A/N- Cheers to Miz-Nu-Booty, Zx2-152, Ruby-Ella, blackpanther-690, mkyla, Dulce-Chica93, Blue Stem Cell, BrittnixBabe, Beebsy1219, Akatsuki Feathers and DRkLRVangel. Once again, thank you for all your support on this story. And for the info on where I nicked Space Oddity from (I knew it was from somewhere!) And for putting up with my unforgivably long update times. I bold all your names with love! 3

Now, onto the next chapter…!

Touch me, Hold me, Love me

Chapter XVIII- Trouble at the Buckets

Several hours later, and Charlie and Wonka were riding the Elevator back to the Chocolate Room.

“D’ya think your parents will be angry with you short stuff?” Wonka asked, “You have been gone for a long time. They probably wondered where you went last night.”

“Oh,” said Charlie, looking surprised. “I didn’t think about that… they’ll be fine with it, I expect.”

The Elevator came to a stop with a ding and the man and boy walked over to the house, Charlie with a peculiar feeling in the back of his head that years had passed since he left just the night before. They approached the front door, and Charlie confidently pushed it open.

There was no sudden exclamation, no cheer or sigh; everyone just looked up wearily and with relief. Mrs Bucket stepped towards her son and fixed him with a cold gaze.

“We’ve been worried,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

Without any warning, all the warmth in Charlie dissipated, as though it had been sucked out of him. Shouting would have been better than this cool indifference, he thought. His answer died in his mouth.

“I’ve been… we’ve been, I mean I’ve been with Mr Wonka. We got caught up working on something, forgot about the time…”

“A chocolate nightingale,” Wonka chirped in, seeing Charlie struggling. “A new product in our chocolate animals range, now with the power of flight!”

Mrs Bucket looked at the pair with sad disappointment in her soul, and she said, “Willy, would you mind talking outside with me for a moment?”

“Oh, uh, okay. Sure!” said Wonka, his eyebrows raised.

Charlie shot Wonka a worried look, and the man headed outside with his mother, who shut the door to stop her son listening in.

“Willy…” begun Mrs Bucket, looking a little anxious. “I hate to ask this of you, but could you please keep a closer eye on the time in the future? I wouldn’t ask, but…”

“No, no. I quite understand,” Wonka said, his gaze directed to a patch of wall beside Mrs Bucket’s head.

“It’s just that this has happened before, and Charlie’s only a little boy, he’s growing and needs his sleep. It’s not healthy for him to be up all night, and, well, we all can’t help but worry about him too. It’d give us all a great deal of ease if you could get him back to us, by, I don’t know… ten o’ clock each night. Or at least to give us a message letting us know where he is if you’re doing something important.”

“That’s fine,” said Wonka. “I’ll make sure I do. I’ll- uh- leave him in your care now.”

Mrs Bucket bobbed her head politely, and Wonka strode off over the grass. She turned towards the door, and there allowed her steadfast cheery smile to droop somewhat, as she grumbled irritably. She shook it off, and turned the door handle, entering the house once more. There, she witnessed a highly peculiar scene.

Usually the Bucket household was filled with cheer, bad jokes, and the occasional grumble. But now it was filled with an awkwardness that pervaded all the way to the core. It was silent, the boy’s grandparents and his father sitting in their respective places, and Charlie standing, his hands fidgeting nervously, looking like a man on trial.

Mrs Bucket inclined her head, a vague feeling coming upon her that something was amiss, and it didn’t have anything to do with the disappointment subtly etched in all the Buckets' faces. Something seemed different about her child… she didn’t understand it, but he seemed to have changed overnight. Even though he was nervous, there was something in the way his sad eyes glittered, the brighter colour in his cheeks. Her mother’s instinct was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what.

She wandered up behind him, and carefully touched his shoulder.

As though she’d pressed a button, he span around, looking incredibly sorrowful.

