Author: uh...me? ~:)
Pairing: n/a...just Wonka and Charlie chillin'
Summary: This is a snippet from a story I started a couple months back but didn't have the heart to finish. I thoroughly enjoyed this vision of Wonka's bedroom and had a fun time writing it, so I cleaned it up for all YOU guys! ~:)
Warning: nada, unless you're afraid of paisley.
Charlie awoke late the following morning, surprised to not find himself in the hospital ward that he had fallen asleep in the night before. Instead, he was laid up in a bed much larger than the ward's doubles, perhaps a king size. The frame was carved from dark mahogany, and the posts supported an opaque canopy of a plum red color, not unlike Mr. Wonka's favorite coat.
In fact, as Charlie's groggy eyes took in his surroundings, the whole bed resembled Wonka's favorite ensemble. He laid under at least three or four layers of bedding, the topmost a lined brocayed silk cover blanket, depicting an enlarged version of the paisley pattern Charlie often saw peeking out from under Mr. Wonka's waistcoats. The pillows on the bed were assorted; some also covered in the paisley, others simply black, or encased in the familiar red velvet.
Grateful for the supportive pillows under his aching head, Charlie looked to his right to observe further around the room. As he turned, he felt his chest tighten and pinch, and only then realized how raspy and shallow his breaths were. The entire right wall was a frosted window, allowing natural light to come through but retaining the privacy that Mr. Wonka valued so much. Many windows in the factory were like that, as Charlie has learned over the years. One massive dark green velvet curtain was drawn to the left of the window. It was thick and looked very heavy from the way it hung on its dowel, the bottom hem lying limp on the floor, reminding Charlie of theater curtains.
On the opposite side of the room, and apparently the side of the bed Charlie lay on, the sunlight could not quite reach it. The corners he stared at offered no alternate source of light, but he could just make out the shapes of typical bedroom furniture. A small desk, a dresser, and some other shapes Charlie was too tired to decipher were arranged in the semi-darkness.
His gaze finally turned to the end of the bed. A fire blazed on the opposite wall, drying up the atmosphere, making the room comfortably hot and hazy, a change from the factory's quasi-tropical climate. A strong, cleansing aroma hung over the room, perhaps cedar or mint. Charlie breathed it in, letting the scent ease the discomfort in his chest. Once he saw the hearth, Charlie finally grasped the small size of the room, at least in comparison to the others in the factory. It was also narrow; perhaps twenty-five feet long from the dark wall to the window and not more than fifteen from the headboard of the bed to the fireplace.
Charlie also perceived exactly where he was within the factory when he saw the room's primary inhabitant sitting in a rusty brown leather chair, facing the fire at a forty-five degree angle. The frock coat had been discarded, draped over the bed's footboard. His top hat rested atop a coat rack next to the door, just to the left of the fireplace. Over the arm of the chair, Charlie could just see the ball of Wonka's cane peeking out. The sight of Wonka staring thoughtfully into the fire, one hand supporting his cheek, and the other daintily resting the tips of his thumb, index and middle fingers on the ball with the remaining digits curled delicately into the air, occasionally twitching to some unheard rhythm reminded Charlie of a dog and its master. Thinking that instantly made him smile, because it was so unlikely, and very un-Wonka.
But then again, so was a Wonka this quiet.