Disclaimer: Story is mine, characters and anything else familiar—not mine.
Rating: PG. Rating is subject to change.
A/N: This is more of a "What If" story. What if Sweeney Todd came back after seven years, and not fifteen? What would have happened then? Also, I realize the beginning of this chapter is just like the movie. This should be the only chapter similar to the movie. Also, just to avoid confusion, Anthony is the same age he was in the movie, for the story's sake.
Seven Years of Fear and Lies
Chapter One: Ghosts
Anthony wasn't entirely sure what it was, but something about the stranger was intimidating. He was tall and very thin – emaciated, even. His hair was dark and unruly, with a shock of white that ran through it, stemming from his right temple. By the looks of it, Anthony almost doubted the man could hold his own in a fight. Almost, because despite all of that, he still couldn't bring himself to approach the older man. Maybe it was the way the receding moon cast him in an eerie shadow that had the sailor feeling a bit uneasy, or maybe it was the fact that in the three months he'd been on the ship, he'd hardly spoken, and if he did he was short and clipped and his voice held little to no emotion. Or maybe-- maybe it was the way his eyes were always so distant, so far off in thought, so blank and yet full of anger and guilt and longing all at once.
Shifting his sac on his shoulder, Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but found that he lacked the words he'd so readily rehearsed over and over in his head just moments before. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed, licking his lips. He tried again.
"...Mister Todd?" he said, his voice quiet and almost hesitant, as if he was afraid to draw the barber out of whatever memory he might have been recalling. "Sir? I—I apologize for disturbing you, but I thought you might like to know that we'll be mooring shortly," he finished, shifting his weight from foot to foot along with the gentle sway of the ship.
"...London?" came the quiet, deeper voice, and Anthony almost jumped at the unexpected response. He nodded and shifted his pack again, trying to ignore that familiar, uneasy feeling that washed over him when the barber turned to face him, his face partially masked in the shadows of the morning and his eyes shining dissonantly in the fading moonlight of the quickly approaching dawn.
"...Yes, sir," Anthony answered, and slowly, he came to stand by the older man, keeping a comfortable distance. For a few moments he said nothing, and then,
"I am glad to be returning to London. No other city can take the place of my home."
"...Hn," Sweeney grunted and Anthony paused, furrowing his brow at the bitter expression that flickered across the older man's face.
"Sir?"
"You are young," the barber explained, lifting his hands and resting them on the railing before him, long, thin fingers curling gingerly against the damp wood as the ship pulled into the harbor and dropped anchor.
"I don't understand."
"You will learn," he said, and released the railing, turning to wander towards the opposite side of the ship where the gangplank was being let down. With a nod of thanks, he took his pack from a fellow sailor and began his dissent. Anthony blinked and followed after him, curious as to what he had meant, but too afraid to question the man. Maybe he wasn't meant to understand now. Maybe it would come later.
"Farewell, Anthony," Sweeney said once he reached the docks, his back to the boy. "I will not soon forget the good ship Bountiful, nor the young man who rescued me. I am thankful for your help."
"I have done nothing deserving thanks, sir. Any Christian who would have spotted you straining and striving on that raft would have done the same," Anthony said and smiled kindly, leaning a bit to try and catch sight of Sweeney's face, but the barber turned his head.
"There are many a Christian who would have left me for dead and lost not a wink's sleep over it either," Sweeney replied quietly, creasing his brows as he stared down at the cobbled stone beneath his feet, wet and slippery with the recent rain. He seemed lost in thought, but Anthony was too awestricken with the magnificence of London to notice.
"Takes your breath away, doesn't it?" he breathed, absently stepping aside to let a gentleman past.
Sweeney lifted his head, pulled from his reverie and disgusted with Anthony's words. He shuddered, frowning callously.
"If you like the great black hole of filth that is London, I suppose," he muttered bitingly, and then seemed to reconsider himself. Anthony peered at him curiously, taken aback at the grim way his friend spoke of the city that he himself held in such high admiration.
"I beg your pardon, Anthony. Where I once found comfort in these previously familiar streets, I find only shadows now."
"Shadows?" Anthony took a step forward toward his friend, intrigued, perplexed.
"Ghosts," Sweeney murmured.
"Sir?"
Sweeney continued. "There was a barber and his wife, and she was beautiful. Beautiful, virtuous...proper. Everyone knew that she meant everything to the barber, but the barber... He was so...naive." Here, he paused for a moment, as if he was uncertain of what came next in the story.
"But there was another man, pompous, and of the law—A judge. And he longed for the beauty that did not belong to him. Selfishly, he had the barber taken away—removed. She could do nothing but wait, and...and she would fall. So soft, so young...and so beautiful..." Todd tapered off, the tale having taken some sort of effect on him. He seemed paler now, and that ever-remaining fire in his eyes seemed brighter, more enraged. Anthony was unsure if he should speak.
"...And—And the lady, sir... Did she surrender?"
Sweeney cocked his head, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards into a small, bitter smile. "That was long ago. I wouldn't know, nor do I believe anyone else would."
