#''It's Teavee Time!'' is actually ABOUT Mike and his mother having to deal with him.

[itsteaveetime]

Mike being subject to the hells of holiday shopping.

Just because they’re Jewish, doesn’t mean Mike gets to escape THE MALL AT CHRISTMAS TIME.

Because they’re not, like, that Jewish.  (Mike in particular doesn’t really know what he believes or doesn’t on that front, and is in no hurry to figure it out because it’s boring.)  Like they still decorate the house and everything, Santa just isn’t present  His mom puts up lights and stuff, though.  Ethel is not willing to be the owner of the only house on the street that’s dark this time of year.  People would notice.  Normalton would talk (more than they already do).  And they always have a tree.  Ethel can call it a Hanukkah bush, and dress it in as much silver and blue as she wants, but Mike knows a Christmas tree when he sees one.

And Hanukkah is basically as commercialized as Christmas now, anyway.  Nobody gets a dreidel anymore.  It’s the twenty-first century: little Jewish boys get video games.  Little Jewish girls get…well, Mike doesn’t know.  Whatever lame stuff girls like.  Hair…bows?

So Ethel has to shop for that.  And Ethel needs to shop for her co-workers.  And Ethel needs to festively decorate her classroom.

Mike doesn’t like to go…anywhere, if he doesn’t have to, but especially to the mall.  Doesn’t get the appeal.  Don’t all the other Youths know about Amazon Prime?  The mall is crowded, and the lighting is terrible, and it all smells like old lady perfume, McDonald’s fries, and the kind of cleaning products janitors use after somebody throws up.  The mall is not cool and no one should hang there, and Mike would usually refuse to go.

Except.

The electronics stores and gaming stores have deals this time of year.  Sometimes stuff you can’t even get online until way after the release date or from a re-seller, and Mike Teavee doesn’t do waiting or getting ripped off, and Ethel is easily flustered by any technology that was invented after the stone age.  If he doesn’t go with her, and tell her what to get, there’s a good chance he’ll end up with an R.B.I. Baseball game or something equally as sports-y.  (His mom has actual favorite sports-ball teams and everything.  It’s so embarrassing.) 

So.  He goes.  (More accurately: allows himself to be dragged.)

It’s the worst, always.  (And Mike is a boy who has been to a deadly chocolate factory: he would know.)  Almost not worth it.   

The crush of strangers in his personal space.

The pushy sales people.

Ethel’s yearly insistence that he needs a ‘smart’ holiday outfit, even though he never has, and is never going to be invited anywhere where a ‘smart’ outfit would be necessary.  He’s thirteen: he will not be attending any office holiday parties.  They are not invited to any family get-togethers.  He will roll out of bed every morning (or…afternoon…) in December, same as the…whatever time the day before, and Ethel should count herself lucky if he changes out of his pajamas. 

Nevertheless: she persists.

She only has herself to blame.

“I hope you’re happy,” she mutters.

He is, pretty much.

They are standing in the parking lot outside of Target, along with everyone else who was, until just recently, trying to shop in Target, and also all of the Target employees.  It’s not hard to send a false alarm to the local fire department, but it is (Mike thinks) satisfying.    

Ethel drags him away before anyone can start pointing fingers.

She doesn’t say a word the whole ride home.  Which isn’t a problem, as far as Mike is concerned.

Back at the house, she heads straight for her room and shuts the door.  That’s Mike’s patented move, so he’s a little miffed she has tried to swipe it.  Also that he has to carry everything they’ve bought in, because she has forgotten and their bags are all mixed together.  He’s not doll-sized anymore, but he’s still small for his age, and Ethel has bought a lot.

She doesn’t have anything to say the next evening at dinner either.  Again: this is fine.

By day three he gets it: this is the silent treatment.  But Mike sometimes goes for weeks without speaking to another living person.

Except.

He doesn’t.  Ethel has always been there.  He just doesn’t think about her like that.  Like: another living person.  She’s a mom.  She’s like…the kitchen table.  The weird stain on the bathroom wall.  He would only notice if she wasn’t there…

And she isn’t suddenly.  She’s there, physically, in the house, but she doesn’t…try.  Even when he was eight inches tall and biting her, she was never like this.