“I’m sorry!” he burst out, “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I lost track of time and… then forgot! Please, don’t be mad at me…!"

“It’s alright,” said his mother, stroking his hair comfortingly, “it wasn’t only your fault. I’ve talked to Willy about it too. But it’s not going to happen again, right?”

“It won’t!” said Charlie, relieved.

He looked around him, still feeling the lingering tension in the room. “Is… is it alright if I go out and play? I’ll stay in this room.”

“Alright, but just this room.”

Charlie flitted out, and Mrs Bucket, watching, bit her lip in worry, before getting back to her half-hearted chores.

He ran to a thick patch of mushrooms, as large as himself, and threw his body underneath them, out of sight. He felt selfish and mean for forgetting about his family, and even more selfish and mean for lying to get out of it.

He couldn’t help but think to himself, ‘What am I becoming?’

x

It was with apprehension that Charlie climbed downstairs the next morning. His mother’s rare moods tended to drag on for a long time, sometimes even days, so he was nervous about what sort of reception he was going to receive when he presented himself. He thought everyone was still asleep, but as he reached the bottom of the ladder Mrs Bucket appeared around the corner, his heart doing a show dive into his stomach.

“Um… hi,” said Charlie shyly, his face downturned.

“Hullo Charlie, you sleep alright?” She sounded her normal self, and a big smile returned to Charlie’s face.

“Yes, very well thanks!” he said.

“Your father just left for work. It’s his last day today before Christmas you know- only three days left.” She smiled at him, “I thought today would be a good day to put the Christmas tree up, that way we’ll be all prepared. I’ve already finished the cake, I put the marzipan on yesterday.”

Charlie smiled gratefully back, and they spent the morning putting up the tree and making star shaped biscuits which they covered in coloured icing and hung from the branches.

Lingering in his mind however, was the thought of how he was going to broach the subject of the Loompa Land trip. His mother was in a better mood now, but would the news of his upcoming departure (on Christmas Day, no less) restore her to her former annoyed self? Charlie got the feeling it would.

And also, did he even really want to go? Christmas was Christmas, a day for celebration and family- what gave him the right to go gallivanting off into the jungle, forgetting all that?

On the other hand, as he kept reminding himself, he was Wonka’s heir, and instead of thinking of it as abandoning his family, he ought to consider it as… a business trip.

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s a business trip, like the ones those fancy executives go on. It’s not like I’m going to be having fun, or anything like that!’

He remembered Wonka’s ominous words about how dangerous it would be, and felt afraid.

Shortly after they finished, Charlie bending down to retrieve a run-away bauble, there was a knock at the door. An Oompa-Loompa entered, and tugged at Charlie’s sleeve as he crouched down by the tree.

“Mr Bucket sir,” he said, “Chief Wonka requires your presence in the Addressing Room. There’s been a problem with the labeller and he needs your urgent help.”

Charlie stood. “There’s a problem in the Addressing Room Mum… Mr Wonka asked me to come. Is that alright…?”

Mrs Bucket stopped what she was doing, baking tray poised in her frozen hands. Her mouth twitched ever so slightly, and she set the tray down.

“Emergencies are emergencies Charlie. Now off you go,”

She briefly took hold of his hand, and let it drop beside him.

“Thanks Mum.” Charlie scampered off out of the door, zooming over to the Elevator, the smell of sweet sugar flowers invading his senses. He darted inside. There was a resounding ding as his finger searched out the Addressing Room button, and ten seconds later he was there.

In his mind’s eye, he could see it all; labels flying high in the air, walls addressed to Japan, Wonka wrapped up on the ground with sticky tape, a living mummy.

What he actually saw on arrival was something a little bit different. Everything seemed neat and tidy, the machines all running smoothly. In fact, there seemed to be no problem at all. The only thing that seemed out of place was Wonka himself, sitting on top of one of the machines, dressed in a snazzy multi-coloured suit, grinning down at Charlie like a Cheshire cat.

