Welcome.
If you have read my other fanfic, know that this one is a far cry from that. This one is much more on an emotional level than physical, and is preferred. This story actually has a plotline, and I am thinking of leaving it as a oneshot. Though if I hear otherwise, that might change!
It's really long, but I couldn't really feel like I could break it up into chapters.
Disclaimer: No, no of course I do not own Sweeney Todd. I do, however, own any and all storyline that does not actually relate to the actual story itself.
Based off of the 2007 movie.
A man walks into a bar.
Though there is no joke. He is far from joking. His face holds no amusement, no happiness, no joy, no laughter, void of all life, though…though the longer this man walks in the rain towards this bar, the more the emotionless façade fades, and the more one begins to realize that this thing – this creature – this suffering man – does have feelings.
In fact, he is sad. Sad is not a good enough adjective. He is heartbroken, distraught, unhappy, grieving, mourning, and his dark eyes become downcast, showing as if they might give way to tears as his boots walk through the dirty puddles. This face, these traits that are so unfamiliar to this shell of a man, this shell of a man with a broken, bleeding heart inside, walks towards a bar, the most popular one in despicable London in the middle of the pitch black night.
He is mourning.
He cannot stand to be in his apartment anymore. For Benjamin Barker's memories linger there, and Sweeney Todd cannot bear to be affronted with them as he is so helpless in the middle of the night. He shows himself to always be strong, unwavering, but he weeps bitterly, silently, as he remembers his wife in his arms, loving him. Then he imagines her broken, in a crumpled heap on his apartment floor, the bottle of arsenic still in her hand as she has given up any hope of life. He imagines this scene to have taken place where his deathly chair sits, for that would only make it more fitting. It would only allow it to be more excusable.
So he walks to the bar, desperate for some sort of relief, relief from a strong alcohol that is not held in Mrs. Lovett's pie shop. She allows him to drink all the gin he wants – which he does, and reimburses her for it with every swish of the blade to his customer's neck. But no matter how much gin he drinks, he cannot stop the memories, the hurt, the sadness, the longing.
A man walks into a bar.
He looks around, spotting a long bar on one side of the room, most barstools full with troubled men who will not admit their troubles. They will only drown themselves in alcohol. Sweeney no longer is astonished at their behavior, though his younger self had been, for now he knows what it truly means to suffer.
He sits, his back to many tables of drunken, laughing men, most with women on their laps. The bartender greets him, pours him a generous serving of whiskey without being asked, and when Sweeney gives him an almost confused look, the bartender shrugs.
"I've seen a lot of faces," he explains without prodding. "I know what they need and what they've suffered. And what you've suffered is loss, or at least that's part of your suffering, and you crave whiskey."
Sweeney is not in the mood to be angered. Though he still holds a razor in his holster, that is not who he is right now. He is not Benjamin, nor Sweeney, but he is a grieving man somewhere in between. He only nods, actually mumbles a thank you, and greedily swallows it in a few thirsty gulps. The bartender refills his glass without a word.
Sweeney closes his eyes for a moment, but forces them back open when he sees his wife's laughing face, her shining blue eyes, and her golden hair that he always was aching to run his fingers through by the time he finished his work day. Her lovely presence was shoved out of his mind, Sweeney trembling and unable to handle it, and downs another whiskey.
The bartender refills it.
It would take more than several glasses to get him past pain.
As his third glass is being filled, he let his dark, angered eyes roam around the room. First he skims over all of the first floor, in all of it's disgusting filth, then looks up to see the women lining the second floor ledge that looked out over the bar. They all stand, clad in only their underthings with meticulous hairdos and even more meticulous makeup, waiting for a man to take them. He watches as a handful of stupid, drunk men clobber up the stairs, and he watches as women take their hands and lead them off to their respective rooms.
These dark, unforgiving eyes pick apart every woman one by one, almost considering picking one to attempt to momentarily drown his sorrows. Guilt weighs him down as he thought it to betray his precious Lucy, but, most regrettably, she is dead. He has no interest of quieting carnal, instinctive desires – he had more desire to make love to a woman, to give them love that he so ached to give, and to be held as Lucy held him. These women are all undeserving of the love he wished to give to Lucy, or so he thinks, until his eyes stop at a woman tiredly leaning over the rail, her eyes looking a bit sad as she also picks apart every man that might possibly be here companion of the night. Something about her was different, Sweeney can tell, and he wonders if she might be deserving.
But as he continues to stare, he sees her hair is bright blonde and done up most intricately in a fashion that was only suitable for long hair.
