Exchange

by StarWolf 8/3/2005

Title: Exchange
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005movieverse)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: ...horror. I think.
Pairing: older!CharliexMike.
Warnings: Slash, creepiness.
Disclaimer: Roald Dahl's and kinda Tim Burton's, not mine.
Distribution: NO ARCHIVING you whores.
Summary: ...but you'll never know his thoughts.
Author's Notes: This turned out a lot more fubar than I'd intended it to be. Dedicated to "cinema lover," who requested it, Telanu, whose review on Mark of CTown's "Hold My Hand" inspired me to write this, and to every reviewer who's ever begged me to write a longer fic. Title and summary are borrowed from Massive Attack.

---

:-x-:

Another decade and a half have passed, and the sun is bright in a scattercloud sky when he returns.

Mike's polished shoes make clacking noises on the smooth concrete as he strides purposefully up to the gate. Though hacking the security system would be relatively simple, today he has clearance. He's here for a cause, and Charlie's the effect. A few explanations and keypad-pressings later, he's on his way into the factory.

The interior is almost as he remembers it; strangely enough, the only thing that seems changed is the atmosphere. Once eccentric, now exanimate -- but maybe that's just him.

Charlie doesn't don a tailcoat; instead, he's wearing an utterly unappealing red and navy sweater ( but what else is ne--oh, wait, not much ) and looks like the star of a children's mindrot show. There were better things on TV when he was a kid, of course.

Mr. Bucket's glasses have an odd way of reflecting the obscure colours of various areas. Mr. Teavee adjusts his tie against lapels of a smart business suit. Mr. Wonka is Not Available At The Moment, and Mike can't help but wonder why.

One more labyrinthic hallway goes by before they arrive an entirely bland doorway. Mike lifts an eyebrow and suppresses an urge to snort disapproval: this place would make for a very boring elevator button. Its walls are white but absolutely unlike the television room. He can't quite figure it out, but it might have something to do with the rows upon rows of meticulously straight brushstrokes of paint. Mike curses under his breath ( mumbling as always, or so he'd said ) when he scrapes his wrist on the rough plaster.

They sit at a simple circular table in a simple circular room on simple circular stools and Mike has a proposition. In a rush of acronyms, he rattles off NYSE and NASDAQ and of course N225 ( it helped him win, afterall ) and Mike says CEO with a smile.

Despite his extension of an invitation, Charlie doesn't seem eager to talk about selling any of the company's stocks. Mike inquires about his family's wel(l)fare and doesn't listen to the answer.

Minutes of blinding blankness drudge by, filled only with the sound of Mike tap tap tapping a coffee-stirrer on the countertop.

And then Charlie's staring at him and saying, "Wonka isn't here anymore," and his eye's twitching and he's saying, "Everyone in my family died from a...mishap," and he's reaching for Mike's shirt collar and saying, "But you're still here," and he's way too close now but Mike will do this if it means a deal.

From his briefcase, he hastily procures graphs and contracts and "sign-here-on-the-dotted-line­"s and asks "Yes?" and hears "Yes." With a rustle of pen and paper, all that's left for him to complete is his half of the bargain.

His spine twists unnaturally against the edge of the table, its metal digging into the small of his back when Charlie leans over him. It's tough not to protest when his expensive tie ends up on the floor and he hopes this won't stain his brand new custom-tailored suit and Charlie must be getting terribly uncomfortable in that godawful sweater because now he is sweating. Clearly Charlie himself has changed; this is not the timid, cabbage-eating wimp of a child that Mike met years ago. He's rough and insistent and far more impolite than Mike remembers, and something akin to terror trickles up the nape of his neck when he realises that he hasn't seen a single Oompa Loompa. Then Charlie's mouth is at that tremor-spot and Mike doesn't notice anymore. He's too distracted to care about the lint getting onto his sleeves when he winds his arms around Charlie's chest.

Desperation keeps them there; Mike needs this for his career, and Charlie just needs this.

:-x-:

On his way out, Mike runs a hand through disheveled hair(gel) and smirks.

"I still hate chocolate."