#but it's been languishing for months and my brain can't connect the dots so fuck it

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

next up in fragments from the goggle docs: a fic with the working title "the best kind of v-day gift is a dildo in the ass", feat: wonka/oc couple being middle-aged and willy having a crisis about it.

It was a point of pride for Willy Wonka that nothing created within his factory was artificial.

Now, that might sound like a hefty claim for a man who crafted ice cream that never melted no matter how long you left it out in the sun, or chewing gum that could turn a little girl into a gigantic blueberry, or any other of the endless wonders that had come out of that factory over the years. But to Willy Wonka, the word ‘artificial’ was practically a curse; it called to mind noxious chemicals, toxic E-numbers, and that whole parlava a few years back over blue skittles.

No, nothing in his factory was artificial… he just had a different way of looking at what the Earth gave him naturally, and did some very interesting things with that bounty -- and if nobody else was smart enough to give Mother Nature a nudge here and there to synthesise a snozzberry, or breed sheep that grew cotton candy straight out of their backs, well, there was a reason he was the undisputed King of Candy and not those idiots over at Hershey’s or Nestle.

The trouble with that line of thinking was that a genius could be extraordinarily smart in one respect, and incredibly foolish in others; deeply susceptible to a colossal hubris that took to wondering -- if he could bend the laws of nature to his will where candy was concerned, then why not try… other… applications?

----

Light came slowly in the mornings; a gentle glow emanating from the lamps dotted around the factory to mimic the sunlight that rarely if ever penetrated the thick concrete walls. Colours spilling from the darkest twilight shades steadily brightening through scarlet, mauve, amber, and finally pale yellow, all gleaming through gossamer-fine hangings spangled with gold and silver embroidery, onto an enormous bed. Piles of cushions and coverlets were heaped upon it; velvet, satin, silk, Egyptian cotton, all in wanton, boudoir shades of scarlet and burgundy and royal purple, accented with flashes of black and ivory.

Finally, within this wonderland, the light illuminated two bodies entwined in sleep.

Conventional folk wisdom held that married couples grew, over time, to look alike, but the resemblances here were scant. One was fair-haired, with a cavalcade of blonde curls spilling over the pillows, the covers thrown back to reveal a skimpy black negligee, and a mouth still half-bloody with last night’s lipstick. Another flush of red bloomed on her chest. Madeleine found the climate of the factory hard to bear in recent years, although it was difficult to say who was the greater martyr: Madeleine herself for suffering the hot flushes of middle age, or her husband for the way he often found himself sharing a bed with a burning hot engine in human form.

Said long-suffering husband sported a bob of dark hair that flowed like melted chocolate over his cheek. Unlike his partner, he nestled comfortably into the covers (at least for now), but a flash of scarlet pyjamas was still visible. His eyes were ringed with a mixture of shadow and mascara, smudged where he had pawed at his face in sleep.

Actually, there was one similarity: both of them had hair streaked with grey, faces lined with joys and sorrows; signs of lives lived fully and well.

Last night was lived particularly full and well, at that. Charlie’s 21st birthday necessitated a full throttle bacchanalia in two parts: dinner for the family (crowned with a magnificent triple chocolate birthday cake crafted jointly by Willy and Madeleine), followed by a party hosted at Rapture. Given the occasion, and the fact that the elder Buckets had bowed out after the dinner, the night had gotten… rather wild. 

Which was why, as the brightening room stirred them from sleep, they groaned in unison at their throbbing headaches.

Madeleine was the first to stir properly, cursing under her breath and rubbing her temples with a grimace. Once she regained her sense of place, she groped towards the bedside table for the glass of water she’d retained just enough foresight the night before to place there. Levering herself up was a heroic exercise, rewarded by slightly stale, room-temperature water: in that moment, perhaps one of the most delicious things she had ever tasted.

“Are we dead?” Willy moaned only half-coherently, face buried into a lacy pillow, in his usual dramatic fashion.

“I think if we were dead our heads wouldn’t hurt so much,” Madeleine replied. Even with the water, her voice rasped; her tongue was inclined to stick to the roof of her mouth. “Drink your water.”

“I don’t have any water.”

“Yes, you do, I put a glass next to the bed for you last night.”

“You -- oh!” Willy raised his head far enough to spot his prize. “I love you, Maddy.”

