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For the first time in many, many years… no, for the first time maybe ever, Willard Tweedy feels truly happy. And it scares him. It’s so new… he feels guilt for feeling such a scandalous thing.
He stares at the wrench in his hand. A wrench he holds with ease, with years of experience that he got from farmwork. Last time he used it on a contraption like this, it was when he was desperately trying to repair the Pie Machine. Spending many sleepless hours of the night in the garage, desperately trying to get the heap of cogwheels and metal to work, just so his greedy ex-wife would be happy… Her angry snaps and insults still ring in his ears, even after all these years.
“Atta boy, Willy lad! The boiler’s as good as new!” his strange new friend smiles brightly, clapping his hands delighted when the West Wallaby Street house heating system huffs and puffs, no longer broken thanks to Willard fixing it. “Blinkin’ nora, ye should be an engineer with those skills!”
He is thanking Willard. Even complimenting him. Melisha never complimented him like this. Willard furrows his brows at the words, suspicious. If that man is being sarcastic, he hides it well. Or does he? Willard can’t tell. After all, Melisha always called him a simple-minded dolt, a great lummox who could not tell a chicken apart from a turkey. Willard squints and observes the inventor’s face, trying to find any signs of ulterior motives. Signs of being dishonest, signs of him trying to make a fool out of Willard.
“Tell you what, Willy lad.” The inventor finally breaks the silence, and starts walking towards the staircase. “I’ll go make you some tea! Apple tea’s yer favorite, right?”
There are no signs of malice. The inventor is honest, his bright warm eyes are entirely genuine, and he is simply thankful and proud of Willard.
Willard blushes, his heart feels light and bouncy all of a sudden. A happy, dorky little smile appears on his face. “A…Apple tea would be nice, aye…” he says quietly, wiping off a pair of tears that threatened to form under his eyes.
--
Gromit, carrying the tea tray, observes Wallace who just finished excitedly infodumping to Willard, about all the different nuances of cheese flavors you can find on Stilton and Cheddar. Now he is listening to Willard infodump about apple farming - a business he started about five years ago, after divorcing his wife. For a moment, Willard goes quiet and red, ashamed of having blurted out so much info at once, but Wallace simply asks him to go on and continue. No doubt there’s a special spark in Wallace’s eyes, in the way he watches the gloomy, stout, strange farmer smile and act.
Despite the fact that this Mr. Tweedy is awfully secretive… he refuses to tell nearly anything about his past life as a chicken farmer. Even the mention of chickens makes him flinch, and he seems to have an odd hatred for airplanes for some reason. His terrifying pet hounds are no less strange. Feral boys who tried to chew on Gromit’s science books.
Fluffles next to him giggles endeared, but Gromit facepalms, stressed out of his mind. Great… Wallace has fallen in love with a suspicious individual AGAIN…
--
Wallace slips from the ladder when he is trying to grind the bolts on his newest invention. A tall, goofy, gramophone-resembling structure that radiates annoying ultrasound beams, to keep bats away from gathering under the roofs of the neighborhood. With a yelp and "Oh 'eck!", he falls - but instead of breaking his leg from falling on the ground, a strong pair of arms catches him just in time.
Bewildered, Wallace looks up - into Willard's beautiful brown eyes.
"Ah told ye to be careful!" The farmer huffs with furrowed brows, trembling a little from anxiety and adrenaline, from the fear of Wallace hurting himself by being so absent-minded. "That's it. We're installin' a safety belt on ye if yer gonna keep working that high up in the air!"
Wallace only faintly hears his cranky words of worry. The bald short man is lovestruck, his hands closed in his trademark ‘cheese!’ gesture, and his heart thumps like a military drum. Willard's hold is strong and firm, and the sun behind them both reflects from Willard's eyes, panting them in a golden tint.
"Me savior..." Wallace smiles like a dork.
Willard's frown falters. "W-what?" he stutters. Only now does Willard seem to realize that he is holding Wallace in his arms, bridal style. The stocky farmer's cheeks go crimson red, and he quickly places the short inventor down on the yard’s grass.
"S...sorry, Wally---" He stammers quietly.
"For what?" Wallace asks bewildered, smiling widely. "For savin' me from breakin' me back? Willy lad, ye don't give enough credit to yerself!" He pats Willard's shoulder.
It happens again and again. Every time Wallace is about to succumb to a lab accident - be it setting himself on fire and not noticing, or nearly dipping his hand into a vat of acid - Willard catches him and drags him away. It extends to less dangerous situations too... Willard always walks vigilant on Wallace's side like a guard dog, when they go to the hardware store together to seek out machine parts. A shopkeeper attempts to take advantage of Wallace's endless kindness and naive optimism, and tries to sell him a cheap car radiator for a high price. Willard gives him a gloomy death-glare and cracks his knuckles, and the shopkeeper immediately backs off.
