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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
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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 V
By: IDOL HANDS
Rating: Mature (Demented) Audiences
Warnings: for dramatic themes, religion, suggestions of under-aged slash in the story and in history (that’s not my fault!), threats of violence, and a bit more...
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are not my property but that of the estate of R. Dahl, Tim Burton, Freddie Highmore and Johnny Depp. The rest is the fault of my awful imagination.
Summary: Why has Mr. Wonka placed a ring on Charlie’s finger? Is it for something that the child is willing to agree to? Then there is the matter of a confrontation between a member of the boy's family. One step closer to the brink…

"One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter"

Charlie wasn’t sure what was more startling, seeing Mr. Wonka down on his knee like he’d just proposed marriage or the thin gold ring now on his left index finger practically cementing that fact.
The sharp, even features of the chocolatier’s face did not seem to indicate that he was joking in any way. In fact, it was the most serious look the Bucket child had ever seen on Willy Wonka’s face. It made him look completely different, it shifted the usual beauty of his face to something much more mannish. The boy started to take fast, short breaths and raised his youthful hand up towards his face; fingers extended. The ring had some sort of criss-cross pattern notched into it, which glittered in the light.
“Wha-what does this mean?” The stunned English boy managed to say.
Mr. Wonka stayed on the dusty, wooden floor studying Charlie. “Whatever you believe it means.” His voice was kind, but still eerily serious. His response was non-committal, yet provocative.
“To me it means that I can trust you…” Willy’s arched eyebrows had bent upward and he had balled his fist, thudding it against his chest when he used the word “trust”. He then finished with, “if you always wear it.”
A brief pause of reflection followed. The child looked back at the symbol on his hand again, then back at his unconventional mentor; eyes wide, the brilliant blue/green color of them highlighted by the new outfit the candymaker had also just given to him.
“Are you going to wear one?” His voice whisper-like, like he knew he was in the midst of something secret, possibly forbidden.
Mr. Wonka tilted his gaze downward, bringing his own hands toward himself. He took a deep, jagged breath indicating apprehension. Slowly he began removing the tight, plastic glove on his left hand: the strange squelching and squeaking sounds echoing in the quiet room. Underneath the thick latex a large, elegant bare hand was revealed with skin as luminescent and colorless as that on his face.
On his own index finger there was also a ring, but far more complex than Charlie’s. Facing outward was a red, ruby heart with a small, diamond-encrusted crown on top of it held between two silver hands on a golden band. The band was engraved with a complex interlocking pattern, marred down the middle by a missing stripe of material, where again, pale flesh was exposed.
“Yours was made outta mine.” A smile once again decorated his face.
“I-It’s lovely, Mr. Wonka.” The ring reminded him of one of the pictures in the chapter about Paganism, something to do with Celtics, but his mind was too boggled and there was too much information on the subject to remember it all. It was a lovely ring though, despite the new imperfection that the creation of his tiny one had caused.
“Thanks, it was my mother’s.” The smile was gone again replaced by a look of forlorn; causing Mr. Wonka’s eyes to get a sad, lost look in them.
Charlie and the rest of his family knew that his mother had died in her own bed, giving birth to him. It had been a very awkward dinner the night that came up, no one had dared to bring up the woman again, despite having many questions. Willy began pulling his elastic purple glove back on.
“Wait.” Charlie said.
Wonka looked back up at him with a bit of confusion.
“I want to…that is, could I…touch your hand?” He had kept his attention on his new chunky shoes, specifically the large buckles (which he liked), until the very end of the question.
Mr. Wonka smiled broadly. “Well, since ya asked so nicely AND since I’ve been on this darn hard floor too long…yes, yes you can. Help me up.”
The boy took his extended hand and gripped it while Wonka made a concentrated, loud grunt standing upright. He used all of his strength to balance the weight, but the old chair the boy was seated in still rocked from their efforts. They both chuckled a little at that. It was a much needed release of tension.
Charlie was still clutching his mentor’s bare hand with both of his own. It was strange how something that would normally be commonplace took on such a deep meaning with Willy Wonka. The man’s skin was cool to the touch and quite smooth, smoother than his own; like touching a grand, marble statue. His idol was real; flesh and blood, under all those garments, sometimes that didn't seem possible. Holding his naked hand made that fact more tangible, still there was an otherworldly quality even to his touch.