Madeleine chuckled, reaching out with her free hand to ruffle Willy’s hair affectionately; her laughter only grew when he whined and ducked away like he always did. Even with bedhead, Willy was always conscious of his appearance.

“I love you, too. Did you have a good enough time last night to justify the hangover?”

“Ugh… ask me again after I’ve had a mocha and something to eat, I’ll give you a fairer answer.”

As if on cue, a polite knock at the bedroom door announced Sidonie arriving with the breakfast trolley. Normally, Madeleine made breakfast for them herself, but after late nights she gratefully handed over the task of feeding them to the expert. Sidonie was by now an old hand at hangover breakfasts and had a rotation of menus that perfectly balanced the necessary starch to soak up the lingering alcohol with the nutrition needed to kick start two middle-aged bodies back into gear.

Sidonie also had a knack -- much appreciated by her employers -- for managing to disappear within moments after delivering breakfast, sparing everyone the embarrassment of Willy and Madeleine appearing deshabille post-debauchery. Madeleine clawed her way out of bed, cracked the door open to confirm Sidonie had vanished, and then opened it further to pull the breakfast trolley inside.

A pot of hot chocolate: brewed strong, dark, and with a kick of chilli. A platter of french toast, another of scrambled egg and bacon, and a third with an artistic display of cut fruit. Madeleine and Willy inhaled gratefully, pouring cups of chocolate, fixing their plates, and then returning gratefully to bed with their bounty.

Breakfast came along with the morning post: a package for Madeleine and a stack of letters and newspapers for Willy. The former were business; the latter, despite Willy’s protestations to the contrary, were pure pleasure. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say they were pure vanity. The world’s greatest chocolatier liked nothing better than to bask in evidence of his own superiority, and hoarded all mentions of himself in print like a smug, self-satisfied dragon. He perused the papers every morning over breakfast, preening over the compliments and swearing violent, bloody vengeance on any journalist who dared to criticise him.

(Nor were these threats in any way idle: the still-unsolved mystery of Arthur Slugworth’s disappearance was testament to that. Ahh, good times… Making Slugworth pay for all he had done was one of Madeleine’s most cherished memories, and she was so glad she’d convinced Willy to let her salt him like the slug he was.)

Of course, Willy had extremely good cause to be smug and self-satisfied. Plus, Charlie collected the clippings off him to continue the scrapbooks Dr Wonka had left behind when a heart attack finally carried him off five years earlier. Madeleine was quite sure that Willy valued the scrapbooks more than the scant handful of pleasant memories he had with his father as a grown man, and she didn’t blame him.

Willy flicked through the papers, letting out a contented hum as he scanned the usual headlines praising Wonka Candies: they had released a new range of patisserie-themed chocolates earlier that week and they were receiving every bit of adulation they were due. Until, suddenly, he paused on a particular tabloid, blinked several times, and then emitted an ungodly shriek of indignation.

“RETIREMENT?!”

Madeleine, jumping in shock, cursed as her hot chocolate slopped onto the bedcovers. She grabbed a napkin and mopped the mess up as best she could, but distractedly: her focus was on her husband.

“What? What about retirement?”

“This!” Willy hissed, shoving the tabloid in her face, one finger stabbing at the headline. “They--they--they’re saying -- they think I -- and I don’t look like that, do I, Maddy?” he finished with a wail.

“Willy--” Admitting defeat with the coverlet, Madeleine dropped the sodden tissue onto her breakfast tray, set down her half-empty mug, and took the newspaper from him. “What is this?”

“They’re saying I’m old and ugly and I should go away!”

The article in question was not quite so blunt… but it wasn’t far off, either.

CANDY KING GOING STALE

IS WONKA READY FOR RETIREMENT?

For more than thirty years, Willy Wonka (52) has ruled the confectionery world, an enduring fashion as well as culinary icon, seemingly as impervious to the years as his infamous never-melting chocolate ice cream. After seeing photographs taken outside Rapture, the bar owned by longtime partner Madeleine Berry (52),  however, it looks like the King of Chocolate is finally reaching his limit.

Was this just a rough night, or is there a reason why Willy Wonka spent most of his youth out of the public eye -- the better to sustain his apparently fragile image? Rumours have abounded for years that Wonka has chemical support in maintaining his electric personality and unyielding domination of Candyland, although he has always denied the allegations even after Berry entered rehab in 1990 and again in 2009.

Perhaps all candy lovers should be grateful that Wonka’s protege is ready to step into his increasingly unsteady shoes…

Story continues on page 5.

