inside, eyelashes turned downward, pursed bright lips emphasizing high cheekbones - one moment so clumsy and the next so elegant. Using electricity is unnecessary; a soft light permeates the cloud-covered sky, leaking in through the thinly covered window near the table. I hadn’t meant to stare, but he was too distracted by the task at hand to notice me. My mind superimposed the metal lines that once encaged and distorted his face. How had he grown to be so…beautiful?
Carefully he takes a sip. Then scrunches up the pleasing features, ethereal picture disappearing as a lashing of tongue follows. It was comical but I did not smile or laugh.
“Is something wrong with the tea?”
“Um..er, uh, nothing! It’s perfect! I ah, haven’t had plain black tea in a while. This’ll uh, be…quite refreshing. Yeah.” He giggles nervously, slurping, suppressing another unpleasant expression.
“There’s cream and lemon.” I gesture toward the other items on the tablecloth.
He eyes them with mild disappointment, giving me a quick grin and a polite shake of his head. I know what he truly wants and start to get up. “I allow myself natural sweeteners every once in a great while. I may have a small jar of honey somewhere if that’ll suffice.”
“Oh no, you stay seated. I’ll get it!” He bounces out of the chair, leaving the velvet jacket draped across the back and dashing to the kitchenette area. It was very tempting to pick up the warm, soft cloth and breathe in that scent again. Instead, I look away and toward the noise of cabinets swiftly being opened and closed one after the other.
“But you don’t know where it is.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll find it.” His hand flicked out in dismissal while his head stays buried in a shelf.
A small smile appeared under my beard. He was making a game of it. How very like Willy.
Practically pirouetting, he spins to the other side of the counter, followed by a graceful bend at the waist to check the lower drawers next. Whatever my son lacked in verbal grace, he more than made up for in physical movement. He was tipping on his left foot as he stretched to reach cabinets that were well within my own reach. I secretly smiled again. No point in telling him about the step stool I figured. His lean, cat-like form manages well enough anyway.
He’d turned his back to me, arm stretched out flicking a finger about to indicate that his mind was attempting to retrace where he’d already checked. Naturally he’d not gone about searching in a logical manner. My eye was suddenly drawn to the seat of his trousers, I noticed he wore them rather fitted - his hip had just jutted left then right then left again. I really shouldn’t have been staring there but I couldn’t help it. Besides, it was as attractively formed as the rest of him.
In a flash his profile turned into view, the ends of the bobbed hair bouncing. Exactly as his mother’s slightly longer cut used to. I hid her photos but Willy, with his endless curiosities must have found them, even under the floorboards, inside a locked box, and tied with twine. I sighed. His attention was currently on a cabinet in the middle as my thoughts idled. Swinging it open, intensely scanning it, then holding aloft the desired item with a triumphant “Ah-hah!” aimed at me.
As if I didn’t know where my own honey was. He hums a happy tune as he sashays back to the table. Sitting gracefully, crossing one leg over the other.
“Told ya I’d find it. And all on my own too!”
I stifle a chuckle.
“Wut’s funny?” He’s unscrewing the lid.
“Nothing.” I responded. “I didn’t laugh.”
“You giggled.”
“I most certainly do not giggle.”
“Well I heard sumthin.” My own son was giving me what he considered to be a ‘warning glance’. Did he have any idea how adorable that was? Who does he think he learned those threatening faces from?
An enormous dollop of honey had been added to the tea and Willy was now holding the spoon at varying distances to watch the remnants it dribble in. He was completely enthralled by the manipulation of twisting and piling strands. I was enthralled to watch him. Pale rays penetrated the transparent amber giving it a look of pure gold. For an instant I thought I might’ve glimpsed how his mind works; a far away daydreamer, not deliberately rude in action as much as constantly distracted, searching, hunting for inventions. Was I so dissimilar? No. Simply less gifted, thereby less unable to comprehend the workings of this person. I thought about these things often as I clipped those articles, in silence, holding back tears. I’ll never forget the surprise of the very first one that appeared years and years later, right in my morning paper; elation swiftly drowned out by the re-opening of a nearly forgotten wound.
The poignant scene I’d been watching changed as his features corkscrewed up again. Dissatisfaction aimed this time at the viscous fluid that had dared to drip upon his plasticine glove. As if it had done so on purpose.
“Tsk. See why I prefer sugar? It’s so much neater than ooey-gooey honey.”
“Yes. Honey requires patience.” I say with a lilt of satisfaction, taking a sip of my unaltered beverage.
I was given another fetching scornful look for that.
“No biggie. Shame to waste it though.” He wiggled his eyebrows and proceeded to put the full length of the sticky digit into his mouth.
The finger is slowly pulled in and out of his orifice, twisting it while making an audible sucking sound, cheekbones sunken; an image all too reticent of that one late-night encounter. Despite my uneasiness, I was…physically moved by the scene and found myself slowly crossing my own legs. I wanted to look away but he had sealed his eyes to savor the flavor, leaving me free to gawk without embarrassment.
Suddenly both fingers and eyes popped.