(When he was eight inches tall and everything was so big, so frightening, so hard, so wrong, and she had done everything, just like she had threatened at Wonka’s, only it hadn’t been a threat at all: it had been a promise.)

Being shrunk is a distant memory now, even though it wasn’t actually that long ago.  Mike is his horrible self again.

Ethel is not, and by the end of the week, Mike has had it.  So he does something about it.  

It’s closer to Christmas, so the mall is even more crowded this time.  People don’t pay attention to small boys, no matter how big their hair is, and Mike ends up getting pushed and elbowed more than once.  There is also a family in matching Christmas sweaters that seems to be everywhere and it takes all of his strength not to turn and run.  Puke, then turn and run.

But Mike is a stubborn boy.  He gets it from his mother.   

She’s getting the menorah set up for night one, when he places the package on the table next to her and plunks down in a chair.

“What’s this?” She asks, suspiciously, finally breaking her silence.

“Hanukkah,” he tells her.

She hesitantly unwraps the box.  There is a lot of tape to get through.  Mike is not a good wrapper.

Inside the box are…eight sweaters.  They aren’t Ethel’s style: plain, dark colored pull-overs.  Ethel likes bright colors.  Ethel wears cardigans.  Mike knows this.

“I suppose,” she says, holding up the top-most sweater (that is obviously too small for her), “it’s the thought that-…”

She trails off because Mike has moved to stand behind the sweater, and he can actually see the moment when she realizes who it is not too small for.

“OH,” she says.  And then: “Oh.”

And he thinks she might cry.

“Oh, Mikey,” she exclaims, wrapping her arms around him.  He wriggles in her clutches.

“Mo-om,” he whines, until she releases him. 

“Right,” she says.  She hands him the sweater.  He retreats to his room.  He returns shortly, wearing the sweater over a plaid button down shirt.  He is still wearing jeans and sneakers, because there is only so far that he will go.  Ethel gazes at him adoringly.  She moves to swoop in and squeeze him again.

“Hey!” He barks.  “Don’t push it.”

She pats him very gently on the shoulder instead.

He lets her.

It’s Hanukkah, after all.                 

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #mike teavee #ethel teavee #the gift of not wearing a neon orange hoodie

[itsteaveetime]

//And here’s fic #2: general post-factory Mike/Veruca.//

He likes girls.  That’s not the problem.

Well, it is a little bit of a problem, but an extremely embarrassing audio book his mom got him, that includes chapters such as ‘Why Am I Sweaty?’, and a general internet inquiry has assured him it’s a normal sort of problem.  That even though Ethel said ‘breast’ the other night, entirely in the context of chicken, and as a result, he has felt like he might die for almost two days now, he probably won’t.  At least: not of that.

What’s probably not normal is a Russian oligarch on his knees in a front hallway in Normalton, Idaho with his checkbook clasped pleadingly in both hands.

“Pleasssssssssse Mrs. Television,” Oleg Salt begs, despite the fact that they have both told him several times that their last name is not ‘Television’.  “You must make him be reasonable.”

Ethel barks out a laugh, because there is no making Mike do anything.  There is especially no making Mike do this.

“I will pay you whatever you wish,” Mr. Salt continues.  “You do not know what she is like.”

Mike thinks he might have a pretty good idea, and also: the man is not helping himself out saying stuff like that. 

“It is all she asks for,” Mr. Salt confides.  “And such a little thing-...”

Mike bristles, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown.

“...a small request!” Oleg clarifies hurriedly.  “One tiny little dinner with my Veruska.  That is all!  What do you say?”

The man’s eyes dart desperately from Mike to his mother.  So Veruca Salt hasn’t changed much since the Wonka tour.  Mike, in his opinion, hasn’t changed much either.

Well.  He is shorter.

But no longer small enough to be picked up against his will and shoved in a purse, so what does he care?  He doesn’t.  There’s no such thing as height on the internet.

But a boy cannot live on internet alone, no matter how he tries.