The photograph in question was indeed singularly unflattering: snapped at an angle, slightly blurred, it showed Willy stumbling on his way out of Rapture and leaning on Charlie’s shoulder for support. Bright fluorescent lighting from the streetlamp overhead mixed poorly with the coloured neon glare from Rapture’s sign, making Willy look more gaunt and washed-out than usual.

It had been such a brief, silly moment that Madeleine had forgotten about it: they were all drunk (they were celebrating Charlie’s 21st, for God’s sake, they were hardly likely to make it through the night sober), but not to the point of incapacity. Willy stumbled due to a loose paving stone on the street outside after they finally called it a night. Hell, Madeleine had already asked Robbie to hassle the council and get it sorted a few days earlier, but even the power and wealth of the greatest confectionery business on Earth was not enough to kick local authority bureaucracy into high gear.

Looking at the photograph out of context, however, it did look as if Willy was either frail, off his head, or both… and God forbid a sleazy tabloid pass up the opportunity to fling mud at a celebrity.

At least Slugworth was eight years in the ground, Madeleine reflected with grim satisfaction, or else the so-called journalist responsible for this would no doubt have gotten a gloating statement out of him. She was almost surprised they hadn’t dug up his corpse to interview it.

“Bloody paparazzi.” Madeleine sighed and folded the newspaper in half, hiding the offending article. “Don’t pay any attention to it, darling, you know what those bottom-feeders are like.”

But Willy was not so easily comforted. He hunched in on himself, turning a brooding stare into the depths of his hot chocolate, and ignoring the remaining papers.

“I mean it, Willy,” Madeleine continued, her tone softening from its previous briskness. She reached out, laying a hand on her husband’s thin shoulder. “They took a bad shot, which says far more about the photographer than you, and they’re trying to pass it off as if it means something, but it doesn’t. And anyone of any sense will see that, too.”

Willy just let out a low hum, which might have been agreement, or simply indicating a desire to move on. He was silent through the rest of breakfast, picking at his food or ignoring it entirely even when Madeleine tried to cajole him into eating. Madeleine was still finishing her french toast when he slipped out of bed and disappeared into his bathroom leaving only an indistinguishable mutter in his wake.

The satisfaction Madeleine got from tearing out the offending tabloid pages and ripping them systematically to shreds was paltry, but that didn’t stop her from doing it.

----

When they drew up the plans for the factory all those years ago, Madeleine knew the builders and architects thought the choice of his-and-hers bathrooms was at her insistence… Which it was, but not for the reasons they assumed. Having lived with Willy in that cramped apartment above the Cherry Street shop for five years at that point, Madeleine knew that the love of her life was a bathroom hog on par with the greatest Old Hollywood divas. If Madeleine ever wanted to start the day on time and looking her best, they needed separate spaces. Dear God, even she didn’t spend as long in front of her makeup mirror as Willy did!

“Willy?” Madeleine called as she knocked on the locked door of Willy’s bathroom. “Are you alive in there, or did you drown in the shower?”

Unease simmered beneath the jibe. Madeleine was normally the one who reverted to self-isolation when unhappy, while Willy was more likely to act out, pouting and whining and throwing a tantrum. For him to lock himself away meant this was more than mere unhappiness or passing embarrassment at an unflattering picture. Of course Madeleine knew how sensitive Willy was about the image he projected to the world, but for one photograph to have this impact was… troubling. It made her wonder exactly what nerve the photograph had touched, and how deeply the pain went.

Like toothache, she reflected -- ruefully, because she knew how much Willy would despise the comparison, but here it was apt. Pain flared up, but was it just a passing twinge, or a sign of a building rot that had so far gone unnoticed?

“Come on out, love. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

No reply from within the bathroom. Madeleine was just about to knock again when the door opened and out stepped a figure that made her breath catch in her throat; she actually took a half-step back in shock.

“...Willy?”

Willy had transformed himself. His hair was a sleek, uniform chocolate brown with not a single grey hair to be seen. His skin was smooth and even and utterly flawless; no crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, no smile lines around his mouth, no dark circles from their late night. He was dressed only in his silky robe, but Madeleine was sure it was cinched tighter around his waist than it had been earlier, and the flash of chest above the burgundy silk looked… firmer.

