Chapter Text
London, 1983
Friday night in Soho was never a calm or quiet affair, but the young man currently trying to battle his way against the tide to make it to his intended destination thought it seemed even more hectic than usual. Or maybe it was that he, personally, lacked the necessary strength of build to push his way through the crowds in search of a particular hole-in-the-wall bar.
Willy Wonka was a little above average height, thin as a whipcord, and dressed in a motley assortment of second- and possibly third-hand garments that could feasibly have been lifted from a Seven Dials market stall in the previous century. This impression of being some manner of Victorian waif was only enhanced by his pale skin, looking all the paler alongside a shag of untidy dark hair, dark eyes, and unexpectedly rosy lips.
Speaking of eyes: he was also, at that moment, sporting the beginnings of a truly spectacular black eye. Less visible, but just as present, was the barely-restrained panic bubbling under his skin like fire licking through his veins.
A small gap suddenly opened among the crush of bodies and Willy slipped through it, elbowing his way past a couple of tourists who had decided to come to a sudden stop in the middle of the thoroughfare. Move, move ! There -- like a revelation from a merciful god, Willy found himself in front of the door to Vermouth.
Of more immediate concern, however, was that he was also in front of Craig, the bouncer, who towered above Willy like Goliath over David. If Goliath had worn jeans and a too-tight wifebeater, that is.
Willy pasted on his best smile and offered the bouncer a jaunty wave as he slipped past. “Hi, Craig! Is Maddy working tonight?”
Or, rather, tried to slip past. One enormous hand came down on Willy’s shoulder and the next thing he knew, he’d been lifted several inches off the ground by the back of his jacket, not unlike a kitten grasped by the scruff of its neck.
“H--hey! What gives? Let me in!”
Rather than answer, Craig leaned down to peer at Willy’s face, frowning. “What have you been doing? You’re not going in there if you’re going to cause trouble.”
“ Me ?” Willy let out a high-pitched, manic bark of nervous laughter. “Craig, c’mon, you know me! I never cause trouble! Are you gonna… discriminate against me, just ‘cause someone else picked a fight with me ?”
It was, arguably, a blow below the belt. Craig was great; solid as concrete, straight as a spirit level, but he had a gay nephew and (so Madeleine told it) after the kid came out and then got kicked out by his parents, Craig took him in. Then, with plodding but certain logic, had switched from security work at a warehouse by the wharves to guarding the entrance to Soho’s smallest gay bar with all the protective ferocity of Cerberus. The nephew was about Willy’s age, who was not above leveraging the scant resemblance when needed.
Then again, while Willy had little taste for alphabet soup, he knew the conclusions people drew about him when they saw him - a colourful character; a basket of fruit - and the assumptions were not exactly off the mark, so was he really in the wrong to play on Craig’s sympathies?
Especially given that particular set of characteristics was what had sparked the situation that brought him to this sticky, bruised point in the first place. So maybe, in that context, it was all fair in love and war and above the belt after all.
Craig’s frown deepened as he straightened back up and gently set Willy back on his feet. “Someone got the jump on you? I’m sorry, laddy. Hey, if you see the bastard, point him out and I’ll give him a whack. You head on in, Madeleine’s downstairs -- oh, but before you go…” Craig looked left and right to ensure nobody was listening to them and lowered his voice regardless. “...You don’t have any of those strawberry creams on you, do you?”
*
Nothing about the bar was proportioned properly. It was too small for the number of people who frequented it, the music too loud for its small size, and the light too low for the physical dexterity required to negotiate it. There were too many seats crowded around too few, too-small tables, and the actual bar took up a good third of the main room. On top of all that, the floor was sticky, the upholstery looked like someone had gone at it with a knife, and the decor could best be described as 'projectile vomit of pop memorabilia on every surface'. Willy currently being down to one good eye only made it that much more difficult to navigate.
On the plus side he was friends with the bar staff, who would sneak him drinks in exchange for chocolate. That in itself made it Willy's favourite place in the city. He wasn't one to drown his sorrows, but sometimes... sometimes he just really needed a drink. Unfortunately, his current financial state didn't leave him with much - or, indeed, anything - in discretionary income.
As he squeezed between patrons, he cast his good eye over the bar and, sure enough, spotted Madeleine’s telltale head of teased blonde curls as she laughed at something a patron said while showing off her favourite bar tricks. Willy tracked the cocktail shaker as she tossed it over her shoulder, effortlessly caught it behind her back and then poured something pink into a waiting glass. The muscles in her arms flexed as she performed, her cherry-red smile was inviting and teasing in equal measure, and Willy spotted a gaggle of girls about his and Madeleine’s age watching from a nearby table with wide, appreciative eyes.
