#the 'real' post-movie installment will (hopefully) be a lot more uhhh healthy

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

Fertile Wounds - Part 1

@n0isy-gh0st requested creepy Willy/Madeleine and I am nothing if not an overachiever so here is part 1 of idk how many parts. Welcome to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss hours. It's gonna get fucked up.

In the wake of the Golden Ticket tour, over ten years since they last met, Willy and Madeleine have begun to reconcile. The sweetness of their reunion, however, is soured by Madeleine's realisation that something is very, very wrong in the factory, and with Madeleine herself.

WARNINGS: Body horror, gore, unreality/gaslighting.

Madeleine knew most people were discomfited, at best, by her tattoos. It was why she normally wore long sleeves while working in Elysium (not so much Rapture; the primarily studenty bar clientele was less likely to be put off); to uphold the image of the warm, inviting patissier. A woman made of honey and spun sugar.

Underneath her clothes, she was covered in brambles with thick, wicked thorns. They were expertly rendered and looked sharp enough to draw blood. Despite being just ink on her skin, Madeleine had noticed people thought twice about touching her after seeing them. Which suited her just fine.

So it didn't surprise her to notice the sidelong glances the Buckets passed between each other. Wondering what she, with her arms full of thorns and her cynical attitude, thought she was doing there in Candyland. All save the youngest Bucket; Charlie was too young to grasp the full nuance of everything that had gone into her tattoos but he looked at her sometimes as if he had an idea of the broad strokes. Madeleine had seen him turn that knowing gaze on Willy, too. She wasn't sure what to make of being on the receiving end of it herself, but it wasn't as uncomfortable an experience as she would have expected. Charlie was a perceptive and remarkably good-hearted child.

What Willy thought of the thicket of thorns that had grown over the original wildflowers during their time apart, Madeleine was equally uncertain of. He hadn't said a word about them so far, although he occasionally traced a finger along a twisting stem, deftly avoiding the thorns. When he kissed her, he found the few patches of bramble-free skin to press his lips against. Madeleine had left the space on the back of her shoulder untouched; the berry-coloured lip print remained, and he took it as an invitation.

How did Madeleine feel, these days? Tired, mostly; weary of clutching her pain so close to her chest and pretending it was a shield. She yearned to drop it and allow herself to feel, fully and freely, once again, but so many years holding the same defensive position had cramped up her muscles: she couldn't just decide to stop being cautious.

And yet. When she woke up next to Willy, the taste of candy apples in her mouth, it became harder and harder to think of reasons not to stay forever. Madeleine would lie there, thinking fiercely about the businesses she had built with her own two hands - hers, truly and only hers - but her pride melted away all too quickly when she looked into Willy's sleeping face. The unbridled joy that never failed to illuminate him when he woke up and saw her.

Harder and harder to pull herself away. Easier and easier to listen to Willy when he asked her to stay. At times, it felt like they were back in the old days, the good days; the handful of months when everything at the factory seemed to be going so well and they were on top of the world together.

Sweet and good and smooth, like buttercream on her tongue.

That was why it took her so long to notice something wasn't right.

*

They didn’t sleep together right away - despite the knowing looks from the older Buckets, those first few nights really were essentially a sleepover - but, when they did, it was just as Madeleine remembered. Except hungrier, maybe: they had a lot of time to make up for.

Afterwards, they got to know each other’s bodies again. Willy traced a careful finger along her brambles, deftly avoiding the thorns. He didn’t say much, but there was an awful, knowing look in his eyes. Madeleine had become marginally more capable of being known in the past decade, however, and she managed to meet his gaze rather than physically and verbally deflecting as she used to. That earned her a smile, small and sweet as a new summer strawberry.

“I think these could flower again, you know,” he remarked. “I’ll just have to be careful ‘til then.”

“Don’t worry, the thorns only cut people I don’t like.”

As for Willy, he was much the same as before; still a hair too skinny, worn thin by the sheer intense mania of being Willy Wonka. Madeleine enjoyed running her fingers through his longer, silky-soft hair; enjoyed, too, the very familiar way he melted into her touch like a cat. The reason for his perpetually gloved hands became clearer - the chemical stains that had begun to take hold in the old days were much clearer and stronger now. Each tapered, elegant finger was blotchy with shades of purple, yellow, green, blue, magenta. They looked bruised, if you didn’t know better.

“Tie-dye fingers,” she teased him, just like she used to, kissing each fingertip in turn. “You hippy.”

What did shock her was the scar: an ugly, knotted puncture wound on his side, as if something had gone for his liver. Which, it transpired, was exactly the case.

“A big old wangdoodle got me while I was exploring Loompaland. I woulda been a goner if the Oompa Loompas hadn’t found me: wangdoodles are the most toxic creatures in the world, it’s why they go for the liver.”

Madeleine lay back as the story washed over her. She’d seen the Oompa Loompas - even grown accustomed to them - but Willy’s stories still carried a sense of unreality. Could it really be possible he discovered a completely unknown country populated by horrendous monsters and cocoa bean worshipping little people?