As Madeleine dragged her gaze back up to her husband’s face, she was met by a grin. Not just any grin: wide, wild, and a little  manic. It was the absolute perfect example of Willy’s cat-got-the-cream smile, the smile that meant he was up to mischief, which meant this was more than her initial assumption of hair dye, foundation, and a couple of vitamin shots.

“Hi!” he cooed, striking a pose. In that second he looked nineteen again, happy as a lark after Madeleine lent him a dress and made him up for the first time. As if he was finally comfortable in his own skin. “What do you think?”

“You… You look…” Madeleine struggled to find the right word. Amazing leapt to mind, as did fabulous and gorgeous and all the other superlatives that aptly described a beautiful young man, but… Willy wasn’t a young man. He was fifty-two years old, and God she adored him, but he didn’t look like this. “...Different.”

“Oh, do I?” Willy patted his bob and batted his eyes. “In a good way?”

“What have you done?”

The smile on Willy’s face grew visibly forced. Madeleine could feel the pressure to bow to the narrative he was trying to craft in the air around her, squeezing her from all sides; not least from her own impulse, never quite erased, to make sure Willy was happy above all else.

“Can’t a girl just want to look her best?”

----

“You’ve got to try it, Maddy!” he finished, holding out the tiny pill with a flourish.

He looked so earnest, and so utterly certain, like a benevolent god holding out a miracle… and Madeleine recoiled from it; from him.

“I’ve got to?” she echoed. Her voice cracked halfway through the question as every single one of her fifty-two years suddenly bore down on her like lead weights; physically dragging down her flesh, hissing in her ear, every single one of the old insecurities rushing back to scream triumphantly that see, see, he never thought you were beautiful, you stupid bitch, you should have known he was just putting up with you, taking pity on you -- look at yourself, you haggard, ugly hag! Grey hair, wrinkles, sagging tits, sweating all the time with the hot flushes, you don’t even get as fucking wet as you used to, no wonder he wants you better, no wonder he wants you changed--

“W--well, I mean, don’t you want…?” But here Willy faltered. He looked her in the eye, and something desperate flashed across his own face, gone before she could categorise it, followed up with another wide smile. “You’ll feel so much better, Maddy, I promise! We both will! And then everything will be good again!”

“I thought we were pretty good already.” Madeleine crossed her arms defensively -- protectively -- across her chest, now excruciatingly aware of how the cut of her blouse highlighted the creping skin on her neck and how her breasts didn’t sit quite as high as they used to. “I didn’t realise me being an old hag was so offensive to you.” 

----

Charlie sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Okay. I think I see what happened here. Willy, do you remember that time we talked about how there can be a… um, a gap, between what you say, and what someone else hears?”

“Uh-huh! That’s definitely what happened here,” Willy confirmed. “I said I’d found the most amazing way for Maddy and I -- and you, of course -- to look and feel perfect forever, and she heard some kooky nonsense about me not loving her any more! I just don’t know how to make her hear me properly.”

Charlie looked pained. Willy sympathised; it was never easy, running up against Madeleine’s spiky edges, where she wouldn’t hear a gosh-darned thing you said to her, and Charlie idolised her… Poor boy, he was probably realising now he was all grown up that sometimes idols weren’t infallible.

“Right… So maybe you -- we -- need to start by trying to understand Maddy’s point of view. I think she might be upset because it sounded like you aren’t happy with how she looks now.”

----

Chestnut hair streaked with strands of grey. A porcelain face carved with lines of both worry and laughter. Hands as delicate as scientific instruments, still pristine from age spots due to his habit of wearing gloves, but gloves could not preserve his skin perfectly from growing thinner, or stop veins standing out more visibly. A body softening from its previous youthful firmness.

And every single inch as perfect and beautiful and alluring as the day she first set eyes on him.

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" he protested when she first voiced as much. Body twisting, looking away, cheeks aflame with colour. "Maddy, I… I know I'm not -- well -- what I used to be."

"That's enough of that," replied Madeleine, implacable as iron. "Nobody gets to say you aren't beautiful, least of all you yourself. Look at you, sweetheart… The most gorgeous girl I've ever seen, even now. Especially now."

"Especially how?" Willy demanded; not wooed, not yet, but betraying a willingness to be.

Madeleine capitalised by pulling him close and pressing a firm kiss to his pouting lips.

“So getting older makes you ugly?” she asked in a low voice. “Does that mean I ought to get rid of all that lingerie? If it’s going to waste on an old bird like me.”