Good luck , Willy thought. You’re not her type . He’d heard something of Madeleine’s dating woes; her tastes seemed to run exclusively to men, which was understandable, but also to exclusively terrible men, which was not. Fortunately, Willy couldn’t see any likely types hanging around her tonight.
To make matters even better, her current shift partner was Candice, a Black woman in her thirties with swinging, waist-length box braids and a dazzling pink-lipped smile that revealed the whitest teeth Willy had ever seen outside of his own mouth. Less showy than Madeleine, she took the position of honorary agony aunt for the bar’s regular clientele: ‘Aunty’ Candy would pour you a beer or a glass of wine and listen to your woes, make all the right noises, and then call you a bloody idiot and tell you to pull yourself together. It proved an unexpectedly productive problem solving method for many who tried it.
On a Friday night, even not long after opening, Vermouth was popular enough relative to its small size that space was at an intense premium. Willy stood, back pressed against the wall, until a stool came free at the bar and he scrambled towards it.
Madeleine was still pouring drinks but raised a hand from the other side of the bar in acknowledgement. Candice followed the gesture, grinned at him, and came over. When she looked at him properly, however, her expression turned from fondness to horror.
"Oh my God , what happened to you?" Leaning across the bar, she reached to grab his face. Willy tried to dodge backwards but he was too slow; her fingers closed like a vice around his jaw, acrylic nails digging into his skin as she dragged him back into the (relatively) better light. Candice slowly turned his face this way and that, letting out a low whistle. "Who'd you piss off to get that , chocolate boy?"
Willy grimaced, which hurt almost as much as Candice's thick, cloying perfume going up his nose. Thankfully, as he wriggled more insistently, Candice finally let go. So much for his black eye not being as noticable in the dim light of the bar.
"Uh... Accidentally started a fight, got in a fight... lost a fight... and my stall... and most of my stock," he summarised, ticking the events off on his fingers. "But then one of the guys fell into a fountain, so that was something."
Candice rolled her eyes. "Oh well, if he got what was coming to him..."
" What happened to you ?" Madeleine shrieked, appearing suddenly at Candice's side. "Jesus, Willy, are you okay?"
"He lost a fight," said Candice, speaking over Willy's attempt to insist she was exaggerating. "Willy, you just told me you lost the fight."
"He fell in a fountain," Willy repeated stubbornly, hunching his shoulders.
"You were in a fight?" Madeleine looked between them, visibly despairing. She sighed, hands flat on the bar to steady herself. "Candy, can you cover me for a few?"
Candice tipped her a mock salute and swerved around Madeleine to take the order of another customer. Madeleine, without asking, started making a Brandy Alexander. Normally, she loved to show off her vast array of bar tricks, especially for Willy who so appreciated showmanship. Now, Willy watched her warily as she prepped his drink with sharp, economical movements, slamming glasses and bottles harder than strictly necessary. The combination of dark make-up and low light made her look foreboding, lightened only by the flash of her costume jewellery. Willy was rarely, if ever, on the receiving end of Madeleine's anger - Candice has remarked on occasion that Madeleine was uncharacteristically soft around him - and, seeing it now, Willy was glad of it.
"I worry about you, you know," she said as she shoved the finished drink across the bar and grabbed some nearby empties to clear away. "Especially nowadays. I never know when I'm next going to see you, or where you've been, or if you're... I don't know, lying stabbed in an alley or something! You need to be careful , Willy."
"I am careful!" Willy insisted, because he hadn't lasted this long without knowing how to take care of himself. "It's not my fault some jerks decided they didn't like the look of me!"
"I'm not saying it's your fault," said Madeleine, blatantly ignoring a patron who was trying to get her attention. "But you don't have to be at fault for something bad to happen! Just... look after yourself, okay? Are you gonna get something to eat tonight?"
"Ye—" Willy began, only to cut himself off as he realised that, now he was down to zero cash, no, he wasn't. Shoot, what would happen to the things he'd stashed at the hostel if he didn't have any money to extend his stay? He’d already cadged an extra day on credit, with the promise he’d be back tonight with what he owed. "Uh..."
"Excuse me—"
Without turning to look, Madeleine held one finger up at the other patron's face and continued talking to Willy. "Right, I'm off just after midnight - come back to mine and I'll cook."
Now there was a deal he couldn't pass up. Madeleine was a bartender by night and a trainee pastry chef by day; not only was her actual cooking very good, despite being hampered by her extremely small kitchen, but Willy knew there was an excellent chance of dessert.
The music swelled as Cindy Lauper - appropriately - belted out that when the working day is done, girls just wanna have fun . Knowing anything he said wouldn't be heard over the din, Willy just held his hands over his heart in a gesture of gratitude and beamed. Madeleine shook her head, exasperation slowly leaking away as she gave in to a fit of giggles.
"You are incorrigible , Willy Wonka."
