Hey. Sorry about the short chapter, and any spelling mistakes, but I had to get it down before the plot-bunny flew my brain. Others are likley to be longer. If you R&R, it's even more likley. So anyway, read and enjoy. ( and review? )
The Asistant.
"Mr T, I think we need ter have a little chat," it was Mrs Lovett's voice, far more than than the sound of the bell above the shop door, that drew Sweeney's attention from the view of the cold, grey streets of London far below.
Silently, he turned his black gaze onto her, the only glimmer of emotion withen them, anger at being interupted. Even with all the practise that she'd had at meeting the gaze of the man who had once been Benjamin Barker, she somtimes still found herself almost pulling back from him.
"What is it?" He half- snarled, plunging as he did, more and more frequently, into the depths of his rage.
That was all that there ever seemed to be these days. Rage, which simmered just under the surface of everything, and was always ready to reveal it's self. A rage, which could only be washed away by bathing his razors with crimsom red. Anger . . . And below that, of course, the lonlyness that had followed at his side ever since the day he had been deported.
"What is it?" He asked again, this time with a little less of the snarl.
Mrs Lovett gathered up he corage, "I been keepin' count, Mr T. Tha's six out of twelve. For ev'ry two customers that have gone up here today, only one has come back," she mentally cringed at how her voice sounded to her own ears. Did she honstly sound as anoyed as she thought she did?
If the way the hardness returned to Sweeney's gaze was anything to go by, then the answer was definatly a yes.
"And?"
"If you keep it up," she said, running her hands through her hair, before taking a stance, and placeing them on her hips, "then someone's bound ter notice, luv. And besides, there's only so much meat tha' even I can use."
The only reply that she got was a grunt.
"From now on, I'm gona be sendin' Toby upstairs ter help ya out. It's abou' time that someone started ter teach that boy a trade other th'n pissin' inter bottles, an'what better then shavin'? And besides, it'll keep 'im out o' the gin."
Sweeney's face twisted into an expression of pure fury, and his hand twitched towards his waist, where one of his razors always resided, "And how do you supose that I'm meant to get anything done with that nosey little basterd standing in my shadow?"
It was quite an effort for Mrs Lovett to keep herself talking, even if she was getting used to his tantrums, "He can come back down ter help me at 'noon fer a few hours. You'll jus' have ter get yer business an' the like done then. Then he'll be commin' back up 'till it's eve."
"And what makes you think, that if you send him up to help, that it will be the stairs he comes back down?" Sweeney's voice had turned deadly quiet, so that Mrs Lovett had to almost strain her ears to catch the words. The hand that was near the blade at his waist, was almost automatically, running loving fingers over the back of it's case.
"Cause if he don't, " she said, crossing her arms over her chest, a firm expression on her face, "Then when you come down them there stairs yer won' be findin' me down 'ere."
She knew, that for the mean time it was somthing that she could get away with. At the moment, even as reluctent as he was to admit it, he still needed her.