“Bonjour, mon petit amour!” he called down, in a perfect accent. He followed this with a spectacular leap, landing on the floor, a cat in action as well as in appearance.

“Mon Charlie.” He kissed the boy’s hand.

“Uh… bonjour?” muttered Charlie, bewildered. He didn’t have a clue as to what Wonka had just said to him, though he gathered that he must be in a very good mood today. He peered around, seeing the machinery spinning on as normal.

“Did you fix the problem then?” he asked naively.

“Nope,” replied Wonka. “As they say, if it’s broken, don’t fix it.”

Charlie had to take a few seconds to figure out what he meant by this.

“Do you mean… nothing was broken to begin with? Why did you call for me then?”

“Because I’m incredibly clever,” Wonka tapped his nose with a neon green gloved finger.

Slowly, the realisation dawned on Charlie. “Ohh-hh,” he said, stretching the syllables out like an accordion. “That was very sneaky sir.”

Wonka giggled, Charlie laughed, and they went off together, arm in arm.

x

It was Christmas Eve, and Charlie still hadn’t told his parents about the trip. Glitter sparkled from every corner of the factory, Oompa-Loompas wore tinselled hats, and the Buckets were singing Christmas carols.

Willy Wonka meanwhile, was trying on a pair of yellow-brown Wellington boots in his room. Charlie sat nearby, perched on a footstool, restraining laughter as Wonka struggled into them. He pulled harder, and tripped over the coffee table, tumbling onto the carpet. Charlie burst out laughing, his hand covering his mouth.

“Too small, Mr Wonka!” he cried.

“Musta’ been that shrinking solution the other day,” muttered Wonka with embarrassment, “they can’t have fully reverted back yet.” He got up and threw the boots into the open wardrobe, before getting down onto his knees to rummage for another pair.

While he was doing so, Charlie amused himself by inspecting Wonka’s odd chest of drawers with the strangely shaped draws of varying sizes.

“What do you keep in the tiny draws?” Charlie asked, “surely you can fit only pins in some of them.”

“Have a look if you like,” said a floating voice from the vicinity of the wardrobe, “just don’t open the secret diary sized one.”

“You have a secret diary?” Charlie knelt down to search for such a draw.

“Of course not, silly,” replied the voice, which then became a person and withdrew from the wardrobe with another pair of boots in hand.

Charlie tried a smallish draw, and picked up the contents with an amused smile.

“A dog’s chew toy?” he asked, holding the plastic squeaky bone in his hand.

“You can never be too careful.” This was followed by a sigh of relief as the boot, literally, fit. He pulled on the other one, stealing a glance of Charlie as he eyed a wok in surprise, the corner of Wonka’s subversive mouth twitching slyly.

“I also have some clothes for you,” he said.

“For me?” Charlie asked, pointing to himself.

“If you wear that jersey you’re going to be eaten by a whangdoodle. You need camouflage.”

Charlie picked up the hem of his bright red Christmas jersey (knitted lovingly by Grandma Josephine) and inwardly agreed.

“So, army stuff then?”

“Yeh, pretty much. Not the most stylish clothes on the catwalk, but it’ll keep ya alive. Just hold on a minute…” he bobbed back to the wardrobe and bounced out again, holding a small pair of brown trousers, a long shirt, a swamp green jacket and a belt with attachments for lots of different things.

“I’ve got some boots for you too,” he added, passing it all to Charlie. “You ought to try it all on, just to make sure it fits.” His eyes twinkled deviously.

Charlie blushed. Then he blushed some more. And more.

“Now?” he squeaked shrilly.

“It might be as well,” said Wonka flippantly, wandering to the chest of drawers to rearrange something.

Charlie stood unsurely, glancing from the pile of clothes to Wonka pondering ostentatiously over a selection of gloves.