And it’s been a couple years now, since Wonka’s, and you’d think (at least, Mike would have thought) that the media would have forgotten about them by now.  You know: the losers.  Because that’s what they are: Gloop.  Teavee.  Beauregarde.  Salt.  Golden ticket losers.

And yet the paparazzi still insist on photographing him every time he leaves the house (even as infrequent as that is).  On detailing just how short he remains.  On judging his fashion choices (which are lit, shut up).  On speculating.

They aren’t interested in interviewing him (and he wouldn’t let them anyway), all they want to do is snap, snap, snap his picture.

Not a lot happens in Idaho, okay?  He’s not sure if it’s the same for the rest of them.  He’s been ignoring them as hard as he possibly can.

But it’s no mystery, at least, how Salt knows he’s still out there, not dead or anything.  

“You’ll pay anything?” Mike asks.

Ethel shoots him a look.

“Michael,” she chastises.  But he can see her eyeing Mr. Salt’s checkbook too.  They aren’t poor, but a teacher’s salary doesn’t go as far as it could, and Mike has expensive taste in electronics and sneakers.

They settle, eventually, on Mr. Salt making a donation to the school where Ethel teaches that will keep her and her colleagues in school supplies for at least a few years, and a ‘college fund’ for Mike, which is dumb, because he isn’t going to college, but at least when he turns eighteen he can do whatever he wants with it.  

All that, just for going on a date with a girl.  Mike should (Mike thinks) go on dates with girls more often.

Of course, Mike has never actually been on a date before.  Mike has never had dinner with a girl who wasn’t his mother.  Mike has never been alone in a room with a girl who wasn’t his mother.

He reflects on this as he rides in Salt’s ridiculously large limousine, and then after that in the man’s private jet.  Mr. Salt does not try to force conversation with them, which Mike appreciates.  The man conducts business on his phone.  Mike does the same on his iPad, although his business consists mainly of owning someone on reddit and playing Candy Crush.  Ethel pops a Valium and has a cocktail and is out like a light.  It’s pretty blissful.  Plus, Oleg Salt is rich enough that they don’t have to deal with visas or whatever, and (considering some of the stuff Mike has done) that might otherwise have been an issue.    

It still takes about a day to get to Russia, and Mike does briefly entertain the idea that they are being kidnapped, but whatever.  It’s not like they had anything better to do.

The Salt estate is impressive.  And Mike is not a boy easily impressed.  He and his mother are shown to guest rooms that are probably bigger than their entire house, and Ethel tries to convince him to change into a nice button down shirt, or ‘smart’ sweater, and fails.  He shows up at the dining room in his usual baggy joggers, converse sneakers, snap back cap, and hoodie.  And then it’s just him and Veruca.

The dinning table is huge, but only the very end of it has been set.  The lighting is dim, but Mike can see that she is already seated at the head of the table.  It feels like it takes forever, but eventually he is seated next to her, in front of way more forks than he knows what to do with.

And he has no idea what to say.

He has never not known what to say before.  Words have always just come out of his mouth without having to think about them (much to a lot of people’s chagrin).  This is different, for some reason.

Veruca Salt is...pretty.

And Mike Teavee is not prepared.  

He had known, even at twelve, that she was.  Blond hair, blue eyes, pink dress: all stereotypically and obviously pretty.  At twelve, he hadn’t cared about that.

She isn’t dressed like a ballerina now.

Her blond hair is a little shorter and straighter, but still the same bright tone.  Her clothes are simple, but obviously expensive: a white turtleneck sweater in some sort of furry material, and designer jeans.  She’s more or less the same shape, and a little bit taller, but it’s her face, mostly, that makes his mind go blank.  It’s less childish.  He wonders, suddenly, if his own is.  He feels like she looks older than he does.  Next to her, he feels like a kid.

“Hey,” he says, lamely.

“I am so pleased,” she purrs, her long dark lashes fluttering, “that you have decided to join me, Michael.”

Something flutters in his stomach, and then his chest, and then definitely tries to escape out of his throat.  He in no way recalls eating any insects or anything.

“Uh,” he replies, brilliantly.

She smirks behind her water glass.

“We have much in common, you and I,” she tells him.