Wallace has never before felt so protected, so cherished...so cared for, by another human being. Mr. Tweedy really is like his guardian angel... He is so kind and delightful, and awfully handsome too. My my, how Wallace feels giddy, like jumping on the Moon's cheesy low-gravity surface all over again! He does not understand why Willard thinks so little of himself.
He wonders if it has something to do with the fact Willard visibly pales, every time he sees chicken products. The way he once had a horrible panic attack when Gromit served him dinner of roasted chicken, and Willard swatted the plate from the poor dog’s hand to the wall.
Maybe Willard has his own demons. Wendolene Ramsbottom had them too, in the form of Preston. And Wallace wonders if he could help Willard come to peace with his demons as well. Too bad he never was that good with comforting words... he hopes Willard doesn't mind.
And he really, really hopes that Willard stays...
While sleeping, Wallace leans against Willard's shoulder, smiling in bliss and feeling like the luckiest man on Earth. His thumb brushes Willard's palm, and the farmer's breath hitches.
--
Gromit, while knitting, realizes to his confusion - and huge, HUGE relief - that he is no longer alone in worrying about his accident-prone master. He still does not trust Willard fully…but he lies back on his armchair, finally getting to take a well-deserved nap. The next morning, he packs Willard an extra bag of apples, when the farmer and his guard dogs are about to depart back to their Yorkshire farm. When Willard raises his eyebrows delighted, Gromit crosses his arms and looks away, pretending to be cranky.
--
Willard wakes up to nightmares, in his farmhouse. Its walls still smell like gravy, even after all the hard scrubbing and diligent repairing.
He is in cold sweat, he breathes quick and fast, prompting Mr. Bonzo and Fido to come lick the hands of their master to comfort him.
His bedside is cold and empty. It's always been. Even back when Melisha was around. It was cold.
It's cold now too...so cold...
So lonely...
Willard trembles, hugging his black hounds. Visions of his nightmare are still fresh in his mind. Uncle Jimmy lying dead on the ground. That ginger chicken pecking Willard's face, his eyes, taking revenge on him for the things he did to her species. Guilt engulfs him as he thinks of all the times he locked her into the dark box. The chickens were prisoners, desperate, feeling trapped, just like him... all these years... how could he have been so cruel to them? Melisha's icy stare, as she nearly swats his face with a magazine. They're chickens, you dolt! Apart from you they are the most stupid creatures on this planet!
"I told you they was organized..." Willard mutters bitterly, repeating the words he told his wife, on that fateful day years ago when the farmhouse exploded in a wave of gravy, and he pushed the door on her, as all pent up frustration and anger finally exploded. And yet... deep down he feels like he deserved all those mean words. After all, Melisha is thriving, even after all these years. Rich and successful with a large factory farm, and a much smarter, academically qualified, rich husband to replace Willard. We all get what we deserve in life, right? Of course she's successful, while Willard is still stuck here... he truly is a dolt. Only a dolt could have been such a cruel crook to the chickens... he deserved this. He deserves to be alone. The insults of Melisha are compliments compared to Willard's own inner voice as he hates himself.
Mr. Bonzo looks at his brother. The hounds agree in silence, and Fido brings Willard a fresh apple. Not a red one from his farm. The green ones that Gromit packed into his bag earlier.
Willard, for a while, stares confused. But then takes the green apple in his arms, stares at it, rolling it between his fingers, feeling that smooth bumpy surface, smelling that fresh scent of autumn.
And slowly, before he realizes, his anxious chicken-filled thoughts are distracted. He thinks of Wallace and Gromit on West Wallaby Street...the sounds of mechanical tinkering, the scent of tea, cheese and crackers, and the faint smell of gasoline from the basement's moon rocket...
It feels comforting, he realizes. It feels like a whole different world entirely...it feels safe.
He thinks of Wallace's bright smile, as the silly bald inventor hums cheerfully while working. He wonders if Gromit is still knitting that long pink scarf, at this hour of the night. The silly pooch is trying so hard to make it perfect for his girlfriend, when Fluffles, that sweet lass, would love it no matter how many squints it has. Willard wonders what sort of hurdy-gurdy Wallace is going to invent next, and if he is going to ask Willard to help him build it.
Willard thinks suddenly of the future…and for the first time, he does not see it as something endlessly gloomy and hopeless.
He weeps. It's too much to bear at first. Sobs wrack his body, and he hugs Bonzo and Fido tight.
And then, finally, he speaks, his voice choked up but no longer in anguish.
"Lads. How about we go back to West Wallaby Street tomorrow?"
His hounds bark excited.