And yet. If anyone can achieve the impossible, it’s Willy Wonka - and he did say he was going to the ends of the earth.

Whether it was true or not, Madeleine was willing to believe. Willy wove the story so deftly she couldn’t see the seams even if she squinted. Sweeter, then, to take it at face value; to be swept up in the dream. Just like old times. The thought sent a pang through her.

“So were your travels worth it, Gulliver?” Madeleine was proud of how light and inconsequential she managed to keep her tone. The ends of the earth. So far, just to be away from her and the mess she’d made.

No matter. He was back now, and so was she.

Willy chuckled, oblivious to her inner conflict. “I sure felt like I’d woken up in Lilliput at first. I don’t think they knew what to make of me any more than I did them. Lucky for me, the chief at the time was a curious kind of guy and he wanted to talk to me - well, eventually. It took a while for me to learn their language well enough to get anything across.”

“They speak English now, though.”

“Yeah, they learned pretty fast once they arrived here. Honestly, I was really impressed, ‘specially since they just had me around to learn from. They’re clever little guys and gals. Took to the factory work like they were made for it, too; you’d never guess Loompaland was just jungle as far as the eye could see.”

Madeleine rolled onto her side, leaning on her elbow. “Have you ever been back?”

“I went back and forth a few times to bring the Oompa Loompas over here. They wanted to send an expedition party first; it made sense, they’d never been outta Loompaland before, and they wanted to make sure I wasn’t gonna do anything awful to ‘em. So those guys had to go and report back and then they took a vote on all of them moving out to the factory. They’re very democratic, the Oompa Loompas - natural union members,” Willy added with a wink. “You’d approve.”

“Yeah, I heard the office staff have a union. I tried to poke my head in once after five to grab some files, I thought they were going to come after me with pitchforks.”

Willy laughed again, although it was now a much more awkward sound. For once, he was the one who couldn’t meet Madeleine’s eyes. “Yeah. That… That’s ‘cause of you, actually. Well, kind of. I — I mean, I knew how hard you worked, but it wasn’t until I had to do it myself…” Willy grimaced. “Maddy, how’d you do it?”

Oh, no. No. Not this. Not when everything was so sweet and good. Madeleine tensed. Her heart was already beating faster, her breath catching in her throat. No. Not this, not now.

Of all the times for Willy “Never-Talk-About-The-Past” Wonka to decide he will, after all, talk about the past.

“Badly,” she reminded him, aiming for flippant but knowing at once she’d missed the mark. “Remember?”

“What…” Willy sat up, all traces of post-coital languidness gone. “No — Madeleine, you can’t think — it wasn’t your fault! It was those damn spies, and the bank, and those useless investors—”

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Madeleine cut in, pushing herself up to sit against the pillows with her knees pulled up to her chest. “If you’ve forgiven me, that’s fine, but don’t pretend you didn’t blame me — didn’t have reason to blame me… Look, can we just not talk about this? Please?”

She couldn’t sit there and listen to him try to make excuses for her. She knew the narrative and she accepted it: she fucked up, came this close to costing Willy his dream forever, and in return he cut her loose as a liability he couldn’t continue to shoulder. It hurt more than anything else in her life - came closer to killing her than the overdose did - but it made sense. If Willy didn’t hate and blame her back then, why leave? It turned an act of considered cruelty into one of random malice, which made it so much harder to swallow.

She couldn’t stand to hear any of it. The accusations or, worse, the gentle avoidance of placing blame. The pity. She’d rather die than be pitied, and no matter that she had been plenty pitiful in her life. Pride was all she had, wrapped as tightly around her as the thorns inked into her skin.

“Madeleine.” Willy’s voice was soft; not with gentleness, but as if he was too afraid of what he was about to say to speak it any louder. “Have you thought I blamed you all this time?”

A sound erupted out of Madeleine; you couldn’t call it a laugh, not that clash of broken glass. “If you didn’t blame me, why did you leave me behind? I — I understand, okay?” Madeleine forced out, voice cracking. “You didn’t sign up to deal with — that — you wanted out, I understand—”

Stop talking - stop it, stop it - you’ll make it worse - you’ll prove how much is still wrong with you - SHUT UP!

But she couldn’t; like vomit, the words rose up and just keep coming, the dam of brain-to-mouth filter completely breaking down. Madeleine opened her mouth and words spewed forth. What remained of her conscious mind could only watch, as horrified as Willy, by this brand new mess. An image of herself as a broken bottle of wine on the floor flashed through her mind, red liquid seeping into a cream rug: irreparable.

“I understand,” she repeated, because she needs to stress this above all else. “I ruined it — I ruined everything—” 

“Maddy — stop — just listen—”

Willy reached out, grabbed her arm — and immediately released her with a savage cry of pain. He yanked his hand back, cradling it to his chest. A dark red ribbon ran from his hand down his arm and dripped onto the bedsheets. It was so sudden and so incomprehensible that they both simply stared for a moment before realising—

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding — how — why — oh, God!”