“I’ll… gogetdressedintheotherroom,” he said very quickly, his cheeks beetroot, before he ran out at top speeds towards the bathroom.

Wonka chuckled. He knew he shouldn’t tease the boy, but he couldn’t help himself- it was just too much fun.

When Charlie came back, sporting his new jungle gear and a slightly less red face, Wonka said absently to him, “You have told your Mum and pop you’re going, right?” to which Charlie wringed his hands and shifted to the other foot.

“Um, well… no,” he said, “I uh, wasn’t too sure what to say, to be honest.”

Wonka scrutinised him, laughing, with a roll of the eyes. “How about, ‘can I go with fab Mr Wonka tomorrow to find a special flower in Loompa Land?’”

“You make it sound so easy,” Charlie shook his head, “but it’s Christmas tomorrow, and they know Loompa Land is dangerous. It’s not going to be easy for me to convince them you know.”

Wonka strolled across the room contemplatively, and leant against the side of the wardrobe, his hands resting flat on it. “Lemme’ talk to them,” he said, “I’ll convince 'em.”

Charlie threw him a look of relief. It caught Wonka squarely in the chest, and he wobbled and fell flat on the floor.

“Thanks Mr Wonka,” said Charlie with gusto, “that’s a real load off my mind.”

x

Mrs Bucket was picking sugar snowdrops in the Chocolate Room. She made sure to break them off a little way up the stem so they could grow back again. If they could grow back again, that is. She wasn’t sure if they would or not, but she thought it would be interesting to find out.

Fake sugar snow lined the fake sugar grass, making the room even more sweet than usual. Despite this, Mrs Bucket continued to feel uneasy. For one of the first times in her life, relations with her son were strained. He’d apologised, yes, but there was still something different about him. It felt as though… he was being drawn away somehow. She wondered briefly if he hadn’t fallen in with a bad crowd at school that were changing the way he thought.

She gathered up the flowers in her arms and brought them back inside of the house, putting them in the blue vase she and her husband had received as a wedding present. It was cracked.

She spoke to her father quickly, listening as he complained of politicians and the local MP before she glimpsed a snatch of her son returning, Wonka striding along beside him. Charlie had changed back into his regular clothes, not wanting to appear presumptuous. Wonka however was ambling along in his jungle gear, something Mrs Bucket noticed straight away, thinking he looked like an old-fashioned explorer. They came straight in, Charlie wiping his feet on the doormat.

“Afternoon, Mrs B,” sung sunny Wonka, whistling a little tune.

“Goodness Willy,” she said, wiping her earthy hands on her dress, “are you off to explore the Amazon rainforest today?” she examined his Wellington boots and waterproofs. ‘Willy in wellies’ she thought, and her mouth quirked.

“Close,” said Wonka emphatically, holding up a finger. “This is actually what I’ve come to talk to you about. Is your dear husband home?”

“Last minute Christmas shopping, I’m afraid,” she said, raising her hands and shrugging. “It’s just me and Charlie’s grandparents here for now.” She looked over her shoulder, where the elders of the house were playing a silent and intense game of cards. Grandma Georgina appeared to be holding hers upside down.

“I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” Mrs Bucket asked.

“That’d be super,” Wonka replied, “I’ll have six sugars, thanks.”

The kettle screeched and boiled, and Mrs Bucket made three cups of tea. She sat down across the table from Wonka, Charlie at his side, the warm mug in her hands.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” she said, taking a sip from her drink.

Wonka folded his arms in a very business-like way, and laid them down on the table. “I shan’t dilly-dally on about it, basically, I want to take Charlie on a trip with me to gather a special flower for a new recipe.”

“A trip?” Mrs Bucket said, “where to?”

“Loompa Land,” said Wonka.

Mrs Bucket grew solemn at this. “Willy, isn’t Loompa Land dangerous? I remember you telling us about it a few months ago- all those whongdaddles and handwagglers you talked about… Charlie’s only twelve you know.”