Sweeney turned his gaze up towards the dark, gray-blue of the early morning sky, eyes squinted and blank.
"I owe you my life, Anthony. If it were not for you, I would still be lost in the ocean. Thank you," he said, and lifted his duffel from the concrete, moving to leave. Anthony adjusted his grip on the strap of his own bag and quickly stepped forward as if he was about to stop the man.
"Will I see you again?" He questioned, silently berating himself for sounding so desperate, so childish.
Sweeney paused and glanced over his shoulder at the boy. "If you'd like. You might find me around Fleet Street, I imagine."
Anthony smiled, seemingly satisfied that Sweeney wasn't just going to leave him alone and friendless in a city he'd been away from for so many years. He nodded, and extending his hand, he said, "Until then, my friend."
Sweeney turned away and took no notice of the kind gesture, and in a matter of moments, he had disappeared, his muttered words a whisper on the breeze. Anthony could only stand and wonder about the dark, enigmatic fog that hung about his friend's head.
There it was.
Sweeney slowed and came to stand at the end of the street, gazing up at the shop on the opposite side of the road, out of place and dwarfed by the other buildings surrounding it. It looked exactly the same, and if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his Lucy standing in the window of the shop, just above where Nellie Lovett – he absently wondered if she was still around – used to make her pies down below. He looked away. False hopes were exactly that: false. Seven years was a long time to wait, and Sweeney would not blame her if she had moved on to bigger, better things, better men—
No.
Lucy was his and no one else's.
Clenching his jaw, Sweeney pushed the unwanted thoughts from his mind and quietly crossed the street, forcing himself not to look up at the shop he once owned, at the ghostly image of his wife he knew would be waiting; a figment of his imagination. Instead, he trained his eyes on the shop below, peering through the filthy windows of the door for any sign of life.
Movement. Small, but still visible, still there. Sweeney lifted his hand, fingers coming to touch the cool handle of the door, but instead of going in, he hesitated. What if it wasn't her, what if it wasn't Nellie Lovett, but someone else? What if it was someone else, and they recognized him? No... No, he looked different now, changed, unfamiliar. No one would recognize him, not so easily. Sweeney shook his worries away and gripped the handle, pushing the door open and stepping in, absently noting the quiet chiming of bells as he closed the door behind him. The woman at the counter, busy chopping a stick of suet, looked up and blinked.
"A customer!" she gasped, surprised—delighted. Quickly, she came around the counter and took Sweeney by the shoulders, pulling him further into the shop and pushing him down into a seat. Sweeney found that he suddenly felt very exhausted, and didn't protest.
"Sit!" she said happily, gathering her skirts in her gloved hands and scurrying off. Sweeney tilted his head a bit and watched her with tired eyes. There was no doubting that she was the Nellie Lovett he'd known so many years ago. Admittedly, she had changed quite a bit – her hair was messy and sloppily pulled back out of her face and her skin was paler, and she seemed thinner than before. Her eyes were a bit sunken, too, and the skin around them sagged just slightly. This was not to say that she was ugly or unattractive, but Sweeney knew that she had seen better days.
"First customer I've 'ad in weeks, you are," she said, having taken her place behind the counter again. "You must be starvin', eh? Too thin, you are, darling," she drawled, picking something out of the flour before her and dropping it on the floor. Sweeney furrowed his brow at the peculiar action and only found himself more curious when she suddenly beat her palm against the countertop, as if this was a normal thing to do.
"Did you come for a pie, sir?" Nellie questioned, and without waiting for a reply, she plucked one of her pies from the counter and dropped it onto a plate she'd pulled from a shelf behind her. Something told the barber that pies shouldn't clatter in such a way, nor should they be covered in a blanket of – dust, was it? -, but he was too tired to make anything of it. Nellie placed the pastry on the table and slid it towards him.
"'ow about a spot of ale?" she asked. Sweeney nodded and she was back behind her counter again, spooning something out of a bowl and slopping the questionable substance into a pie crust.
"No one ever stops in 'ere anymore, not like they used to. S'pose my pies ain't what they used to be, but they ain't terrible," Nellie chattered, dropping a lump of dough into the flour. She began to knead it as she spoke, her words broken every now and then with a grunt. "Oh, 'oo am I foolin'. These are probably the-- worst pies London 'as ever-- tasted. 'aven't sold a single pie in weeks I tell you. Worst pies in London!"
Sweeney glanced up and lifted a finger, opening his mouth to interject, but Nellie interrupted, raising her hand to stop him. "If you doubt it, take a bite, go on, love."
Sweeney paused and looked down at the pie in front of him, unsure if it was safe to eat. Hesitantly, he picked the pastry up, waving it in front of his nose as he inhaled. Something smelled off, but whether it was the pie or the entire shop itself, he couldn't tell. Reason told him to put it down and leave it, but the growling of his stomach said otherwise, and throwing caution out the window, Sweeney tentatively took a bite.
It was awful. The barber tried not to grimace, but his disgust was quite evident and Nellie sighed, shaking her head.
