Wouldn't It Be A Shame If Bean Became A Dentist When He Grows Up?

Wouldn't it be a shame if Bean became a dentist when he grows up?

I think Willy would be proud of him all the same because it meant Bean went to school and had opportunities he never did.

Masterlist

Dear Chef

Title:  Dear Chef  Synopsis: Willy Wonka receives an unexpected letter and, after asking you to read it, gets extremely excited about its contents.    Word Count: 1.5k  Warnings: None

You couldn’t find Willy. And that was unusual. You could always find Willy. He made his presence known wherever he went, one way or another.

He wasn’t in the wash house, pretending to work hard while his mind eloped to faraway places. He wasn’t in his room, pacing carelessly along the creaky floorboards, absentmindedly dodging the drip-catching buckets and mumbling to himself with one of his knuckles pressed to his mouthing lips. He wasn’t in Noodle’s room, talking the poor girl’s ear off about anything and everything his wicked mind settled upon. He wasn’t pacing the streets of the city, searching for vital ingredients or sharing his chocolate with the world; this you knew as the others were all still down in the wash house, playing cards for washing chores.

At a loss, you snuck back upstairs, heading to your own room to see if you could spot him sunning himself on the neighbour’s roof through your window, which he had been known to do on occasion – not that it ever made much difference to his milky complexion. However, you were stopped in your tracks as you turned into the open door.

Willy was there, standing by the window, a rakish splay of rich purple along the canvas of open blue sky, the soft curls of his hair shining in a chestnut glow beneath the streaming sun. The light breeze lifted the netting curtain as gently as breath, which stroked at the bareness of the arms sticking out of his rolled-up sleeves, but he was too entranced to notice. He didn’t even acknowledge you when you said his name.

Louder, you called for him, broaching the enclave of the room with lithe steps. At the echo of your voice, Willy turned his head to face you, an unreadable expression spread across the soft angles of his face, from his full doe eyes to his rolled-thin lips. There were bags under his eyes, heavy, foreboding, unforgiving, and it only added to the tension on his face. Immediately you stopped. “What’s wrong?”

His expression did not crack, but he swivelled his body to face you. “I got a letter, Y/N,” he said quietly, amazement tainting each inflexion of his whimsical voice. Emphasising his point, Willy threw up his hand, revealing the creamy envelope clutched in his nimble fingers. You caught his name on the front, above that of the city, but no other details besides. This letter must have travelled a long way.

“Oh, wow! Who’s it from?” you asked, enthusiastic but relieved. He’d seemed awful worried when you’d first walked in to find him there. To your surprise, his face did not lighten at your enthusiasm; if anything, it worsened, a crestfallen expression dawning on his countenance.

“I’m not too sure. I haven’t opened it.” He sounded as disconsolate as he looked, and you drew closer to him to take his free hand in yours. He smiled at that, his cheeks rounding and eyes illuminating.

“Are you okay?” you asked. Willy nodded, and with that smile on his face, you believed him.

“Yes, but…” A rosy glow spread across his freckled face, and he looked at you with his big eyes. “Y/N, would you mind, er… could you read it for me?” You gave him a gentle smile and reached to take the letter from his hand as you said, “Of course, Willy.”

The envelope was heavy and smudged with black marks and grubby fingerprints, with the shimmering red ink just barely legible. Letting go of Willy’s hand, you shuffled to your makeshift desk to retrieve a pair of broken scissors you kept around – it was surprising how often they came in useful.

Once you’d ripped open the letter, you turned to find Willy sitting cross-legged on your bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and chin balanced on his fists, looking over at you expectantly. It relieved you to see that the thundercloud had been blown from his face, replaced by its usual sunlight of ages.

Opting to sit on the floor, you leaned back against the bed, your head resting lightly against the chocolate maker’s legs, ensuring he could see the letter over your shoulder. Little did you know, he spent the time with his cheek pushed into one of his balled-up hands, watching his other run through your hair as soft and free as water.

“Dear Chef,” you began reading, leaning into his touch.

We hope this letter finds you well. We miss you onboard! It’s still tough at sea but we’re planning to make port near you once more, around March. Have you opened your magnifique chocolaterie yet? Will we see you? Hoping so! We’ll be in town in a few weeks. Look for us in King's Market – we'll be looking for you.

