"Mr. T! I've brought you some lunch!"
He opened the door with his usual sour look. "I don't want it," he grumbled.
She hadn't really expected him to—after all, he was never grateful for anything she did. "I know, Mr. T, but if you don't eat you'll die."
He gave her a grumpy look. "Mrs. Lovett," he growled, "do you honestly think I don't know that?"
She ignored his statement and pushed past him into the barbershop. She brought the food over to the chest in the corner where she set it down. When the metal of the tray touched the wood of the chest, dust flew in all directions. Mrs. Lovett sneezed.
"Mr.T!" She coughed. "This place is a mess!"
He had lingered in the doorway and stood with his arms crossed. "I don't care," he said simply.
She looked at him incredulously. "But Mr. T! Your customers will care, won't they?"
He rolled his eyes. "I doubt my customers worry about the cleanliness of my establishment. They're usually too busy dying."
She had to admit, he had a point. But she wasn't going to give up on him. "Oh, Mr. T, that's not the point! You want them to think you run a respectable establishment before they die, don't you?"
He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded like "says the woman with the cockroaches".
She ran a finger over the chest and, when she looked at it, saw that it was coated in dust.
"That's not right, Mr. T." She turned to face him, her hand on her hips. "I'm going to clean this room up."
He stared at her. "You're going to what?" He asked.
"Clean. This place is filthy; it's unfit to live in."
He laughed humorlessly. "I don't think so," he said.
"I do. Start moving stuff out onto the balcony so I can do it properly."
He didn't move. She really had nothing to threaten him with—he didn't care about food, or laundry, or anything she could offer him.
Or did she?
"If you do it, I won't talk for the rest of the day."
Wordlessly, he began pushing things out onto the balcony.
The day was a gray and cloudy, but uncharacteristically warm.