A/N: This is surprisingly my first Sweeney fic! I had some started a long time ago, but this is the first one I'm uploading! Enjoy! Feel free to inquire to request anything in the reviews! And though it's not my favorite version, I'm listing this in the movies section because it has a larger fanbase than the actual musical.
The poem in the beginning of the fic is by Dylan Thomas. It's one of my favorites and really sets the mood for the fic.
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Dylan Thomas
In the end Sweeney supposes that it's ironic. He should've guessed that Death would naturally play tricks on him. On them.
In the end, their roles have flipped. He remains passive. At peace with what he's done, what happened, and his death. He got his revenge; he had lived out his purpose. But oddly enough, something he never expected, it upsets him to see her like this.
She rages and rages and rages. Much like the fire that he threw her into. As a little boy he heard stories of banshees, of wailing woman spirits; he now knows those stories must have been real. She wails nearly all day long in the bakehouse where that fateful night occurred. Crying just isn't the word for the soul shattering sounds that escape her. And at night, that sometimes carry into the day, her furious screams ripple through the air so fiercely he's certain that if he were alive he'd be deaf.
Sweeney's positive that if it were only that, he could probably learn to tune it out, but then he witnesses her rage and sorrow turn into something akin to wrath.
Ever since the public had discovered the bodies of himself, the judge, beadle, and how their little business had been operating, people came to see for themselves. Daring each other to go down to the "Hell's Bakehouse", or a glimpse of a bloody razor, maybe a leftover pie. Nellie didn't take too kindly to any of them.
Now they enter only to be forced out by violently shaking furniture, breaking glasses, and cuts along their arms and legs. Screams of the baker still rattling their ears. Defending the only place she owned and lived. She had lived her whole life for nothing and was now angry. Angry at herself. Angry for how Toby ended up. Angry at the world. Angry at him.
She still had yet to even look at him directly, but Sweeney's no fool, and he is certain that a good portion of her pain is directed at him; he is the cause of it after all. Being dead gives one lots of time to reflect, and he has. He took her home, he took her chances, he took her time, he might as well have taken her adoptive son, and he took her dreams. He thinks that may be the reason he feels remorse every time he hears her wailing.
Now he knows of her unconditional love for him, her confession in her dying moments still seared into his brain.
He was barely aware of her speaking, her pleas for him to listen. But all he can focus on is Lucy. Her hair is yellow, eyes still blue; if she were still breathing, her cheeks would still be rosy. And all he can feel is sorrow; all he knows right now is anger. He's barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth. Then it cuts through the air.
"...Because I love you!"
"...Yes, I love you!"
He doesn't hear the insults she says about his wife. All he can think of is how this witch in front of him can possibly know of love. When she's done what she did. It's hypocrisy for her to even say it.
He shakes his head to rid of the memories, and looks how the dusty window out onto the street. There was barely anyone out, and he vaguely wonders if anyone will feel safe on Fleet Street again.
Sweeney notices the lack of noise and figures Mrs. Lovett must be in her room. Awhile ago he noticed the only times she didn't make any noise was the brief moments she entered her room. Why? He doesn't know. Somehow when she's silent, he feels more guilt than he does when she's raging. It could be because in those moments he was fully aware of the situation. And he hated the guilt. Guilt was a Benjamin emotion. But, he supposed, that made sense
Death is funny, and Sweeney thinks that long dead part of him finally caught up when he died himself. He feels the same as he did alive, but now it seems, he has a conscience. And that new found conscience think that he should help his partner. Only seems fair.
But he can never bring himself to do it. He always feels separated from her in some way, like as if there was a gauzy film constantly between them. One time he put his finger out to see if there actually was one.
The wailing starts up again and he watches as she leaves her room and wanders. Her cheeks are forever tear stained, her eyes red and puffy, and although there is no sign of burns, she is always radiating thick black smoke. Lifting from her skirts and hair. His neck is still sliced open too. Death leaves its marks.
She starts to wail her way down to the bakehouse, and something snaps in him.
"Nellie, wait."
She stops at the top of the stairs and chokes on her tears. Turning slowly she meets his eyes, her face contorted into an emotion that he hasn't seen yet.
Well, this could be interesting.
A/N: Remember that reviews give life! And I might continue this into a two chapter fic, should I? I had originally intended this to be a oneshot, but with that ending I don't know…
And more chapters for Ten to come!