“Oh,” he says.  “Yeah?”

Because he’s not sure what, exactly, they have in common at all.  Ballet, for instance, is super lame.  And he’s not sure how she feels about squirrels now, but he’s definitely never liked anything small and furry.  Or big and furry, for that matter.

On the flip side, Russian social media is like years behind America’s, and he doesn’t get the impression she games or is interested in computers at all.

“But there will be time to discuss after we eat,” she says.

Mike does not have an adventurous palate, and an impressive selection of mostly unidentifiable food-stuffs is placed in front of him, and Veruca selects a single fork out of the twenty they each have to choose from, and he grasps desperately for something, anything familiar.

“Do you have ketchup?” He asks.

She looks at him like he might be crazy.

“Do you ask me,” she asks, “if we have ketchup in Russia, or if there is ketchup now?”

He stares down at his plate, and no, he doesn’t know if anything on it is supposed to be eaten with ketchup, but he likes ketchup.

“...know you have ketchup in Russia,” he mumbles.

This date is a disaster.

She rings for someone, and a bottle of Russian ketchup is placed in front of him, and he still doesn’t know where to start with the cutlery, or how to turn this around.  She stares at him expectantly.

“I...” he says.

“Yes?” She prompts.

“Uh,” he grunts.

“...,” she responds.

“I’veneverbeenonadatebeforeandIdunnowhatyouwantmetodo, okay?!?!?” He blurts.

She bursts out laughing.  Her hand flies to her chest.  Her eyes are squeezed shut and tearing up with mirth.  She practically falls out of her chair.

“You think this is date?” She manages to gasp.

“Uh.  Isn’t it?” He asks, numbly.

She laughs even harder, and he feels like he might be shrinking all over again,

“Your...you dad said...,” he mumbles.

“Oh, my papa,” she giggles, wiping her eyes delicately with her finger.  “What has he done?”

Mike says nothing.  Mike stares down at what is probably the most expensive plate of food that has ever been put in front of him.  She snaps her fingers in front of his nose.

“Michael Television...,” she says.

“Not my na-ame,” he moans.

“This is business meeting.  I have business proposal for you.”

He looks up, because as much as he wants to die (no chicken involved) that’s...interesting.

“Mr. Wonka,” she says.  “He has done the both of us...wrong.”

She adjusts the neck of her sweater, and he remembers suddenly: she was ripped apart.  If no one’s ever the same after they’ve been on television, they definitely aren’t after they’ve been ripped apart and put back together.  It hasn’t been an easy couple of years for him: he’s still physically stunted.  It probably hasn’t been easy for her, either.  Her scars are probably a lot more visible.

“So what’re you saying?” He asks.  She has his complete attention, and with his ADHD, that’s saying something.

“I want to make him...how do you say...regret this,” she says.

“Like: revenge,” he asks, dubiously.  Because as tempting as that sounds, even he knows that’s not a great idea.  Who knows what that nut job would do to them?

“No-no,” she insists, waving the idea off.  “Well...not like that.  But our own revenge.  I wish to do something to make Mr. Wonka see that he is wrong about us.  That we are not bad.”

Mike looks down at his hands, because he’s not entirely sure he isn’t bad, but still: the idea is quickly growing on him.

“You are smart,” she says.  And then, raising an eyebrow: “At least: I think you are.”

“I am smart,” he says, simply and confidently, because this is something he at least knows about himself without question.

“Good,” she tells him.  “This is what I need.”

It’s a lot easier to talk to her, after that, when he knows where he stands.  They brainstorm for hours, their heads bent close together, their words quick and excited, and this...

He hasn’t felt like this in a long time.  It’s good.

They have a plan by the end of the evening.  They’re going to do something: something amazing.  Something so amazing that even Wonka won’t be able to call them bad, or losers: not anymore.  He can see it all in his head, and she has the money, and the social skills, and the ambition to make it real.

“You are smart,” she says, as he is leaving.

“Told you,” he says, with a smirk and shrug.

She catches his hand in hers.

“You are also cute,” she whispers.

He floats back to America because they’re really going to do something and she thinks he’s cute.