The chocolatier enjoyed gazing down at Charlie holding his hand like that, despite the fact that he was shaking slightly from the newness of it all. He also enjoyed the visible swirl that he could make out in the growth pattern on the top of his small head. There was something powerful and compelling about spirals, he often seemed to fall into them. But maybe this time, he wasn’t alone. With a careful gesture he turned his hand and reached upward to stroke his heir’s face, tilting it up towards his own.
“I’m only doing this because I trust you. I wouldn’t let anyone else in the whole wide world touch me like this.” Each word was methodically formed and carefully shaped by his preternaturally stained lips. The effort created exactly the weight he wanted his heir to feel.
Honor, thrill, confusion, and fear mixed inside of him. It was almost exactly how he felt when he won the ticket, when he first met The Willy Wonka of his Grandfather’s tales, when the same man made him the unbelievable offer of giving him the factory and allowing him to live inside of it! Now he needed to assure the ‘magician’ and the ‘chocolate wiz’ that he meant to keep the promise of staying by his side. He knew there had to be so much more to learn than he could have ever believed existed, and that Mr. Wonka had a lot of secrets to share. Charlie wanted to hear every one of them.
“I won’t take it off.” The boy’s voice was still a whisper as he made reference to the new ring.
Lights danced across the surface of the chocolatier’s eyes, though they stayed transfixed on the child’s face. The barest of a smile attempted to conceal the swimming of emotional sensations that were occurring inside the mysterious candyman.
After a slight pause, he slowly removed his bare hand back to his side and spoke in his usual musical tone. “Come on, today’s gonna be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Hurry up and eat ya breakfast so we can get started.”
Although the boy could barely eat at that point, he managed to get a little of the sugary nutrition into his system over the following ten minutes. It was hard to relax; things seemed very different now, vague and unpredictable. He dared a question that had been scratching at his mind:
“Mr. Wonka, are you a Pagan?” He decided the direct approach would be best at this point. The last word came out sounding almost taboo, he didn’t mean for it to.
Willy had been snooping around their house again. He liked to do that. At that moment he had been busying himself in Grandma Georgina’s knitting basket, which was kept on the floor by her far side of the bed. He twisted himself to kind of look at Charlie over his shoulder. His lips pursed, eyes flicked away. Seemed his heir had caught him somewhat off guard.
“Ah…well, yes and no. It’s kinda complicated.” More expressions went across the profile of his face, but he didn’t say anything else. He did decide to stand though, brushing off his fitted black trousers as he did and began walking towards the boy.
“It sounds really interesting! Will you tell me about it? All about it?” His dimples were showing again. It felt good to smile. He swung his feet back and forth in the unbalanced chair. The sugar high was starting to kick in, literally.
Mr. Wonka came up to his side and put a hand flat onto the surface of the table, then one onto his hip, both bearing their gloves now. “I plan on tellin’ ya everything, but first you gotta finish yer breakfast.”
He paused, a distant, amused look on his face. He then proceeded to pick up a fork and fill it with a large bite of fluffy pancake, whip cream and sauce, placing it in front of Charlie’s mouth. The boy let out a laugh and opened his mouth wide, accepting the whole thing. Mr. Wonka laughed too; he knew the bite was a tad too big, so some whip cream and sprinkles found their way to the sides of his mouth.
“Mmmm.” Charlie said, squinting his eyes shut. The pancake tasted like the hazelnut and raspberry batter ones.
“It is good, huh?” The voice was much closer than it had been a second ago. Charlie popped his eyes open. He found his mentor bent over, hovering before his face, focusing on the wayward cream and candy. His heart raced as a short lick of it was recovered from the side of his mouth by Willy’s tongue. He watched how the chocolatier put the dollop into his own mouth with great dexterity, not allowing a speck to mar his own face. It was hypnotizing and stirred strange sensations inside of him.
Before Mr. Wonka could attempt to repeat the process, the front door to the house unexpectedly swung open.