The patron who had been trying to get Madeleine's attention was now all but laid across the bar, waving a hand in her face. "Hey, I'm glad you've settled your dinner date, now can I just—"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming! Don't lose your head." Rolling her eyes and flashing Willy one last smile, Madeleine moved off to get back to work.
After a moment, though, she darted back and shoved a jar of glace cherries his way.
*
Despite Madeleine saying she was due to end her shift at midnight, the bar got abruptly busier just as she was due to finish and she mouthed apologies to Willy as she rushed up and down the bar. As a result, it was the early hours of the morning by the time they stumbled back to Madeleine's flat. Willy, who had managed to cadge several more drinks out of Candice, was giggling and uncoordinated. Fortunately for Madeleine, Willy was built like a greyhound: whipcord thin and gangly. Once his limbs were restrained into some sort of order, there wasn't much in the way of actual mass to manoeuvre.
"You're a bloody liability, you are," Madeleine complained as she fumbled to unlock the front door while also holding Willy up. "Why did Candy give you so many drinks, anyway?"
"'Cause... 'cause I made her laugh!" Willy snickered. "I said... Candy's dandy but li... lililili..."
"Come on, sweetheart, you can do it."
"Liquor's — hic — quicker !"
Madeleine snorted. "That's all it took? Christ. Go on, in you go."
It wasn't the first time Madeleine had brought Willy home but - maybe it was the alcohol - he was perpetually surprised by how small it was. Not in a disparaging way (because, hey, she sure had a leg up on him ), but just in the sense of not being able to logically parse how bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and a corner that approximated a living room by virtue of containing a sofa and coffee table, was all somehow squished into a total area roughly the size of a shoebox.
"I think I'm dandy," Willy declared as he staggered inside. "I just need better clothes. And a hat! And a cane ."
"Better clothes I can get behind, but let's put a pin in the rest," said Madeleine, closing the door and locking up behind them. Suddenly, she turned to Willy, frowning. "Hey, where's your stuff? Did you leave your bag at the bar?"
"Huh? Oh... No." Remembering the events of that afternoon sobered Willy somewhat. "No, er, my stall was a... casualty. Like my eye. And my candy. And my money. So I couldn’t get my things from the hostel. But I have your payment!"
Now where had he put...? Willy patted himself down, growing anxious that he had somehow lost the box of truffles that was his customary payment for drinks — ah, there it was! In his pocket, of course. Willy retrieved it and handed it over, relieved he had salvaged something.
Madeleine, for her part, was staring at him in what looked very much (and very confusingly, to Willy's mind) like horror. His smile faded, his hand holding the box stuck out awkwardly between them.
"They're your favourites...?" he said weakly.
"Willy." Madeleine sagged back against the door. "Is that all you have... No, wait, never mind. We can... We'll fix this in the morning. Look, do you want to use my shower and I'll see if I've got anything for you to wear tonight?"
"Er, okay," Willy agreed, because he wasn't going to turn down any of that, but then he shook the box of chocolates at Madeleine. "So are you gonna take these or not?"
Madeleine opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again. She briefly closed her eyes as well before giving him a smile, but it didn't look like her normal smile. She folded her hand very gently around Willy's, her touch lingering as she took the chocolates. They stood there for a moment, hands linked, until a spasm of some emotion Willy couldn't name crossed Madeleine's face and she suddenly darted close to hug him. Her arms were unexpectedly strong and tight around him.
"I'm sorry."
"Why?" Willy tried to look at Madeleine's face but it was impossible to see around the cloud of her hair. "It wasn't your fault."
"I know. I know. But... shit things shouldn't happen to good people who are just trying their best." Sniffing, Madeleine let go of him and stepped back, cradling the small box to her chest. "It's fine. It'll be fine. We'll find a way to fix it. You go and get that shower while I make us some food."
Willy didn't need telling twice. The shower was heavenly and well worth the effort of contorting himself into the tiny bathroom. He lingered even after the hot water gave out, shivering but determined to scour every nook and cranny of his body. The cold water also had the effect of sobering him back up the rest of the way, which was a mixed blessing; he was banging into things less but he was also thinking more, which was coming perilously close to the edge of panicking.
No money. No candy to make more money. No money to make more candy. No equipment until he had money to pay off the hostel. No equipment meant no way to make more candy to make more money...
Willy tried to focus on breathing. Madeleine had said it would be fine - that they would fix it - and he clung to that. She was much better at the details, especially those pesky financial details, than he was. Together, they'd have plenty of ideas. He'd come through worse situations than this since striking out on his own, hadn't he?
Hadn't he?
(Sometimes his memory was... unreliable. Given what could happen when it was reliable, Willy considered this to be for the best.)