How far they had come, that she could voice such an idea with nothing more than irony in her tone; that the idea she was hitting on a secret truth did not even cross her mind. Willy widened his eyes and instantly squawked a denial.

“No! No, no, you -- Maddy, you’re gorgeous!”

“Really?” Madeleine lowered her eyes, affecting uncertainty. “Even though I’m not as firm and tight as I used to be? And all this grey in my hair… it doesn’t exactly set off the leather--”

“No!” Willy interrupted her firmly -- no, desperately. He cupped her jaw in his hands and tilted her head up to kiss her. “No, no, no. That’s ridiculous, you’re beautiful -- just ‘cause you’re a little older doesn’t mean--” Abruptly, he stopped, leaned back, and narrowed his eyes at her; Madeleine smirked in response, and Willy huffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Oh, gingersnaps, I hate it when you do that! Stop making me out to be a hypocrite if I don’t agree with you!”

Madeleine couldn’t help it: she laughed. “Well, stop spouting rubbish then, you silly boy!”

Willy huffed again, folding his arms across his chest. “You -- but -- that’s not--” Madeleine raised her eyebrows, wordlessly cutting off that line of protest, and Willy sighed. “Fine. So long as you promise not to get rid of the leather! Or the lingerie. Or anything else, ‘kay?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Madeleine assured him, looping her arms around his waist to pull him close; he melted against her, belying his pretended irritation. “I happen to have some very important plans for all of those goodies.”

“Plans?” Pink suffused Willy’s cheeks as he looked up at her hopefully from where he was nestling his head against her shoulder. “Wh--what kinda plans? You know brainstorming is better with two, right?”

“Normally… But this happens to be a surprise.” Madeleine winked. “You know how good I am at those.”

“Huh.” Willy paused. Madeleine, sensing he wasn’t quite done, contented herself with nuzzling his hair as he percolated. “...You’re not just saying that because--”

“I’m saying it,” Madeleine interrupted him, knowing precisely where that was going, “Because you're gorgeous and I’m as mad for you now as I was at eighteen. Because every year you get more wicked and wild and wonderful than I ever thought you could." Madeleine chased kisses down his neck, smirking against his skin as he shuddered. "Lovely girl. You can't really think anyone could ever eclipse you? You're the most delicious creature I ever laid eyes on."

“Mmm… not that girly anymore,” Willy murmured, half under his breath.

Madeleine eyed him, surprised, but kept her voice carefully neutral as she asked, “You don’t want to be a girl anymore?”

“I’m not -- I’m--” Willy sat up, gesturing to himself, cheeks darkening. He laughed, though it was a hollow sound. “‘M just an old man now, Maddy.”

“You’ll be my girl until you’re ninety-five if that’s what you want.”

Madeleine spoke only the truth when she told Willy she loved him even more now than she had when they were young. Looking at him now, splayed out on the bed, pale and perfect in her eyes… The sight of him sent a sharp spike of desire through her core, leaving her breathless, in some ways even more so than when she was twenty. Now, his allure was as strong as ever, while the years had enhanced trust, dulled insecurity, and forged between them the certainty of commitment. Now, desire was the sugar of his skin on her tongue, without the bitterness of wondering if she was good enough for him. Now, she knew damn well there was nobody for either of them but each other.

----

As for that package she’d received the morning this all started…

Her intention had been to wait until Valentine’s Day, because she had a wildly romantic streak that she loved to indulge when the opportunity arose. Willy kept nagging at her, however, trying to weasel out her plans, which far from annoying Madeleine only made her more eager to get on with them, and in the end she only lasted until the end of the week before breaking out her costume and preparing their playroom.

Leather gloves. Cherry red satin lingerie. The high heels hadn’t been quite so high since her back started twinging in the morning, but she was taller than Willy anyway so it wasn’t the biggest loss. Otherwise, the routine was as familiar as breathing by now, and in this case familiarity bred the complete opposite of contempt.

“Kneel,” she ordered, and Willy obeyed promptly.

Nowadays they used a pillow for his knees -- memory foam was a glorious invention -- and Madeleine did not tie the bondage quite as tightly as she used to, out of respect for his joints. The blindfold still went on, though, and Willy’s mouth had only grown more devious over the years.

Speaking of which… Madeleine gasped, grabbing a handful of Willy’s hair as he made fabulous use of the opportunity afforded by her peekaboo knickers.