The said person shifted in his seat. Under the table, he joined hands with Wonka.

“I won’t lie to you- it is dangerous. But Loompa Land is my primary source for ingredients, therefore one day it’ll be Charlie’s. He needs to get used to visiting it, and ‘sides, I’ll make sure nothing happens to him. You’ve got my word on that.”

Mrs Bucket hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“You ought to let the boy go,” said another voice from the other side of the room. It was Grandpa George. They’d now finished their game (Georgina brandishing her cards triumphantly) and had switched to eavesdropping in on the conversation.

“But Dad,” complained Mrs Bucket, looking towards George, “who knows what might happen? Charlie’s too young for all of this- surely he can go when he’s older.”

“I… have to say I agree with George on this,” said Joe, passing her daughter-in-law a wincing ‘sorry’ look. “Charlie might be young, but he’ll be running a grand factory one day. He needs the experience. Besides, I trust Willy completely, if he says Charlie will be fine, then he’ll be absolutely fine.”

“It might toughen him up too,” added George.

Mrs Bucket scrunched up her mouth, irritation in her expression.

“Charlie, do you really want to go?” she asked, helplessly.

The boy nodded fervently. “I do. Please let me go Mum.”

Mrs Bucket “hmm”’d and “urm”’d, and then asked Wonka, “When is this trip anyway?”

“Tommorrow,” said Wonka, inwardly cringing.

“Tommorrow!” Mrs Bucket spluttered. “But tomorrow is Christmas Day! Why in the world do you have to go then?”

“The crystal heart only blooms on Christmas Day, I’m afraid. It’s the only day we’ll have a chance in finding it. I know its awkward timing, and obviously ya don’t want Charlie away that day, but-”

“No, no, no, no. No.” Mrs Bucket shook her head decisively, holding up a hand to halt Wonka. “I’m against the idea in the first place, but Christmas Day is-”

She was hit back with a wall of complaints, not just from Charlie, but from the grandparents too.

“Not right…!” she finished.

“Oh, please Mum!” cried Charlie, squeezing his hands together plaintively. “Please! It’s only for one day- and I’ll be fine, honest!”

The head shaking continued. “I’ve already told you- no. And besides, even if I thought you could go I’d need to talk it over with your father-”

“But he won’t mind!” interrupted Charlie, surprising Mrs Bucket. It was rare for him to interrupt when someone else was speaking. She was just about to scold him when Grandma Josephine spoke, softly, in her old slow voice.

“Dear, I think he would agree with Willy too. As much as we don’t want to see Charlie in danger, Joe’s right, Charlie needs the experience. It’s sad it has to be tomorrow, but he can always have his presents another time. There’s always Boxing Day.”

Mrs Bucket was silent for a time. She threw up her hands in the air of defeat, tugging on a weak smile.

“What can I do?” she said, sounding falsely cheery. “I’ve been voted out. You can go Charlie. But Willy-” she fixed him with a serious stare, “you bring him back in one piece, you hear?”

“Of course,” said Wonka, Charlie grinning beside him. The man got up, but gestured Charlie back down when he tried to do the same. “I’ll sort everything out; you just stay here with your family. They’re gonna miss you, ya know?” he winked, “I’ll come for you at five tomorrow morning, we’re going to need an early start. Seeya later alligator,”

“In a while, crocodile,” they grinned at each other, and Wonka disappeared out the door. The smile still on his face, he turned back towards his mother, opening his mouth to thank her. When he noticed the murderous look in her eyes however, he quickly shut it again.

She stood up and paced to the other side of the house and back again. She rearranged the kitchen things, despite their already neat order. She fiddled with the curtains, even though they were hanging straight. Then she whirled round to face them all, Charlie and grandparents included, and spoke in a low breathless whisper.

“I don’t know why you all constantly undermine me, do you enjoy making me look foolish in front of other people?” Her voice rose with every word, becoming shrill, for she had the sort of voice that wouldn’t raise easily, and became croaky and squeaky when it did.