Long golden hair…
Her skin is pale, as was his Lucy's, and she resembles her so much – though his Lucy would never be seen by anyone but her husband in her undergarments. She seems less thrilled by the evening, though she is clearly dressed for work, most regrettably, but Sweeney makes up his mind when her eyes lock on his.
He would've sworn they were blue.
Hating himself all the more, though at this point he was filled with so much hate at himself that it did not matter much, he knew that he would be at her side in a moment.
This woman, in her early thirties though appearing quite a bit younger despite all she has been through, sighs quietly as she knows how her night must end – the same way as every night. She wears a short white slip and white stockings, no corset or heels as the other women did, though that never stopped her from being gawked at the most. She is terribly beautiful, though every day she paints her face with cakes of makeup because she is too ashamed to show anyone her real face. She is a natural beauty, without any makeup, and the few lucky enough to see her unpainted tell her she should go about in that manner, though she feels such intimacy is only reserved for her lost husband…Benjamin Barker.
Benjamin Barker is not who she thinks of when she sees this man below staring at her, though she thinks of him every second of every day…except when she must work. Though this black haired man with a white streak running through it does bear some familiarity, she cannot bring herself to liken him to Ben, for his eyes are cold and his body language is stiff. Benjamin was always warm and kind, and besides, his hair was brown, not black. She does not allow herself to think of Benjamin as this man rises from his seat, she does not allow herself to think of Benjamin as he pays the bartender more than what his drink was worth, and she does not allow herself to think of Benjamin as he begins climbing the stairs in her direction.
"Looks like you're on, Angelica," a friend nearby whispers, giving her a playful nudge.
Lucy can't acknowledge her or the alias everyone here knows her by, she only stands tall and straightens as the man approaches her. He stares at her for a moment, dark eyes seeming to soften as he takes in her appearance. The coldness fades a little, and Lucy's heart leaps like it hadn't for nearly sixteen years.
He reminds me so dreadfully much of Benjamin.
Tonight would be difficult.
The familiar seeming stranger does not speak for a moment, and she takes the opportunity to glance at his wardrobe. He wore a black vest over a white puffy shirt, dark striped pants, and a heavy leather jacket. He almost seemed frightening, and he would be, if he did not feel so familiar.
"Miss," he finally says, and though his countenance shows otherwise, he almost sounds a bit unsure. His voice is deep, a bit rougher than her Benjamin, but it sounds like he is trying to be gentle.
He says nothing else – he does not need to – and Lucy takes his gloved hand and nods.
"Sir," she says politely, trying her best to give him a smile.
Then she does what is expected of her. She walks past the other women, past all of the upfront rooms and leads him down a couple hallways until she reaches her door. She doesn't have to turn, but she feels his eyes burning into the back of her head.
He doesn't speak as she unlocks and opens the door to her little room, cursing himself inwardly while thinking that this woman in front of him was as his wife, though she clearly is not, for there is no reason as to why she would be. But she was dead. This was not her, and her lips were red, as was the heavy blush on her cheeks, and her eye makeup was heavy, tearing Sweeney from any thoughts that this might be his wife.
How wrong he was.
Poor Lucy, after being forced to drink the arsenic by Turpin as she threatened to expose him, was kicked out of her home by Mrs. Lovett. The effects of the arsenic were not great, for she had managed to spit most back in Turpin's face, and they did not last. However, her homelessness did, and despite all desires, she had to resort to living in this bar and work as a prostitute. She had cried every night for a year after resorting to this, thinking how terribly ashamed she was if Benjamin were to find her like this, but she prayed and hoped that he might return to her and love her even more, to take her in his arms and to kiss her as if nothing had happened. She had wished for him to whisper his love for her, despite her condition.
But the years had ticked by, and she was constantly reminded of Turpin's promise that he would never return. She had to tell herself dear Benjamin was dead. And the man standing behind her, closing the door behind them, looked almost like a dead version of her husband.
This man does scare her, however, and she bites her lip as she sits at the foot of the bed, quiet and patient for him to make the first move. He stands still near the door for a moment, and saunters over to the window to look out over the darkened streets. Lucy does not care. As long as he was not touching her, she does not care. Though there is something about him…something that seemed so heart-wrenchingly familiar, but at the same time he terrifies her, and his appearance of harshness was leading her to believe that he would take her very roughly.
She tears up at the thought.
Having him remind her of Benjamin in any way at all would be much more painful if he was to be rough. Benjamin was never rough.
He saunters over to the little table across the room from her bed, and pulls out several bills and coins from his pocket without looking at her. They are laid on the table, and Lucy's eyes widen, this four times the amount she is usually paid. However, she cannot let herself become too excited, for there is always a catch.