“This was made with kadupul flowers! I-I’ve never tasted honey made from their nectar before. Yer lucky to see even one!” He squinted and smiled in a sardonic way. “And this is fresh. You didn’t have this just laying around, did ya?”
“You’re a very clever boy, Willy. Er, I mean man.”
The violet eyes light up, sparkling with a thousand stars - remarkable effect for mere colored contacts.
“I don’t mind. You can call me that. I mean, I’m always gonna be…your boy. Right?”
He looks to me for reassurance, insecure again, such a whirlwind of emotion.
“Of course…my boy.”
The feeling of the moment is intense. Willy breaks from my eye contact, picking up one of the untouched cucumber sandwiches, taking a nibble. “Mm! You added mint. I like it, helps to balance out the pepper of watercress. Mint is a very important ingredient in many of my candies. Say, are you still a vegetarian?”
“Yes. The diet is cleansing to the body. You know, mint flavoring is important to my profession as well.”
He pauses to consider then chuckles. “Huh. I suppose it is. What a coinky-dink.”
Tone neutral, I ask, “Do…do you eat meat now?”
After inserting the entire small, crustless triangle into his mouth, he nods. A few chews and a swallow later stating with zest, “I’ll eat anything once! I’ve eaten green caterpillars and red beetles! I’ve even tasted a whangdoodle. Blech! Can’t recommend that.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Then you’ve been to Loompaland?”
“Yup. Were you right - beastly place! But I found my workers there. Oompa-loompas run my whole factory. They’re the best workers I’ve ever had!”
“Willy…” There was a pained tone in my voice. “You…you could have..died.”
I didn’t mean to but my hand had reflexively reached out to touch his hand.
A weak twitch of a smile. “I was lookin’ for new flavors for my candy.”
“Candy. Is that all you think about? Is it worth your very life?” My voice isn’t angry, only sad, desperately trying to understand this person I brought into the world.
“It…it was the only thing that brought me happiness, Dad. So..I’d sacrifice anything for it. ..yeah.” He looks at our hands touching.
So do I, but I realize that they aren’t truly touching. I want to really feel his hand, but I don’t want to say that. “There’s no chocolate making to be done for today, why don’t you take those gloves off?”
He looks at his own hands like they’re not connected to him.
“I uh, I have allergies.”
A slight darkness comes over my face as I say with certainty, “My home is completely free of germs. It’s pristinely clean, I assure you.”
“Yeah but…why take a chance?”
The tone mocks a phrase I used often in his youth. Perhaps I deserve that, but I never made him constantly cover his hands. This is most unreasonable behavior. I hold out my other hand, “Even I’M not wearing medical gloves today because I cleared my whole schedule in order to spend time with you.”
His head raises to look at me, far away fringe of bang makes his eyes appear even larger, “Ya did?”
“Yes. Why do you keep asking me to re-state things? I mean what I say Willy, you should know that.” The words are a reminder of my cruel threat that separated us so long ago. I won’t be here when you come back, that’s what I’d said. And I wasn’t.
I bow my head, gripping his hand.
He could have died, Wilbur. He could have died without you ever seeing him again, never to sit before you now as he does and look at you so longingly for approval. Unable to bear it any longer I reach out and start to forcibly pull off the thick latex glove. Willy is shocked. He tries to resist, to tug away, however I am easily stronger. I grip his eyes with my own as a reminder of this and with a twist of his delicate wrist I’m at a distinct advantage. Both our features move from frustration to a peculiar kind of aroused in the struggle.
Noises like a clown’s balloon doing a trick follow, his glove nosily relinquished - the barrier finally broken.
As I race to pull off the second glove, Willy raises his free pale fingers to brush against my goatee. Startled, I reflexively pull away. Fear appears in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but the look is too familiar to me; too painful. I take his warm, bare hand and place it back onto my face. “It’s alright.”
Laughs as he touches more earnestly. “It’s not as scratchy as I thought it would be.”
He doesn’t know that he’s only the second person ever to do that, especially in such an affectionate way. I find myself leaning into it. Managing to hold my composure, I answer, “Surely you can grow one of your own by now?”
“Yeah…but…” He’s stopped stroking my face and has taken to a new game with the two bare hands; taking both of my hands into his, manipulating them until they are fanned apart for size comparison. His palm easily hides inside mine. It’s a playful gesture I’d seen young children do with their parents. I’m charmed by these intimate curiosities, the satin feeling of his bare skin. Our touch feels charged, sacred as it did last time.
Willy wriggles his nose in a cute manner though the ending line of his answer is quite provocative, “I don’t like it. I’m too much of a neat freak. I always shave…thoroughly.”
The eyes flick away from our hands and back at me, the tone flirtatious, “I like yours though.”
I clear my throat. His behaviors keep changing, one moment I am certain that his mind is like a child and the next he seems to be that little devil incarnate I recall, his psyche has more compartments than a box of deluxe Valentine chocolates! He’s so unpredictable and I’m so monotonous.
“It feels nice to touch. Again.” There’s a coy look on Willy’s face. Hinting at that night perhaps? Or is it my paranoia?
He asks next, “Sooo..um, what didya want to do today?”