‘Surprised’ would not be a strong enough word to describe Mr. Bucket’s thought on the scene he had just walked in on. Although Willy had become upright at blinding speed, he still had the sense that the chocolatier had just moved quickly and deliberately away from his son (who had whipped cream on the left side of his face). Not to mention a new, very fancy outfit that he was certain wasn’t the boy’s idea. And then there was the matter of some sort of party going on. He was too bewildered to talk.
“Charlie made me breakfast!” Came Wonka’s nervous greeting.
The skinny Bucket father looked from his son to the wide grin of Mr. Wonka. That statement did nothing to relax his nerves. Why was his son playing homemaker to Willy Wonka?
“Well, the Oompa-loompas helped.” Corrected Wonka, still uneasy.
Mr. Bucket’s thin, sunken features twisted more, making him look further perplexed.
“Dad, what are you doing home? Is everything all right?” Came Charlie’s more sensible questions. Unconsciously, he had slipped his left hand behind his back; the hand which bore the new ring, that was.
Mr. Bucket blinked a few times at the appearance of his son again – it was a very cute outfit, still something about it seemed improper, fetish-like.
“I-I’m fine. Didn’t think anyone would be home, just wanted to grab some blue-prints that I left behind this morning.” He decided to enter his house, shirking away the odd sensation of having intruded in on something.
“Please do, we were just finishing up.” Said Mr. Wonka, the grin still tightly in place as he spoke. Mr. Bucket walked over to the thin bed that he and his wife shared. It now rested on a brass frame due to Willy’s insistence. He shouldn’t like the feeling of suspicion that was creeping up on him. After all, would he really want his son’s hero to turn out to be something bad? Then again, wasn’t it natural to want your son to consider you to be their hero rather than some old...fop? Mr. Bucket was his father's son, but he knew better than to blurt out every negative thought that he had.
“Do you like it, Dad?” Charlie was a bit behind him now. Mr. Bucket turned around holding the bundled up rolls of blueprints. The boy happily turned all the way around to show off the new flashy clothes. He was now wearing the mini-top hat and matching gloves as well. The boy flashed an adorable smile, “Mr. Wonka had it made just for me!”
Of course he did, thought his father, but he didn’t say that. “It’s ah…so different from what you usually wear Charlie.”
“Oh, I had sweaters and trousers, and vests and other things made as well. Charlie chose to wear that one. I’m super psyched that he did ‘cause I want us to have our portraits painted today!” Interjected Wonka.
There were times when the boy’s father really disliked the way Mr. Wonka’s voice would move up and down like he was singing music instead of speaking words. The chocolatier tended to bounce his face and expressions around in the same way to accompany it; it was unsettling. Why did he talk like a possessed dummy in a ventriloquist’s stage show?
Mr. Bucket had raised one eyebrow ever so slightly replaying Willy’s sing-song voice in his head. His son actually chose to wear that doll costume? Idol worship was an intoxicating thing. Maybe too intoxicating…
“Our portraits painted?!” Charlie beamed.
“Uh-huh, we gotta have a sitting with Madame Rose. She paints all of my portraits!” Mr. Wonka had already put his coat back on, smoothed his manicured bob, and was carefully adjusting his tall top hot back onto his head. He had shot his excited comment down toward Charlie.
Mr. Bucket noted the plural in that statement and couldn’t help pondering exactly how many paintings of himself Willy probably had. Charlie would probably make a nice edition and…he supposed the coquettish short pantsuit would look appropriate in that scenario. Still, how did Willy get his son’s measurements? Why had he done all this without the slightest mention of it to their family and what was going on before he happened to walk in? This wasn’t the first time the eccentric man had given him reason to be suspicious.
Mr. Wonka was intently watching the brooding expression on Mr. Bucket’s face.
“Charlie, why doncha go outside and wait for me, I need to have a quick chit-chat with your dad, ‘kay?” A perfect, impossible to read smile defined his face.
“Oh..kay.” The boy said with a hint of trepidation. Again, unconsciously, he rubbed at his left hand. What were they going to discuss without him in the house?
Charlie walked out of the door, Mr. Wonka’s immobile smile never faltering as they watched each other. “Go on. Scoot! Show the Oompa-loompas what I gave to you today.” He stretched out the word ‘gave’ and lowered his lashes towards the boy’s fidgeting hands. Charlie was pretty sure he got the drift, but wondered why he wanted him to do that. Even his family hadn’t seen it yet.
