All Deserve to Die
Summary: Sweeney Todd isn't the only one who's suffered loss. Mild Sweenett.
Something was off.
To be certain, he didn't notice for quite a while. He had ceased his pacing upstairs and come down for the express purpose of soothing his murderous restlessness with some gin – that is, if that little brat Toby hadn't already drunk them dry. Surely, it wasn't healthy for a boy so young to consume so much drink? But then, what the bloody hell did he care? The boy was Mrs. Lovett's concern. His only concern, he thought, as he downed the gin that Toby fortunately hadn't gotten to, was revenge.
At least, it should be.
And yet, occasionally, despite himself, other thoughts crept in. Memories, of course, memories tinged with bitterness by the horrors that came after. Memories of his beautiful, yellow-haired Lucy, and their little baby – a baby that was now a young woman, he reminded himself. Quite apart from his own thirst for vengeance, the killing of Judge Turpin would free his daughter. Joannah – she was as much as prisoner as he had been all those years, gilded though her cage was. The thought of her caged sent another surge of anger through him, and he swallowed more gin to take the edge off of his feelings. Forcing himself to focus on the here and now, he couldn't help but notice that something, something was off.
He glanced over at Mrs. Lovett. The sun was setting, and business had slowed for the day for both of them. Despite this, she was still working furiously, her hands pounding the dough as vigorously as if she was attacking someone who had done her great wrong. Her normally pale face was dark with anger, and there was none of her usual chatter buzzing annoyingly in his ear. He should have been relieved; for once, there was no need for him to pretend to listen. Indeed, except for the sound of her movements, she was as silent and as stony as death.
"Isn't it about time to close up?" The sound of his voice was as startling to her as it was to him; really, he hadn't planned on saying anything. Even more surprising was her response: "I'll close up when I'm good and ready!" she snapped, beating the dough still more furiously. Too shocked to be enraged by her tone, he merely gaped at her. Her rage seemed to collapse under the weight of his gaze; her shoulders slumped, and she sighed, defeated.
"I'm sorry," she said, glancing at him, and then quickly away, as she put the last pie in the oven and began cleaning up, "It's just …."
She let the words hang in the air, and for a long moment, it seemed the conversation was at an end. And then, very softly,
"Just what?"
Surprised, she looked up at him. Something in his express was almost like … concern? Well, interest, at least. Curiosity.
"That priest drives me mad, he does. Calls himself a man of God? Heart as black as the devil he's got…"
Whatever he might have been expecting, Sweeney Todd hadn't expected this. They had (half) joked of serving up priest to her unsuspecting customers, but to him, the priest was just one more faceless person that deserved to die. There was nothing particularly important about him.
"I mean really …." Mrs. Lovett swallowed, and then began again, her voice so low that he had to strain to hear, "What kind of man refuses to give a baby a Christian burial? A poor little baby boy what's barely lived a few month's time? All because the parents hadn't the time to have him baptized? As if they didn't have more important things to do, like keeping their bloody business afloat to provide for the little –"As Mrs. Lovett's voice broke, one of her pots went crashing to the ground.
"Bloody hell!" With a strangled cry, and many more curses, she bent to the pick the pot off the floor. But before she could, a hand reached to pick it up for her. Looking up, she locked eye with the barber.
He had suffered greatly. More than anyone deserved to. His family ripped from him, his life destroyed. But in all his pain, in all his rage, in all his torturous sorrow, it had never occurred to him that he wasn't the only one. It had never occurred to him that Mrs. Lovett, the woman in whom he had inexplicably inspired such unwavering loyalty, the woman whom he often thought of as silly and irritating, had suffered pain in her life, pain at least as great and deep as his.
Slowly, they both stood. He could see the tears streaking her pale face, her deep brown eyes brimming with more. She turned away from him, drawing in shaky breaths. It surprised both of them when he put his hand on her shoulder.
"Perhaps," he said softly "I shall invite the dear father over tomorrow … for a free shave."
A grim smile twisted its way onto Mrs. Lovett's features as she turned to face him again. "That's a wonderful idea, love," she said, as his hand brushed her face, his thumb wiping away a stray tear on her cheek, "After all, as you've said…."
"We all deserve to die…"
She gripped his hand as it left her cheek, and pressed her lips to his fingers, before whispering, "Even you, Mr. Todd, even I."