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #mike teavee #veruca salt #if sufficiently confused I will write multiple fics

[itsteaveetime]

This may be a little too obscure but have you thought of an AU where Mike and the rest of the tour crew go to Sky High and are sorted into sidekicks (Hero Support).

//I had not, really.  When I write AU’s (like actually write them, not Photoshop and shitpost about), I tend to AU within the canon/fandom (so they’re more like: “what-if’s”, I guess).  I find AU-ing into a completely different universe or time period really difficult, so my hat is off to those of you whose brains do work that way naturally.  I *have* had thoughts about a sort-of sequel fic where the Golden Ticket Winner Losers didn’t die, but are ‘freaks’ (sort of like in the preview ending), and return to the factory shadows of their former selves.  But then some sort of rival or villain takes over the factory and holds Wonka hostage, and Charlie has to convince the other four that, especially with their new freakish abilities and knowledge of the factory, they have it in themselves to be heroes, and they all work together to save the day.  I’m not sure I’ll ever actually write that fic because it seems like it would be very plot intensive and long, but: maybe.  And if anyone else is bitten by this plot-bunny: please write it instead of me.

I gave the ‘Sky High’ one a shot below.  I hope it doesn’t suck, Anon, it…went in a vaguely Mike/Veruca direction, whoops?  And thanks for the prompt.  As always my inbox is open!// 

He shouldn’t even be here.  Not here, in this room, with these other freaks and losers.  Not here, in this school, at all.

Ethel Teavee (in Mike Teavee’s always correct opinion) has the dumbest super-power ever.  It’s a sort of location telepathy: she can tell you where someone is, anywhere in the world, at any time.  But she has to have met the person, which means she’s totally useless as any kind of super spy or cop, and is instead just the world’s most annoying geography teacher at a high school for super powered teenagers.  And most smothering mother, of course, not that she has ever had to wonder where Mike might be.  Mike is always in front of his computer.  Or was.

Mike has always known he would have some kind of technopathy.  He doesn’t know what his dad had, or could do: Ethel doesn’t talk about him, and Mike can’t remember him, but he wants to think his power was cool.  That he’s some big-time hero with some big-time secret identity and that’s why Ethel has to keep it hush-hush.

But Mike has always known he would have some kind of technopathy.  Electronics, computers, video-games…they have always come easy to him.  He has always been able to do anything he wanted with them, better than adults, better than anybody.  

“Getting your powers isn’t always easy,” his mother had always warned him, but Mike had always thought it would be, for him.  Would be like a natural progression of what he could already do.

And then his fingers had begun to stretch.

He had been tapping away as usual at his keyboard, and he had gone to shift his wrist to reach a key and found: he didn’t have to.  Which was…weird.  Mike had always been on the short side.  His hands, though nimble, had always been small.

And then everything had gone wrong.

He spent two weeks in his room as parts of him stretched, independently from each other and completely beyond his control.  One leg: seemingly miles longer than the other and unable to hold his weight.  One arm: so long his knuckles touched the floor.  His neck one day: unable to lift his head off of his pillow as it coiled above his shoulders like a snake.

His mother had probably tried to comfort him.  Mike can only remember crying.  It had hurt.

He’s 7′6 now.  He can stretch himself taller and longer than that, but he can’t make himself any shorter than 7′6.  It’s not a natural 7′6 either (if there even is such a thing).  His limbs are symmetrical, but too long; too thin.  His face is…wrong.  He looks like someone stuck him in a taffy puller.  He has to special order his clothes and shoes.

And everything is pointless now.  He can’t have a secret identity like this.  His mom is convinced his powers are still settling: that he’ll eventually shrink back down to a manageable height, but what does she know about it?  Nothing, that’s what.

Of course all the dumb jock sports teams came knocking, even the one at this freak school, but joke’s on them: Mike can barely jog without tripping over his stretched out feet.

He shouldn’t be here.  He should be at home.  He should be at home, in front of his computer.  

He should be at home in front of his computer but when he tries to type too fast now, his fingers tangle themselves into knots.

It’s still better than hunching and slinking his way through a sea of normal sized teenagers who can do stuff like: fly, and: turn invisible.

