A/N: Just a crappy little fic I wrote for Weird Ships Week on the Sweeney Todd livejournal community, which I help moderate. Since there will be a chapter or two devoted to exploring a more… intimate relationship between Lovett and Toby later on in "By the Sea" from Lovett's perspective, I tried writing something similar in Toby's perspective. Don't judge me too hard for this tripe, lol. Also, these versions of Lovett and Toby are based off of Doyle's revival. Blah blah blah, Sweeney Todd belongs to Sondheim and Wheeler, not me. Enjoy, comments appreciated as always.

PROTECTION

"Toby!"

The boy lifts his head from its resting place atop his flour-dusted hands, folded on the countertop. He is exhausted, he never sleeps much anymore, but his heart races madly at the beckoning.

"Toby, dear!"

She needs him and he must go to her. He leaps off of the rickety stool and though his bum leg gives a twinge of protest with every harsh step, he bounds through the establishment as fast as his feet will take him. To her. To her. He knows where to find her. The little room next to the parlor. He has been here often, though only to crouch outside the rough wooden door and listen in on her on nights when Mr. Todd storms wordlessly into her room and slams the door behind him. The door is open, now, and he is suddenly afraid to enter. What if he's there still? He calls out to her, kitten-like, his mewling of a voice trembling softly.

"Yes'm?"

"Come in, love."

He takes a step forward, so hesitant, crossing the threshold into her chambers. His eyes dart around the space, scrutinizing the shadows. The anxiety melts away like the lard she uses in the pies as he realizes that they are alone; Mr. Todd must be in the tonsorial parlor, lurking like a tiger in the darkness somewhere above them. He almost does not notice her as she quickly gets up and quietly closes the door, locks it. Click. The sound brings his attention to her. She faces him and smiles that warm little pursed-lip smile she reserves just for him. He feels the heat pool in his cheeks, his lips forming a smile of their own. She comes to him and he revels in the closeness of her, she grabs his hand and he delights in the gentle roughness of her palms against his own. She guides him to the bed and sits with him.

"Toby, if you could be a dear and grab my brush there… that's it, yes, dear… and brush out my hair for me?"

He grabs the brush with a shaky hand; he has always wanted to touch those raven locks. He gently fumbles with the handle… and he runs the brush through her short glossy hair, working through the kinks in its flow, staring wordlessly as it parts so effortlessly for the bristles and wonders if it might not do the same for his fingers. He chances it, running them through a few strands quickly, and when she does not say anything, does it again, this time slowly. It is much softer and more delicate than any of the wigs both Signor Pirelli and Mr. Todd had in their collections. It feels so nice on his calloused little fingers, like stroking the cherry red velvet curtains she has recently put up in the parlor. He continues caressing her hair, gently, adoringly, but stops abruptly when she leans her cheek into his hand. The skin is wet. He withdraws, does not know what to make of it, is frightened by it.

"What's the matter, mum? What is it?"

She turns to face him and he sees his terror, sees her tears rolling slowly down her weathered face in the flickering yellow light of the oil lamp. She smiles though there is much sadness in it.

"It's nothing, love… Mr. T and I just had ourselves a little disagreement, is all. He forgets sometimes, he does, forgets… well. Nothing for you to worry your little head over, dear. Now, come back and give your Aunt Nellie a hug."

He trusts her completely, he does. He nestles himself into her arms, face turned into the crook of her neck, nuzzling her. Her arms wrap around him tenderly. He feels safe, here. He wants to remain this way forever. His eyes closed, he listens to her heart through her collarbone. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Thump. Thump. Thump. A new sound. He knows this sound too well. The tiger paces malcontently above them, waiting to pounce. And everything changes. He opens his eyes and he sees the dark bruises on the milky skin of her neck, on her collarbone, dipping below the edge of her nightgown. He knows it's Mr. Todd's work; he hears them late at night when he crouches outside her door, hears the sounds of the violent struggles that must take place here. He hears the furniture being knocked about against the wall, hears his fierce grunts and her cries as he must hurt her so. Toby's body quivers with newfound rage.

"He's not going to hurt you no more, mum!"

"What's that, love?"

He needs her to need him. His hazel eyes bore pleadingly into her soft brown ones, and he feels a surge of unfamiliar strength.

"I know he hurts you. Mr. Todd. I hear him sometimes at night, mum, harming you in here. I can see the marks on your neck; them's aren't no accidental bruises, no sirree mum, them's Mr. Todd's work, I know it. Well I'm not going to let him harm you no more. I'm going to protect you even if it means I'll be beaten instead!"

He deflates. Is that… amusement twinkling in those doe eyes? The sound of her laughter unexpectedly irritates him.

"Oh, Toby dear, what goes on between Mr. T and me at night… There's no need to protect me from that, dear. It's a woman's duty after all, to…" He notices her cheeks are rosier than usual. "One day, dear, you'll understand that things happen between a man and a woman who love each other, that might sound horrible but really is something beautiful… Now enough of this foolish chatter, I shouldn't be talking about this to…"

"But I love you, mum."

"I know, dear, but with Mr. T…" He feels the rage again.

"He doesn't care for you, mum, not like me! You see the way he treats you, he wouldn't protect you, he doesn't love you, he –"

A sharp blow to his cheek, and the awful tingling which lingers longer than it is welcome. One quick glance at her face; her eyes are glistening with fury and something a little more tender, but he can't make it out as he, trembling, can no longer meet her gaze. His eyes brimming with tears, he buries his face into one knee and mumbles, barely audible.

