A/N: When I first watched the movie, I really wondered about that phrase—I mean, sure, she cut up murder victims and served them as pies, but somehow Mrs. Lovett still just didn't seem worthy of being called the Devil's wife XD In fact, she struck me as almost tragic… and even when I watched the 1982 film, she seemed more like comic relief than anything else… But you have to wonder. For one thing, why would such an 'eminently practical' individual fall for someone who seemed to pretty much live for ideals (revenge, love, Johanna)? And, by lying for her own advancement, wasn't she just as bad as Sweeney's 'customers'? (Well, maybe some people would agree with this pretty easily, but I think the movie portrayed her in a more sympathetic light XD;;). I guess those were the things that were running through my head as I wrote this… Also, as for which universe this is set in—well, I think I kind of wound up with a Johnny Depp!Sweeney and a Angela Lansbury!Lovett. Take it how you will, though, I really wasn't aiming for anything in particular… and, most importantly, enjoy :)

The Devil's Wife

Mrs. Lovett prided herself as being a practical woman.

She wasn't the sort to go into a swoon at the sight of a little blood, or even a whole corpse for that matter. Of course, you couldn't exactly be squeamish if you were in the meat pies business… but she fancied that even the most seasoned of bakers might tend to have a bit of a problem with separating human flesh from human bone. Her, though… well, it was just as he'd said; desperate times, eh?

It was times like these that weeded out the weak of stomach, and of heart…

Take her Mister T, now—if he'd stayed the same man he had been fifteen years ago, he would've been just the sort she'd have pegged for a good pruning. Not now, of course. Funny, that… if he hadn't been deported back then, it would surely have led to more tragedy later. Maybe it was just his inescapable destiny, or suchlike.

One thing she had to say about people—they made for awfully large corpses. Any animal this big would be sold in pieces at the butcher's, and as for the animals you found in a street, well, she could lift a dog no problem, and she wouldn't even think of trying to move horse… but these gentlemen here were right in that awkward in-between stage. She resolved the problem by dividing them up into more manageable pieces, taking the limbs over to her cutting table and carving up the trunks right there on the floor. It was messy, but what wasn't?

Well, aside from Mister Todd, of course. For all the gore that went on down here, he always kept his parlor sparkling clean. After Signor Pirelli, who had died comparatively slowly and with lots of time to contemplate his fate, poor fool, she'd been afraid that they would need to buy buckets of flowers to hide the stench… but he'd become so quick and so thorough about cleaning up his messes that they hardly needed the one little bowl she'd put up there—and even that was really more to cover up the stink that made its way up from the bakehouse.

And stink it did. No amount of flowers could've concealed it, and she needed all the buckets she could get anyway, to hold the… unwanted parts. She tired not to waste too much, of course, but there wasn't really a lot that even she could do with thigh bones and the like (to say nothing of some of those unspeakable wobbly bits).

Another thing about working down here, it was too hot. That great monster of an oven could heat the whole building—though, by the time the heat rose to Mister Todd's parlor, it was actually quite pleasant… of course, she wasn't entirely sure if he noticed or cared. For all that he was immaculate about his work, he was strangely impervious to other… practicalities, warmth most of all. A ghost of old Barker remained, hah.

It was funny what the years could do to a man, she reflected as she worked (rug merchant was the special today, and coo if there wouldn't be plenty to go around!). Mister Todd seemed to spend a lot of his time in his head, which was certainly a Barker trait—except that his head must be a very dark place, now, and he seemed to go in much further… and the flashes of brilliance he came back out with were purely her Mister T. A wicked brilliance, it was, but at least he knew he was wicked… perhaps that was what set him so apart from his 'customers'.

Hands and feet were the worst. It was so tedious, trying to pull and scrape the meat off of every finger and toe, plus those little bones always broke so easy—so she'd found that if she just put them through the grinder three times, she could put them in bones and all. A little bit of bone meal would gave the pies texture, she was sure. She hated to waste them, after all, when she was already left with so many pails of refuse. The smell from those was nearly unbearable, too bad even to throw down into the sewer, and so she was left with no choice but to burn them…

As she opened the oven doors, she sighed, thinking wistfully of later in the day when she would be able to relax next to the more soothing heat of her parlor fireplace. The oven was nice enough when it was closed, but get too close and it could scorch you. Moving the pies in and out all day made her skin crack, it did, and played merry hell with her hair. She upended another bucket of leftovers into the fire, and quickly shut the doors before any sparks could land on her dress.

(The unwanted bits go into the oven.)

The End