What Mike wouldn’t give to be invisible.  He’s super, super visible.

Even in the back row of stupid ‘hero support’ (side-kick classes), where he sits behind a table because he can’t cram himself into a desk.  The boy who always sits beside him can’t either, but not because of his height: Augustus Gloop is almost spherical.  He is almost spherical because he can eat anything.  Mike has seen him eat a brick.  It’s cool, but pointless.  Gloop’s okay, though: like a gentle giant.

Mike is not gentle.  

Physically he’s…well a sort of long skinny mess, but his tongue is sharp.  That never tangles.  It gets him both into and out of trouble.

Ethel makes him trip and slink to school the same time she does: earlier than the rest of the students.  She doesn’t escort him to his classes, at least: she doesn’t have to.  She always knows where he is.  He doesn’t totally mind having the extra minutes of peace to sort out his own limbs and try to get comfortable before Gloop and the rest of the world shows up.  His knees still fight him sometimes.

It’s not enough, though.  His mom may know where he is at all times, but that doesn’t mean she can shut him up, and the result is: a near constant stay in detention.

Usually it’s just him, and Mr. Wonka (who Mike is sure hates him more than any other teacher there is or has ever been).

Today is different.  Today there is a girl.

Mike doesn’t know her, but Mike doesn’t really know anybody.  Mike does know she’s not a sidekick.

Mike also has eyes and can see that she’s…dressed like a ballerina.  Those shoes and skirts they wear and everything.  Mike’s no ballerina, but he’s pretty sure wearing those shoes just walking around wrecks them.  There is also a crown perched on top of her head, nestled in her blonde curls.

She looks completely insane.

Wonka has left them alone to deal with some sort of accident in the gym.  Mike stares at the back of Princess Tutu’s (as he has decided to call her) head and wonders what she did to end up here.  She probably didn’t hack Krystal Ballz’s facebook page too, but: who knows.

The blonde girl turns slowly in her seat.  She is petite enough to fit comfortably into a normal desk, and she turns with the sort of grace Mike does not think he ever possessed and certainly does not now.  She looks him up and down (and up, and up).  Mike tries and fails to shrink deeper into his hoodie.

“What,” she asks (and she pronounces it like ‘vhat’, because she has a significant Russian accent), “are you supposed to be, some kind of super-noodle?”

He glares at her.

“No,” he mutters.  “What are you supposed to be, s-…”

And he has a beautiful biting insult on the tip of his tongue, but she cuts him off.

“Veruca,” she says, as if that should mean anything.

“What’s a Veruca?” He asks, as if he doesn’t care, which he mostly doesn’t.

Her eyes darken.

“VER-u-CA,” she repeats, practically seething.  And then (shoving her well-sculpted nose into the air and everything).  “Greatest super-heroine and heir to peanut and other fortunes.”

She tosses her long blonde locks.

Mike stares at her flatly.

“Never heard of you,” he says.  

(He hasn’t, although he would have said the same thing regardless because she seems like the kind of person who would be bothered by that sort of thing.)

(She is.)

Her eyes darken.

“Go get me Dr. Pepper,” she says, beginning to turn back around in her seat.

Mike doesn’t move (obviously.)

“Uh, how about: no?” He says.

She turns back towards him.  Her own eyes narrow.

“Get me Dr. Pepper, now,” she says, more forcefully.

“Just because I’m a side-kick doesn’t make you the boss of me,” he argues.

Her eyes dart towards the door.

“Go to door,” she says, sounding less sure of herself.

“Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno,” he says.  “N.  O.  No.  Whatever you want, whatever you need, whatever you say: no.”

He was totally right: she’s totally nuts.

She stares at him.  Her mouth hangs open.

“…nobody says no to Veruca Salt,” she says.

That’s her power, he realizes.  That’s her power, and for some reason it doesn’t work on him.

He sits back in his chair as much as he is able to (which isn’t much) and folds his long freakish arms across his chest.

“I’m not nobody,” he says, smirking at her surprise.  And then jerks his head back as she practically climbs onto his desk.

She kneels on her seat, elbows on his desk, chin in her hands.  Her toes point and kick at the air behind her head.