"You deserve someone who can protect you, mum, the world's a dangerous place… can't trust nobody…"

And at once he feels her hands, gentle this time, lift his face from its hiding place. His eyes meet hers and he's quivering as she's close again, and part of him wants to run to his raggedy cot and part of him wants to embrace her smaller frame; and he doesn't have to make the decision, because suddenly her lips are touching his and a jolt goes through his body and his brain and he cannot think anymore, save on her lips. He is mostly confused, at first. Her warm, soft, supple lips purse against his and he does nothing. He savors the feeling. She does it again and his lips tingle and he, tentatively, purses them against hers in return.

He realizes that they are kissing. His knowledge of any sort of intimate contact like this is cursory at best from what he has seen in his life on the street; he has seen her kiss Mr. Todd before. The thought makes something red-hot and angry flare up deep within him, and he instinctively wraps his arms around her, drawing her closer. He kisses her, this time, and he is surprised for a moment when he feels her tongue flick against his pursed lips. This passes quickly as he feels her fingers run through his mop of dark brown hair; that is, until he sighs contentedly against her lips and she slips her tongue into his open mouth, teasing his own tongue with it. This is all so strange to him; he's quivering as they continue to kiss. And then shame: his eyes snap open; he instantly pulls away from her as he realizes what she is doing to him. He brings his knees to his chest, does not look at her, hopes to high heaven she does not see…

He feels her touch, light, on his arm, and oh God what heat surges through his body! He cannot help himself, he must look at her. Her eyes are dark, and they lock with his own, and he can feel his legs drop, can feel his shame exposed to her. But instead of backing away in horror, she draws him closer, and he, almost stupefied, responds without hesitation. She lets go of him for a moment and he watches, breathless, eyes wide as flattened dough, as she slips her nightgown over her head, leaving her in nothing but her bloomers. Her chest is bare to him now, ivory marked with dark purple, the marks of the tiger upstairs. He knows he shouldn't look, it wouldn't be proper, but he cannot help it; he is transfixed. He feels another surge of strange emotion and swallows, though his mouth is dry.

Her hand takes his, and slowly, almost surreally, guides it to her left breast. He is trembling violently as he takes in the feeling of the smooth flesh beneath his palm. He strokes it, gently; he does not want to leave any nasty bruises behind. She places her hand back atop his and firmly presses it into her softness. Curious, he squeezes her breast tenderly. She sighs softly and he takes that to mean yes, and his other hand gingerly reaches up to do the same to her other breast. She falls against him, head buried in the crook of his neck; he can feel her quiver under his touch, can hear her breath catch as one of his fingers explores an erect nipple. She is so close to him… He closes his eyes and takes in the smell of her: meat pies and flowers and smoke and something unfamiliar and musky that makes his entire body throb again with that same alien sensation.

Something wet against his neck. Her lips. Her tongue. Her teeth. Oh God. He shivers and cannot take so much sensation. His eyes fall again on her breasts, on those angry marks. He must protect her from all that. Without a thought he dips his head forward, bringing his lips hesitantly to a mark on her neck. He will kiss them to make them better. One after another after another, planting gentle little kisses over her torso; he must not notice how she shakes as he does so. When he kisses her left nipple, she cries out; his heart leaps to his throat and he thinks he's hurt her. She's cried like this with Mr. Todd. But her hands are at the back of his head like a cage, and he cannot pull away and her breast is so soft and inviting in front of his face… He kisses her nipple again and she clutches at his hair, drawing him in further. What does she want? Her cries sound pained, but she won't let him leave her bosom… He takes the swollen flesh into his mouth this time and suckles it like a babe. He finds comfort in this, somehow, though Mrs. Lovett's whimpering distracts him in ways that make him want to shrink away and hide from her. But he closes his eyes, hand gently stroking her other breast as he suckles and kisses, and finds peace there, if for a moment.

And suddenly the peace is broken. Her hand snakes slowly down his body and oh God, she's touching him there, her fingers cupped around him through the fabric of his pants. He whimpers, tries to pull away, this is wrong, this is shameful, this… oh God. She is looking at him, but all he can see is his pants pulled around his thighs, and her hand wrapped around that. He feels as if he might be sick; the bile is rising in his throat. Her hand moves on him, and he nearly blacks out. Stars flash before his eyes. Up, down, up, down; her wrist flicks roughly with every stroke but he cannot see it, he fears he's gone blind from all this. Tears spill onto his cheeks as she increases the rhythm of her caresses. He is seeing into a world of which he's never had the faintest of glimpses and it frightens and excites him at the same time. Up, down. He feels nothing but her – her hand on him, her darkened eyes boring into him the way Mr. Todd's eyes bore into her. And something goes off in him. He is a simple lad, his mind far younger than his body, but he understands now, in his simple fashion, what goes unsaid in the dark of this room when he crouches outside the door. And, with a pained cry of his own, he succumbs to it.

He lays with her, afterwards, exhausted but unable to sleep. She faces away from him, and the moonlight highlights her curves under the blanket. He must protect her even more now. He reaches to her, a shaky hand almost touching the dip in her waist… Thump. Thump. Thump. Footsteps from the angry god above. Toby knows, now, she belongs to that terrible creature. He stumbles out of bed, out of the room, away from her. His cot feels so horribly cold beneath his form. He is alone. Who, now, will protect Tobias?