"Is this enough?" he asks, fingering the money without looking up.
"More than enough, sir," she responds quietly.
He nods a little, as if retaining her words, and Lucy is surprised by his next word: "Good."
She frowns a bit, not understanding. Was he to be generous purposefully?
No, no, there must be a catch.
And she prepares herself when he looks up at her and speaks. "Though on one condition."
She doesn't speak. She has learned not to.
"You must allow me to call you Lucy."
Lucy's heart stops, an overwhelming abundance of mixed emotions bubbling up in her chest, and she feels as if he has hit her in the stomach. Her breath is gone. But her emotions are not portrayed on her face, for she has been in this business long enough to not show her hurt or pain or…surprise.
"Lucy, sir?" she nearly whispers.
He nods. He tries to heal himself by preserving his wife's memory in someone who could be her sister, if he remembers correctly enough.
"Will you?"
She nods without thinking, telling herself it is a coincidence, that is merely a coincidence that he desires to call her Lucy, and it is merely a coincidence that he somehow reminds her of Ben. But the longer she looks at him, the longer she starts to feel feelings she hadn't felt for over a decade.
"And…and what must I call you, sir?" she forces herself to ask.
He pauses, appearing to be contemplating this, and when he appears a little troubled, his eyes wander around the room for a few moments before resting on her again. "You needn't call me anything," he finally replies.
She swallows hard, praying to God that this man would take her and leave and she might never have to see him again. This was too hard. And it was about to become harder.
"There is nothing in specific I may do for you, sir?" she clears her throat to try to compose herself, to try to wash all feelings of Benjamin away just for the night.
Sweeney lowers his head, staring at his shoes for several long moments before answering. When he does, Lucy feels tears that ache to sting her eyes.
"It is too much to ask for you to call me sweetheart?" he asks, almost nervously.
Sweetheart. Sweetheart was what she called her Benjamin, day in, day out.
This can't possibly…it cannot…Lucy, you daft girl, you've tied yourself up too far in your memories, and you're probably imagining half of this! This can't be…this can't be my Benny. My Benny is dead.
Lucy swallows hard and shakes her head. The man who has no name seems slightly relieved by this, and it is only a matter of seconds until he begins to take his jacket and gloves off, neatly lying them across the table, and begins to walk towards her after taking off his shoes.
He crosses the room and gently takes her hands, a gentleness foreign to him after years of imprisonment, and he is surprised at their softness and smoothness, and he recalls himself holding Lucy's dainty hands. But as he feels her tremble, he knows he cannot stand to have her that way, no matter how cruel he had been towards the unforgiving world for years, and he gets down on one knee in front of her.
Lucy's eyes widen, hands beginning to tremble more, and he seems almost conflicted as he looks into her eyes.
So damn familiar, Sweeney thinks sadly.
"You must not be afraid of me, Lucy," he says gently, and he raises each of her hands to his mouth and kisses them.
Lucy nearly cries, but she bites her tongue and forces herself to stay strong. Benjamin did this, though with different words.
"I am not afraid, sweetheart," she manages softly, struggling to look at him adoringly. She manages to stop the trembling and the stinging of tears that threaten her, but she cannot stop the aching in her heart.
He waits until he thinks she has calmed, and he gently tugs on her arms as he stands, silently instructing her to stand with him. For some reason she no longer fears him to hurt her.
To her surprising disappointment, he lets go of her hands, but his hands immediately lift to her head and she finds them in her hair. Carefully, he gently begins to tug at the pins one by one, and Lucy looks at his concentrated eyes as he undoes her locks. When they fall over her shoulder, she feels embarrassed, knowing she could not afford real shampoo, and that she was in desperate need of a proper hair washing.
"I'm sorry," she whispers softly. "I cannot afford shampoo to make my hair pretty for you, sweetheart," she says, making sure to add sweetheart, though it seems to come more naturally this time.
Sweeney shakes his head, running his fingers through her hair, stepping a little closer to her. "It's always stunning," he breathes before leaning forward and kissing her.
Lucy's breath hitches as his hands rest on her waist, and she is dizzied by the chasteness of his kiss and the consideration of his hands. He kisses her slowly, sweetly, softly…lovingly.
Feelings she has not remembered for years were evoked at his touch, and she fights herself to kiss him and not to liken the situation to Benjamin's kissing, but it was so similar.
Sweeney tastes her lips and sighed, pulling her a little closer to his chest. Her lips hold sadness, grief, longing, sadness…all which Sweeney tastes, all which Sweeney has in return for her. But he kisses her with an unexpected gentleness, more naturally than he had expected after years of not having touched a soul in this manner.