Madeleine, reaching for his hand to see the damage, recoiled when she saw the huge thorn sticking clean through Willy’s hand. It looked impossibly big, the length of a finger, the end red with blood. Pushing through her horror and revulsion, Madeleine took hold of his hand and tried desperately to remember what you were meant to do with a puncture wound — did should she push the thorn out one way, or the other, or leave it alone entirely? Every second of indecision, more blood pumped out of Willy's hand - on him, on her, on the bed. Willy himself just stared in mute horror; finally, he raised his eyes to look at her.

“They only cut people you don’t like,” he echoed, voice dull.

*

Madeleine woke with a start, gasping for breath. The bedroom was shadowy and she was not alone; Willy sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. At once, Madeleine grabbed for his hand, holding it up and squinting in the dim light: it was ungloved, and unharmed. Madeleine stared at it, uncomprehending.

“What…” Madeleine didn’t even know what to ask. How much of what just happened was real? She was no longer naked, either, she realised belatedly; she was wearing her pyjamas. “Willy, what…?”

“It’s okay.” Willy’s voice was as warm and sweet as melted chocolate. He threaded his fingers through hers, pulled her hand to his lips to kiss the palm and then folded her fingers down, as if to keep it a secret. “I’m gonna make everything okay, Maddy, I promise. I mean it this time. You’re gonna be happy here.”

“I hurt you.” Madeleine couldn’t take her eyes off his hand. There wasn’t even a scratch. It was a dream. And yet, it didn’t feel that way.

“No, no, you didn’t,” Willy assured her. “Nothing bad can happen here. Not to us. Not ever again.”

Madeleine couldn’t think. She felt — syrupy, now, after the initial adrenaline burst; detached. The questions and concerns were all there, but kept at bay behind a pane of glass. Like when she was double- and triple-dosing on alprazolam. Had she—? No, she can’t have, she hadn’t had a prescription in years, the doctors wouldn’t give her one anymore. But losing track of time, unreliable memories: they had been signs, before, she was taking far too much.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” she confessed, driven to an honesty that would be impossible if she were in her right mind. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing bad,” Willy repeated. The way he said it made it sound like a mantra. His eyes, wide and a little fearful, only lent further credence to the notion. “Nothing bad. I promise. I promise.”

“...No,” Madeleine said slowly, groping for coherent thought. “I—I did, I hurt you — again — I need to… need to…”

“Sleep,” Willy cut in. He swallowed, hard, and squeezed her hand. “Please? Try to sleep. It’ll be okay in the morning. It really will. You’ll see.”

*

“Vouloir, c’est pouvoir, my dear; give me your will and I’ll show you the way.”

*

When Madeleine woke next, it was to bright light. The vast majority of the factory did not receive any sunlight, but the lights had been programmed to brighten and dim to reflect the day-and-night cycle of the outside world. Madeleine estimated it was mid-morning.

As she stretched and shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep, she was struck by a sense of unease that she could not place the source of. Within a few minutes, however, it had dissipated entirely. The lingering remnants of a bad dream? She'd had more than a few of those in her time. Madeleien was just glad she hadn't woken up with a head full of nightmare images.

On the contrary, she felt great: well-rested and content. The only tiny fly in the ointment was that she didn't wake up next to Willy, but he was a notorious early riser and had probably been at work for hours already. While she slept on in slothful indolence... well, it was her weekend, technically.

Still, Madeleine reflected as she clambered out of bed and went through to the bathroom, she'd have a word with him about finding something she could help out with. Just sitting around the factory discomfited her; she was so accustomed to being busy that she couldn't acclimate herself to having nothing to do.

It made her smile to see her toothbrush next to Willy's; her favourite toiletries once again populating the bathroom cabinet. Was that even... yes, the marshmallow and sugar plum scented bubble bath that had heralded the end of many delightful evenings stood next to the enormous bath. Hmm, that might be giving her ideas...

Madeleine reached out for the bottle, intending to take a sniff to prompt a few more of those memories — and stopped short, frowning at her hand. What was...

There, in her nail beds: semicircles of rust. Of, she realised with a lurch, dried blood.

An image flashed into her mind: Willy's hand, pierced and bleeding. Then, like that was the key in the lock, the rest of the memory gunned through her mind's eye. Madeleine's breath hitched and her legs weakened; she half-collapsed to sit on the edge of the bath. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood rushing in her ears.

He'd promised she hadn't hurt him. He'd promised it hadn't been real... no, wait, he hadn't said that, had he? Not in so many words?

But there hadn't been a scratch on him.

But, if it hadn't been real, why was his blood quite literally on her hands?

But how could it have been real? Did she really think a thorn had come out of her skin and attacked Willy? That was insane. No... no, she'd... she'd cut herself, or something, and not noticed. Scratched herself in her sleep and drawn a bit of blood. Something. Anything. Anything at all other than this madness.

Madeleine, in the wake of the episode that got her sectioned and resulted in Willy fleeing the country, had at times had a tentative relationship with concepts like time and memory, but hallucinations was an untapped market. She would like, very badly, for it to stay that way.

Then again, which was the worse prospect — that she was going mad, or that it was all somehow real?

Nothing bad can happen here, Willy had promised.

Except, one way or another, it already had.