"Disgustin', innit? You 'ave to agree, I mean, s'nothing but crust an' it looks like it's moltin'. Drink this, darling," she said, and brought him a tankard of ale. Sweeney drank it greedily, hoping to rid his mouth of the horrible taste. Nellie watched him and smiled a bit in amusement.
"S'going to take a lot more than just ale to wash that taste out, darling," she said quietly, her hands, pale with flour, resting on her hips. "Come on, love, come with me an' I'll get you nice glass of gin," she finished, moving towards the doorway at the far left. Sweeney pushed the pie away and stood, shouldering his duffel bag and following after her.
The parlor was not as he remembered it. The layout was still the same, but many things had changed since he'd last seen it. The wallpaper, for one, was more cheery – that is, if you ignored the fact that parts of it were charred and singed and a discolored yellow – and the furniture, while still the same as before, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The mantle above the fireplace was cluttered with useless knickknacks and trinkets of all kinds, all of which were also covered in dust and cobwebs, and somewhere, lodged between what looked like a music box and a candleholder, was a postcard of the seaside. It seemed to be the only thing free of filth. For someone who lacked any real reason to make pies – seeing as she claimed to have not had a customer in quite some time – Sweeney wondered why she didn't spend her time doing more practical things—like tidying up.
"There you are," Nellie said, coming up behind him and touching his shoulder, holding the gin out to him in her other hand. Sweeney tensed at the unwanted touch and took the offered drink. "Sit down an' warm yourself. You look chilled right through." Nellie took him by the elbow and led him to the sofa in front of the fireplace, pushing on his shoulders much like she'd done when he'd first appeared in her shop. Sweeney, once again, did not protest, comforted by the heat of the fire. For a while, he sat silently and just stared into the flickering flames as Mrs. Lovett flitted about the room, moving things here and there in a poor attempt to clean. The barber's voice pulled her from her useless effort.
"Isn't that a room over the shop? If the business is lacking, how come you don't rent it out?" Sweeney asked, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers against his eyelids. The warmth of the fire was relaxing and he was beginning to feel the lack of sleep taking its toll on him. It was all he could do to suppress a yawn.
Nellie glanced over her shoulder as she put the bottle of gin away and then came around the couch to stand in front of him.
"What? Up there?" she asked, gesturing towards the ceiling, and then looked back at Sweeney with a shrug. "No one'll go near it," she added, and when Sweeney sent her a questioning look, she continued. "People think it's 'aunted."
The barber cocked his head, her words having caught his interest. "...Haunted. Why's that?"
Mrs. Lovett crossed her arms, ready to tell the story when she paused, her brows furrowing as she stared down at Sweeney. Something about him was familiar. He looked...he looked like...
No. Can't be 'im, no way it's 'im.
Plastering on a smile, Nellie smoothed her hands along the front of her dress and laughed quietly. "That's a story for another time, darling. For now, you should get some rest, you can 'ardly keep your eyes open! You can sleep in 'ere for now, on the sofa. I'll get you some nice warm blankets an' we can talk some more when you're rested, mister..."
Nellie tapered off, waiting for him to supply a name. A name she was quite certain she already knew.
"...Todd. Sweeney Todd."
Nellie smiled again and moved towards the door with a nod. "Right then, Mister Todd. I'll be back in a tic with some blankets," she told him, and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
"Todd," Nellie muttered, pressing her back against the door to the parlor.
Not Todd. Barker. Benjamin Barker. Benjamin Barker 'as returned.
Nellie turned, pressing her ear against the cool wood of the door, listening closely. Everything was silent, and the baker couldn't help but wonder what the barber was doing. It was most likely that he was trying to get some sleep. Nellie suddenly remembered the blankets.
Stepping away from the door, Mrs. Lovett absently wrung her hands together and crossed the length of her shop, stepping through the door at the opposite side. Once outside, she paused, and then hiked up her skirts, turning to start up the stairs that led to the shop just above her's, murmuring inaudible words to herself and shaking her head.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Nellie noted that the door to the shop was slightly ajar, and quietly, she approached, pushing it open gingerly. The door groaned on its hinges, and shortly after, a gentle, quiet voice followed.
"...I-I'm sorry, Mrs. Lovett. I was just leaving."
Nellie stopped in the doorway and peered at the woman standing at the window. For the third time, she pasted on a false smile and shook her head. "Oh no, darling, s'not a bother. Jus' came up to get some extra blankets. S'been getting' colder in the nights an' I figured I'd fetch the blankets now 'afore I forget to later," she said, moving towards the small storage trunk against the wall and unhooking the latches. She lifted the lid, and with little effort, she pulled out all of two tattered bedspreads.
Stepping off to the side of the trunk, Nellie nudged the lid closed with her hip and looked back at the woman at the window once more, arms full.
"You can stay up 'ere as long as you like, darling, you know that," she told her and shifted the bundle in her arms so that she could open the door.
"And 'ow many times must I tell you, love? Call me Nellie, Lucy."
A/N: Oh dear. Please review, otherwise I'll assume no one likes it, and I'll probably delete it. Constructive criticism welcomed, but please, no flames.