Sincerely,

Each person on the ship had hurriedly scribbled down their signature, sending their previous chef plenty of goodwill, and you read off each name diligently.

“This is only dated a couple of weeks ago,” you commented enthusiastically as you finished the letter, giving the scattered handwriting a quick final once over. “You’ll be able to see your shipmates again, Willy!”

You leant your head back to look up at him, where it fit perfectly on his lap. To your immense relief, he was smiling down as he stared dreamily out of the window, cupping your head in his soft hand.

“Yes,” he said, dreamily, “that’s wonderful.” Then, suddenly, he sprang up, unravelling his legs as nimbly as a gymnast but keeping his hand momentarily against your head to cushion its sudden release. “Gosh, so much to do now. I’ll have to wash this overcoat, clean my boots, make plenty more chocolate, collect some rose petals…” He continued mumbling to himself, some common domestic tasks and other ridiculously insane activities, as he raced to your desk and flung open one of the drawers, now alive with inspiration.

He came up with a pencil and grasped the smudged envelope, turning it over to scribble quickly along the back of it. You, now propped up on the edge of the bed and watching him with a fond smile, folded the letter up carefully as you spoke. “Willy, they won’t care what you look like – they'll only want to see you.”

He looked up at you with a small hum of acknowledgment, as though he’d already forgotten you were there. “Oh, this isn’t for them, Y/N!” He turned the envelope to show you a list of drawings of his to-do list – boots, coat, chocolate, rose etc. - finished off with a rough sketch of a shop, clearly labelled Wonka and surrounded by carefully drawn stripes and stars.

“If I want to get my chocolate shop before they arrive, I have to be in tip-top shape.” He tossed the envelope down and started pacing, twiddling the graphite pencil between his fingers as he spoke. “Now, we’ll have to start tomorrow, no, tonight, I’ll need to make much more chocolate, and we’ll have to be out early in the morning, plenty of city to cover. Where’s Noodle? She can help me, and I owe her a day’s worth of chocolate anyway, so I can…”

You were giggling, and that’s what finally stopped his rambling. “What?” he asked innocently, smiling, but it did little to stop your giggling fit. It worsened it, in fact, and as tears formed in your eyes, he couldn’t help but laugh with you.

“You think I’m going over the top, don’t you?” he asked when you’d both calmed into a silence of smiles and red faces, walking back over to you. Once he’d situated himself down beside you on the edge of the bed, he nudged your leg teasingly with his.

“No,” you said almost immediately because it was true. “You want them to be proud of you, and there’s no shame in that. But, we’re not going to get a shop overnight, no matter how clean you are or how many chocolates you sell.”

“Oh, stranger things happen every day,” he said confidently, but you looked at him with your eyebrows raised. “But I do think, on this occasion, you may be right,” he conceded with a smile. “Still, that doesn’t mean they’re not important. It just means that they can wait until tomorrow.”

As perfect a time as any, Willy yawned wanly, curving a finger somewhat uselessly to cover the cavern of his mouth.

“And that sounds like a good thing,” you laughed, as he smacked his lips, allowing his head to fall onto your shoulder. “Mm, I am rather tired,” he mumbled. With a contented hum, he nuzzled his nose into the soft skin of your neck, and you poked him gently in his side.

“It’s mid-afternoon, Willy, we are not sleeping.” Undeterred, he snuck his arms around your waist, snuggling in closer to the heat of your body. With a barely disguised grin, you were quick to hold him back.

“No, but we can just have a little lie-down, right? Then I’ll clean those chocolates and make those boots and collect those overcoats and… hm, what else was there?”

You laughed. "Yes, the chocolate shop will wait until tomorrow.” At that moment, the cathedral bell rang across the city, four pronounced bongs echoing along the cobbled streets.

“We have an hour until roll call.” Willy groaned as you pulled away from him, but was quickly quietened as you ushered him to lie down properly so you could join him. “We’d best make the most of it.”

Fluffy headcanon:

Willy singing sea shanties.

That is all.

|･ω･`)