Slowly, he kisses her, and Lucy is conflicted with thoughts of this man and his actions. She nearly asks him in between kisses, but she was then hit with the probable outcome of him despising her for her actions. Right now…right now, all she wants is to be kissed and pressed up against this man's chest.
She sighs into his mouth, not in a fake manner as she did for most greedy customers, for his arms wrap around her and hold her tightly.
She shivers as he moans her true name into the kiss.
"Lucy…" he moans, entrapping her soft lips with his.
"Sweetheart," she sighs, and the man's response is to hold her securer.
They kiss and kiss and kiss…two lost souls finding each other again, though neither realize it, and Sweeney constantly has to remind himself that this was, in fact, not his wife. But she would be, if only for tonight.
The kissing deepens, and eventually they are on the bed, Sweeney on top of her as his mouth does not leave hers. He is too wrapped up in the relief, in the euphoria, and his hands gently stroke her hips. He whispers to her if she would like to keep her slip on, and Lucy, touched, tears up as she nods and kisses him again. Sweeney notices this, and proceeds to touch her more gently, for he is very pained for this woman, who reminds him of his Lucy. He cannot see her sad.
They kiss and are pressed up against each other in the old bed where love has never been made. Sex only, never love. And making love is solely Sweeney's intentions.
When he asks her if she's ready, she nearly cries out in joy, for her comfort is never considered.
This is Benjamin, she tries to tell herself. Perhaps she was dreaming and it was her own imagination, but he feels like Benjamin. He kisses her in all of the places Benjamin kissed her, he whispers all the words Benjamin used to whisper to her, and he asks her if she's ready, and he soothes her as he starts, which still hurts her small body at first.
They begin to join each other in bliss, Lucy on her back, Sweeney covering her as he begins to make love to her. He is slow, he is attentive, he is caring, and he asks her what she likes and what she doesn't. She changes her responses to what she would have said if Ben had asked her, for she is beginning to think this is her husband.
And when he kissed her left shoulder, right where a birthmark lay, covered by makeup, she knew. She knew it had to be him. For he did not kiss her other shoulder. When with Benjamin, she had a small birthmark on her shoulder that she did not like, and Benjamin would always proceed to kiss it whenever her shoulder was exposed. The birthmark is covered now, due to many remarks of how it ruins her perfection, but he kisses it.
He remembers.
She allows herself to melt into him, knowing this is it, knowing he is touching her in all of the places he used to, knowing this is not a dream and that her husband is making love to her. She begins to tear up, noticing his razor holster that he had cast aside when undressing.
He is a barber.
On Sweeney's side, he feels this is so familiar, but he knows it is not his wife, for Mrs. Lovett had promised and sworn his wife was dead. He just allows himself some peace in pleasuring this poor woman, who he feels an unexpected and unyielding sorrow for, and she kisses his forehead as they make love. He resists tearing up, unaware she was doing the same, and buries his head in the crook of her neck and kisses it slowly as he rocks.
There is one last proof Lucy needs.
"I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you, dearest Lucy," he whispers into her neck.
Lucy finishes, at the sound of his voice, at the relief of knowing her husband was holding her, and Sweeney ensures she finishes twice before he allowed himself to finish, as he always had ensured her pleasure was first.
She knew he did not know, but she did, and she clung to him as if he might disappear until they had finished and he left her, covering her with the blanket. He kisses her cheek softly, as he always had, but unstoppable tears swim in her eyes and fall down her cheeks as he climbs out of bed and begins to dress himself.
She cannot tell him. He would never love her if she knew what she had done in his time away. It is him. She knows it.
It is her husband.
He is changed, in appearance and in personality, but it is him. It cannot be anyone else. Not after what she just experienced.
Lucy does not make a sound, looking to the window as she lays on her side, tears streaming down her face as she thinks of the gain and loss she is confronted with. Her husband dresses himself, but as he turns to put on his vest, he sees the tears coating the young lady's face.
"Did I hurt you in any manner?" he asks gently, honestly worried about this young woman. She is too much like Lucy for him to cast her aside.
"No, sir," she chokes out.
Sweeney is not convinced. He walks to her side, and cringes when he sees her trembling. The makeup still coats her face, keeping her from being completely recognizable to him. He runs his ungloved hand over her bare shoulder, and she cries harder.
He gets down to her level and pulls the sheet up over her shoulder, and strokes her hair softly. He speaks even softer.
"I am truly sorry this is the way you have to live your life and survive," he whispers, outwardly a little troubled. "I can imagine most men are cruel."