“You’re the one who asked to come over.” My voice is a deep whisper even though I don’t mean for it to come out as such. “What did you want to do today?”
“Mmm…” He looks at the floor. “I dunno…I…wanted to make some pleasant memories I suppose.”
There’s a silence. I start to lean closer, our hands still connected, but he suddenly pulls away. Then as if none of the intimacy had just transpired, Willy says bubbly, “I know! Let’s open yer gift!”
The lumpy parcel in extravagant ribbon and tedious wrap is shoved over to me. After a suspicious glance at it, then back at my son’s anxious face, his lustrous broad teeth fully exposed - I cannot deny his wish. Carefully I tug at a bow, there are several to undo.
“That ain’t how you’re supposed to unwrap a present. You should do it like you're excited, in a rush, just RIP it off!” He reaches over to assist in odd enthusiasm and in an instant a tall, unique sculpture is revealed. It is my home, a miniature of it, made entirely out of toothpaste caps. I turn the structure around by its base. The front has two small figures at the door – one tall with a top hat, one short in a cotton ball sweater. Cotton balls, fluffed and pulled apart, nimbly glued to the base, creates an illusion of snow all around. I remember the child had asked if he could have them from one of the containers in the dental office. Such a simple request that it puzzled to me. This gift is what they had been used for, returned to me then, in a new form, like my son. Everything in the static object is pristinely white.
Willy says uncertain, “Do ya like it?”
“It…it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever received.”
“Charlie made it. He’s made a bunch of the factory too. His dad works for a toothpaste company. Anyway, the kid gets all those reject caps and turns them into stuff. Uh-huh. I think they’re sorta silly but it shows imagination.”
“So, you didn’t create any part of this?”
“Wut? Ya said you didn’t want any sweets.”
He’s annoyed. Arrogance. Quickly justifying himself with, “I wrapped it!”
That would explain the peculiar and overly thorough job there, I thought. I am disappointed and upset. Had I misunderstood this request to visit? Was I being overly sentimental? Had I, as usual, misjudged this person? Didn’t he feel anything special? I stand up again, glowering down, my baritone voice curling and vibrating inside the stark room, “This child I barely know spent time and energy to create a perfect monument of our reunion. And he’s giving it to me, a man he barely knows, to keep. Forever.”
He is confused by my words, unmoved by their deeper meaning. Saying in response a flat, unsatisfying, “Yeah.”
“Willy. I ask you again, WHY are you here? What do you want from me?”
His face looks as if I hit him; panic, eyes dart about like a caged animal. He stares again at his naked hands. They start to shake and he balls them up onto his thighs out of frustration. Squeezes his eyes shut. “Some…something is really wrong with me, Dad. I…I tried and tried, so did the Oompa-loompas bu-but…we can’t fix it. I can’t tell the Buckets.”
He looks away ashamed after the confession. My face softens and my eyes widen. I find the strength has drained from my body and come to kneel down before him, reversing the previously threatening posture to one of adoration. In my mind, his body morphs into a young boy again. Then I see my departed wife in a high-color dress, barest blush upon her cheeks, her pallor a sign of a weak constitution. No, please, I can’t stand to loose him again, to loose the only other link in my paltry chain. It shouldn’t be like this. The child should never go before the parent. I grab the hands that fit so well inside my own and stop them from quivering but the whole rest of him is trembling as well.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Nothing but a headshake is the response.
“Come, we’ll see if my knowledge proves better than that of your foreign workers.”
I slide an arm over his shoulders for reassurance. He’s stiff as a doll, rigidly lays his head at the crook of my neck. That enticing scent wafts under my nose again. If the situation were not so dire, I’d be allowing myself to enjoy the closeness more. No other part of him reacts to my touch or words. It becomes apparent that he’s not going to move or get up. There is no resistance as I slide a second arm under his legs, easily lifting him out of the chair. In complete silence I carry him up down the stairs, wood yawning under my feet. This home is so old; too old. I wonder what holds it together. I wonder what holds me together?
Looking at the crumpled person in my arms, I can only give thanks to whatever bit of glue or thread kept things from completely collapsing. Who’s ever prayer it was. I think I long stop saying them, but one escapes me as I walk to the medical area where an examining room exists still.
Author’s Notes:
To be continued.
Kadupul is a mythical and legendary flower from Buddhist tales (of the Celestial Nagas). It is rare and has a unique fragrance. This epiphytic plant grows in the forks of large trees, where the decayed particles of bark and moisture collect to give it a rich protective foothold. The flowers bloom at midnight and die in the morning. Image: http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a300/idolhands/Kadupul3.jpg
More works by many others and myself found at: http://www.fanworksfinder.com/smartsearch.php?search=IDOL%20HANDS&tag=author
Crossposted at "darksidewonka" of Livejournal and at FanFiction.net.
As mentioned before, this piece of writing has been bubbling inside for a while. Not to brag, only to express that its taken considerable time and thought to break my recent writings to the surface.
Comments always welcome. Vielen Dank.
Theme song, Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now) - http://www.mediafire.com/?dmw9dltvjjm
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Head Games