“What is your name, Noodle?” she purrs.  

“Why should I tell you?” He asks, cockily.

She claps in delight.  He wonders if nobody really does ever say no to her.  Maybe it gets old, but he honestly can’t relate.

“Mike Teavee,” he tells her.  She doesn’t seem disappointed, he supposes, because he has told her on his own.

“What do you dooooooooo?” She continues to purr.

His smirk fades.

“You’re looking at it,” he mutters.

She’s looking at him.  He doesn’t like it.

She’s upside-down, suddenly.  He’s not sure how.  She’s executed some move and he’s looking at her pink-clad calves and feet.  The rest of her hangs underneath her chair.  He tries to inch his own feet back.  There’s no room.

Her hands grab at his skinny ankles.  He yelps.  She yanks.  She pulls his feet until they are almost under her desk, where her feet would be, if she wasn’t doing gymnastics.

“This is better,” she says, having arranged him so his knees are no longer pressed against the underside of his table.

She’s right: it is more comfortable.

She’s still upside down.

“…I am the stuck,” she admits.

He reaches out (easily), and pulls her left leg.

Her left leg comes off in his hand.  

He yelps again and drops the detached limb.  She does a one-legged sideways cartwheel, grabs her own leg, and pops it back into place with practiced ease.

He’s staring at her.  She doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s, uh, supposed to do that?” He asks.

“I also can fly,” she tells him, crossing her ankles over her desk and laying back across his table with a grin.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“I stretch,” he admits.

“More than this?” She asks.  She seems…impressed.  He shrugs.

“Sure,” he tells her.  Even if he doesn’t like to.  Just in case.  He could get stuck even…taller.

She does another of her moves.  She’s sitting on her desk now.  It makes them almost the same height.

“And what else?”

‘Nothing,’ he’s about to say.

“Computers,” he says, instead.

She cocks her head.

“A power?” She asks.

He shakes his head; tries not to look as disappointed as he always feels when he thinks about it.  He shouldn’t have even said anything, maybe.  His fingers…

“You are smart,” she says.  Something behind her eyes looks…he isn’t sure.  Predatory?  “If you are so smart, why are you here?”

He snorts.

“Because Krystal Ballz-…”

Veruca hisses like a cat.

“…thinks she’s pretty funny.  So I made some of her private jokes public.  So, you know, everybody could laugh at what she says about them.”

She is grinning.

“This was you.”

It’s not a question.  

“You are funny,” she tells him.

He sits just a tiny bit taller.

“So why are you here?” He asks her.

She sighs.

“I do not like the sidekick I am assigned,” she says.  “He makes lewd jokes.  He is not funny.  So I take my arm-…”

She removes one of her arms at the shoulder.

“…and I slap him.”

She slaps lightly at the arm between them with her detached arm. 

“Apparently this is frowned upon in your country,” she says, rolling her eyes.

His mouth twitches.  He almost laughs.  Maybe more than almost.

A bell rings.  They both glance at the clock.  The detention period is over.  They are free to go.

She dismounts her desk.  He starts to gather his legs.  She’s standing beside him before he has a handle on them.  She comes up to about his chin when he is sitting.

“I will tell them to assign you to me,” she says.

He opens his mouth, only for her to press a finger against it, silencing him.

“Nobody says no to Veruca Salt,” she reminds him.  She rises up onto the very tips of her toes like the dancer she is, and presses her lips against his cheek.  She pirouettes around while he’s still reeling.  She literally flies out of the door, arms outstretched like Superman, if Superman had a pink handbag slung casually over his shoulder.

Mike sits in stunned silence.  Ethel appears a moment later, looking slightly frazzled.

“That girl needs to look where she’s flying,” his mother complains.  She frowns at something on Mike’s face.

“Did she make you do something?” She asks.

Mike shakes his head and gets to his feet.  Slinks past his mother.  Almost hits his head on the door frame.  Doesn’t.    

“Michael?” His mother prompts.

Mike rolls his eyes.

“Laugh, mom,” he says.  “She made me laugh.”

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf broadway #fanfic #mike teavee #veruca salt