“Why does nobody listen to me, why do they always talk over the top of me? Well I’m sick of it! I’m sick of all of it!”

She trembled as she leant against the wall, her hands quivering.

“I am-” she begun, “I’m not just-” but she couldn’t finish, and instead walked out the door, slamming it violently behind her. They all heard a soft hiccup, and, afterwards, nothing.

A cold silence filled the house.

x

The cool night breeze blew in through the open window, ruffling the curtains, an invisible hand flipping through the pages of an open book. Deep in dreamless sleep Wonka shivered, and awoke. He pulled himself up, looking blearily towards the window, where a rather large surprise awaited him.

“Charlie…?” he murmured to the boy sitting sideways on the edge of the bed, contemplating the night sky.

“I can see Aquarius,” he said, almost inaudibly. Wonka noticed a sad soft glow emanating from him, a soft shimmer in the twilight of the room. “They’re so bright tonight,” he whispered, and he slowly moved his head round to face Wonka, “don’t you think?”

The wind picked up, and began to howl. Something outside rattled. Wonka could feel goosebumps picking up on his skin.

“Charlie, are you alright?” he asked.

Just as dreamily as before, the boy shook his head. Wonka shifted closer to him.

“What happened?”

“Too much arguing,” Charlie said, not looking directly at him. “Everyone was shouting, Dad came home, and they all yelled some more. I couldn’t sleep, and came here. I just couldn’t… it felt like there was a weight pressing down on me. I had to get out.”

Wonka put his arm around the moony child, drawing him closer to himself. The pages of the book flipped back the other way with a fwick!

“Sometimes… sometimes families argue. I know yours though, and they’ll be fine again soon. So don’t worry about it.”

All at once, Charlie seemed to snap out of his trance. He looked Wonka directly in the eye.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Mr Wonka, I really don’t.” His own eyes watered, and soon he was crying noiselessly into Wonka’s silk pyjamas, the man gently stroking his feathery hair.

“Can I stay here with you?” Charlie asked after a few minutes, his voice a little muffled. “I don’t want to go back, not yet.”

“Of course you can,” said Wonka, and he rose up to shut the window. It closed with a click, and the pages came to a standstill, fluttering down back into place. The howling became softer, the clanging of the drainage pipe a quiet tapping.

Charlie had already clambered into bed and thrown the plum duvet over himself, so Wonka came round from the other side and slid himself in between the covers there. They lay facing each other, Wonka’s hair splayed across the pillow. Charlie smiled shyly, weakly.

“I wonder what the time is…” he said, rubbing his eyes.

“Must be at least two by now,” said Wonka, glancing at the shadows that fell across the floor. “That means it’s Christmas Day,” he laughed placidly.

“Merry Christmas,” said Charlie, his eyelids sinking. They joined hands.

“Merry Christmas Charlie,” said Wonka.

When Wonka starts jabbering away in French he says ‘Hello my small love’ and then he says ‘my Charlie’. He’s trying to make a joke about how short Charlie is. I actually can’t speak French at all very well, so I was using a French translator site. I considered getting it to say ‘my short love’ but those types of site are always risky, and indeed when I translated it back to English it started saying something about tobacco. Not good.

I recently learnt that other countries don’t have Boxing Day, so for those who don’t know what it is, it’s basically the day after Christmas Day, and is also a public holiday. Most people I know use it to visit family they didn’t get to see the day before.

The final part of this chapter was partly inspired by a fanart by Loony Lucifer, known as Luciferian Principle on this site. It can be found here-

http: / / img. photobucket. com/ albums /v717/ appleheadstudios /Wonka/ mycandyman. jpg

Just take out the spaces to get it to work. :)

She's done lots of other brilliant Charlie/Wonka pictures too, and I very much recommend checking them out. They are pure awesomeness.