Mr. Wonka continued to watch as his heir headed away towards the Oompa-loompas off in the distance of the room. Then he turned to face Mr. Bucket, his face more serious. “So!” He piped out. “How are the plans for the Wonkavision? satellite going?”
There wasn’t much physically to Mr. Bucket, there never had been, but he was always a man of great integrity. He stood in an outfit based on the ones that the Oompa-loompas who worked with him wore. While he refused to wear a head-to-toe jumpsuit, he did agree to black glossy overalls with a colorfully patterned shirt underneath. His goggles were on the top of his head, causing his short, choppy hair to stick up around the strong elastic band.
“They're going fine.” The sentence was clipped and devoid of any emotion but his own common British accent. He had something else weighing on his mind. He nibbled at his bottom lip, it was now or maybe never, this was the first time he and Willy Wonka had been all alone in a room. He knew his own family would not approve of what he was about to say, but as a father he had to do it.
Mr. Wonka stayed near the door, but he had gripped his cane, from where he had placed it by the door earlier in the morning, and was leaning into it with one hand behind his back. His smile was still in place, but his posture was tighter, bracing for an impact. He knew this moment was going to come sooner or later, might as well be now, particularly as he was swelling with confidence. He watched Mr. Bucket take a few steps closer to him, he saw the determination in the man’s brow.
“Mr. Wonka,” he started.
“Please, call me Willy.” Said the chocolatier in one of the most falsely sweet tones that he had. His free hand made a graceful inviting gesture.
“Willy,” Mr. Bucket repeated with disdain, “If you ever lay a finger on Charlie in a way that he doesn’t like, if my son ever tells me something like that, Mr. Wonka, you’ll have me to deal with. Have I made myself clear?”
‘Ah, and there it is’, he thought. Mr. Wonka chose to focus quite sharply on the words "doesn’t like" and "tells me". Why, then the request seemed more than reasonable. Yes, quite fair indeed.
He had closed his lips, but they still bore a smile, “Mr. Bucket I most certainly would never do anything to punish Charlie.”
Mr. Wonka’s face had turned to exaggerated shock as he pressed a spread-open hand to his chest, “I mean, HIT the boy?! What do you take me for?”
“W-Wot I meant was…” Started the slightly flustered father.
“Oh, it’s quite clear what you meant! Allow me, to tell YOU, that I too consider myself a guardian of that child and would do anything in my power…” And with that he turned sideways and made a grand gesture towards (and beyond) The Chocolate Room itself.
“anything to ensure that no one…” an icy cold glare was directed into Mr. Bucket’s eyes. “interfered with that happiness.” His voice practically growled at the end of the statement.
The Oompa-loompas hadn’t stopped working, but their eyes now all looked in Mr. Bucket’s direction; so many dark glittering eyes, projecting a deep dedication to the chocolatier.
Mr. Bucket swallowed audibly. He suddenly felt rather uneasy. He had underestimated Mr. Wonka by a great deal, a great deal indeed. Had he done his math correctly, he would have realized that Willy had the clear advantage. Threatening a man who’s factory your entire family actually lived in was a bad idea. Threatening someone who had countless slave-like workers with a god-like devotion to them was an even worse one.
“Well,” Grinned Mr. Wonka fiercely, “How fortunate that Charlie has so many people concerned with his well-being. What a lucky, lucky little boy he is. I think I’ll write a poem about it and teach it to my Oompa-loompas to sing.”
“Are we all finished here, Mr. Bucket or is there something else you’ve been dying to address?” His lavender eyes seemed to glow in their sockets.
“No, I…I think we understand each other.” Although the truth was he was entirely uncertain as to exactly what had been said and understood.
“Splendid! ‘Cause I believe we’ve both got a lot of work to attend to. Keep up the good work, Mr. Bucket. No hard feelings, ‘kay? Tah-tah for now!” With that he exited the house, wriggling his gloved fingers at Mr. Bucket as a five-year-old might do.
As soon as Mr. Wonka’s back was to Mr. Bucket his odd, cheerful grin changed to an obvious sneer. Immediately the three nearest workers ran to catch up with him. They had to walk at a rather fast clip to keep up with their aggravated leader, while conversing in the native language that only the chocolatier was completely fluent in. Willy’s gestures and sounds were quick and blunt, annoyance was apparent even to a non-speaker; not even the more comical gestures had any humor at this moment.