When he finally emerged from the shower, mottled from both the cold water and the intensity of his scrubbing, Willy wiped off the bathroom mirror and examined himself. The black eye was unfortunate; it would put customers off, wouldn't it? His hair was too long, getting shaggy and messy.
In his imagination, Willy restyled himself: away with the black eye, hair neatly trimmed and combed. Then the suit he'd dreamed of - the layers of silk, velvet, every luxurious fabric he could think of in rich colours and patterns. Oh, and don't forget the top hat, he'd definitely need one of those.
For a moment, the image held and comforted him. Then it vanished and Willy was once again staring at a homeless, dirt-broke eighteen year old.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, whined the creeping, crawling, self-pitying part of himself he tried not to listen to. He was supposed to be a success by now: a household name across the world! A confectionary pioneer! Wealthy beyond measure, respected at every turn, and best of all knowing that his f—
His fa—
No , whispered a little voice, and everything went blank for a while.
(Like he said - unreliable .)
"Willy?" Madeleine, knocking on the bathroom door, brought him back to himself. "Did you drown?"
"Uh... no. No."
"Okay, I've found some pyjamas I think will be long enough for you; I'll leave them just outside the door. Don't be embarrassed, I'm the only one who'll see you. Food will be ready in two minutes."
Once he heard Madeleine walk away, Willy opened the door and grabbed the pyjamas. They were not, in fact, long enough, exposing both his calves and his midriff. They were also ditsy floral and the shirt had a lace collar but Willy was exhausted and grateful enough not to care. The important thing was that they were clean.
Living on and off (mostly on) the streets for years had chipped away at the fastidiousness instilled in him since he was a child, but that didn't mean he liked it. When he got his big break - when he was rich - he was going to have an enormous bathroom. All in marble. And a huge walk-in closet with an outfit for every day of the month. No - every day of the year .
For now, he followed the smell of food through to the tiny kitchen (in truth, a mini fridge, a couple of counters, and a stove so temperamental Madeleine swore it verged on sentient), where Madeleine was dishing up two bowls of pasta. She had taken off her heels (how did she work in those all night) and replaced them with a pair of slippers that were incongruous at best paired with her miniskirt and bralette.
When Madeleine noticed Willy, she glanced over her shoulder to smile at him, biting back a laugh when she saw the fit - or lack thereof - of her pyjamas.
However, all she said was: "Feeling better?"
Willy hummed noncommittally; he was rapidly running short of the brainpower required for actual speech. When Madeleine passed him a bowl, however, the smell of food alone went some way to restoring him. He did eat (mostly), but it had been... oh, a couple of days, at least, since he'd had an actual hot meal.
They collapsed onto the sofa together, the food disappearing in record time and the bowls abandoned on the coffee table. Willy slid further down the sofa until he was slumped with his head resting on Madeleine's shoulder. She smelled, it occurred to him, very nice indeed: much better than Candy's cloying perfume. Under the cigarette smoke that lingered from the bar, Willy could smell the same floral body wash he'd just made liberal use of. She was warm, too, and soft when she tucked an arm around his shoulders.
It felt like safety. Like coming home.
"I'll get you a blanket in a minute," she muttered, eyes sliding closer. "An' a pillow, an'..."
Madeleine trailed off. She forced her eyes open, fixing Willy with a speculative look. After a few moments, she seemed to reach a decision and nodded.
"Screw it. Come sleep in my bed. You're gay, right?"
Ye-eesss, technically (maybe?), but also… maybe not… but probably , because what else would you call him… but that seemed far too complex a can of worms to open at this time of night-slash-morning. The salient point, Willy guessed, was that Madeleine was reassured that this would be strictly platonic bed-sharing, which it would be, so he just nodded.
Madeleine's bed was much bigger than her sofa, which was an immediate plus, and much more comfortable than the places he was used to sleeping. The pillows were like marshmallow clouds. The quilt was the cosiest thing he'd ever wrapped around himself. Willy gave himself permission to luxuriate .
Madeleine disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later clean-faced, her clothes swapped for a set of pink pyjamas even more twee than the set she'd given Willy. Seeing him looking, she stuck her tongue out.
"If you tell anyone I wear cute pyjamas, I'm never giving you a free drink again," she threatened as she climbed into bed beside him. "This is strictly between us, okay?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Willy said, shuffling over to make room. "Besides, I think I work them."
"You're beautiful," agreed Madeleine. "You should be on the cover of Vogue."
They tittered quietly, sleepily, as they adjusted to each other. It was easier than expected; maybe Willy was just that tired, but it didn't feel as strange as he would have imagined, sleeping next to Madeleine. After a few minutes of shuffling and turning, they ended up back to back, a few inches apart but Willy could still feel Madeleine's presence.
He stayed conscious just long enough to register Madeleine wishing him a sleepy goodnight and then - oblivion.