Mr. Bucket gave thought to that as he watched the man from behind. Suddenly he felt very weak in the knees upon reflection of the whole incident and decided to sit down.
The chocolatier was not a man accustomed to doing what he was told to do, nor was he someone accustomed to not getting what he wanted. As a matter of a fact, he had amassed a fortune doing exactly what he had been commanded not to do many,many years ago. Since then, forbidding him to do something made the desire to do it all the more strong. He was also accustomed to being told that something was impossible when he knew exactly how it could be done. He did not suffer from the same limitations of otherwise ‘normal’ human beings.
Willy Wonka as a whole, was a person whose brain worked on many levels, all at the same time; such a complex arrangement were his thoughts that they were often known to startle himself, much to his own amusement. At the front of his mind, Mr. Wonka focused at all the tasks at hand: the factory, supplies, manufacturing, sales, but at the back of his mind was young Willy; off calculating how this new game should be played. Mr. Bucket had given him what was to be interpreted as a warning about his only son, Charlie. Willy took it as a personal challenge and inwardly now wanted the thing, he was told he couldn’t have, a little bit more. Mentally, he thanked the child’s father for that bit of encouragement he needed. A ring was one thing, but a consummation of their new committed union, now that was another thing entirely.
His mind had been wondering in that direction; he couldn’t help it, he wanted all of Charlie, he wanted all the things he had never before even dreamt about. Most importantly, he desired sharing something special together that no one else in the boy's life could give him and no one else could ever take away. The world had changed long ago, he knew that, he knew how people felt about such things today – he just didn’t care. They were wrong, like they always were.
He had finally reached the little lad whose ears should have been burning by now. The small cluster of Oompa-loompas that were surrounding Charlie let out “Hooray!” in unison when Mr. Wonka approached, causing the child to turn around. The owner of the chocolate factory managed to instantly remove every bit of spite and malice from his expression, replacing it with innocent curiosity.
“So, didja tell ‘em?” asked Wonka.
“They knew you were going to do this.” It was part statement and part question.
The chocolatier was very grateful that his workers had kept his heir nice and distracted for the past few moments. He flicked his eyes to the three men who had been keeping pace with him and gave a quick nod, while responding to Charlie. Those three tiny men started whispering and gesturing to the ones who had been surrounding the child.
“Oh, they know everything, more than me sometimes. That probably seems impossible, but it’s true I tell ya!” Willy was working out a lot in his head, so his eyes seemed a bit wider and more distant than usual. Specifically, he was searching for the beat, the rhythm that not only ran his entire factory but also directed him in life. He knew the boy would be different once he knew how to do that trick. He couldn’t wait to teach it to him.
His wide-eyed gaze focused once more on Charlie. The child was much more than just a little boy to him. He saw all the potential that his workers did. It had something to do with the purity that flickered out of him; an unadulterated force that could be harnessed. He wasn’t worried that he was going to ruin him anymore; he was merely going to add to him. If anyone could improve something that already seemed wonderful, it was Willy Wonka.
Charlie saw his father leave their house in the distance. He was headed back toward the engine room behind the waterfall. “DAD!” He shouted.
Mr. Bucket had put the goggles back onto his face. He turned in the direction of his son’s voice in the distance of the room. He couldn’t make out any sounds other than the rushing of the chocolate waterfall and the sucking sounds of the monstrous pipe. Willy stood stoically next to his son, one hand on the cane, one on the boy’s shoulder. That was one of the first things he had ever noticed, how Wonka didn’t touch anyone but his son. Charlie was waving happily at him, then raised both of his hands up, pinkies out, thumbs down, both bent together to form a heart shape in the middle. The geture had been taught to him by the Oompa-loompas, so at the moment it seemed less than endearing to him. A silent prayer went through his head, that these dark thoughts were only that, thoughts. His son was bubbling with joy after all; nothing at all seemed the matter. Every day that passed seemed to make him more and more happy. Reluctantly he gripped the blue-prints under his arm and returned the heart-shaped gesture. We love you Charlie, he thought, we love you so much that we all agreed to live and work with a mad man.
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