"You were a complete gentleman, sir," she whispers, tears streaming down her face. "I could not ask for more." She will not ask for more, though she desires the knowing and loving and comforting arms of her long lost husband.
This was not how she imagined their first meeting. And she had not imagined him leaving her like this.
He kisses her forehead gently, then rises and proceeds to gather his things, leaving the money, and puts his hand on the doorknob when Lucy speaks again.
"Will you come again, sir?" she asks timidly, praying that this will not be the only time she is reunited with her husband. It would be too much to bear. Being reunited with him as prostitute and customer was preferred over having to go on living without him after knowing he is here, in this very London, he is here. And the strangest thing is comprehending that he is alive, in a brothel, paying her to act like his wife. Perhaps he loves her still, if he went to enough trouble to pick her, and she knows she looks somewhat the same, and he desires to call her Lucy.
He hesitates and looks back to her.
"You have paid a most handsome sum," she says quickly, shaking too much to wipe her tears away. "And you mustn't pay again."
He could make love to her every night of every day and she would not care about the price. She wants her husband in any way she can get him, and she knows that if she tells him the truth, this kindness will probably be replaced with disgust, knowing that she has been lowered to selling herself to survive.
"You have not been treated tenderly prior to this evening, my pet," he says quietly, observing her state. He had not expected a woman of her kind to be so easily moved to tears, but he concludes it is because of the gentle nature in which he took her that moves her.
"I promise I shall not cry," she manages, knowing if she is blessed enough to have him come again, she will treasure every moment of the warped situation and save her abundant tears for after his departure.
He hesitates again, but to Lucy's relief, he nods.
"I will come again."
Lucy waits every night for a week, standing in her usual spot and overlooking the oodles of men below her, looking for her husband. Every night she is offered money and sex, and every night she declines, waiting for him. She is not pure for him, she thinks bitterly, but she will try now as long as his money holds out.
After he had left her, she had gone to count the money, which was even more generous than what she had first believed. That would be her husband, still generous despite the awful situation, and she cries and goes to her trunk on one side of the room where all of her belongings are held. In the bottom of her trunk are a few belongings she had managed to not have to sell to live, and she caresses a framed picture of her youthful Benjamin on their wedding day. She is standing in her white, flowing dress, and he is holding her arm proudly, smiling easily and willingly into the camera. This is all she has left of his image besides her memories, and she treasures it.
The eyes are the same, albeit darker. His hair was coarser, as she felt it during their lovemaking, and it was of strikingly different colors, but somehow she knew it was him. His actions, his words, everything led her to believe that this was in fact her husband. So she cried and cried, having him so close but not quite hers, knowing that they would never be together again like she had always hoped. For they had both changed noticeably, and he clearly did not recognize her with her face paint and her occupation. She had to keep this to herself, but she could have him in her arms at least for an hour if he returned as he promised.
So she stands, looking out, exactly one Saturday night after he had come before, and she waits up eagerly, praying to God that he would grace her with her husband's presence. She was filled with questions she would never be able to ask him, feelings she could never portray, but she would take all she could. He must have some happiness in making love to her, for he had acted as she remembered, and though she saw he did not consciously know her, she saw that something down deep inside of him did.
And when he enters the downstairs door, she gasps in delight, ignoring the stares of others around her. They already think her odd of turning down so much work this past week, and they need know nothing of her current troubles.
A large smile graces her face, one of the first true ones in many years, and she feels her heart rise as she looks at the most handsome thing she has ever seen stiffly sauntering through the doorway. It does not hurt her that he has come here, for it makes her think that he has paid other women as well, for she has had to do much worse.
But she loves him. She knows she loves him wholly and unconditionally, and their present circumstances cannot change that.
His eyes very quickly meets her, and she smiles still, feeling foolish when he looks away quickly. She does not know that he looks away because he feels guilt in coming to her, but she is so much like his wife that he cannot stay away. He cannot help himself.
But he climbs the stairs again, a little less stiffly than before, and he approaches her. This time she greets him with a true smile, one that cannot be held back, as opposed to the week before.
He gives the faintest ghost of a smile.
"Miss," he says politely as he did the other night he came. Lucy notices one hand clutches a brown paper bag with something inside it, so she gently takes his other.
"Sir," she says a little cheerfully, treasuring the warmth of his hand in hers. Tears threaten her eyes again, which is surprising, since she has done nothing but cry in the week they have been apart. She takes him to her room, which has since been straightened and scrubbed solely for him, and she closes the door for him. She would cast herself at his feet if he made any inclination for her to do so, and she knew she was entirely at his mercy, for she would not deny him anything now.
Sweeney sees her lightheartedness and sense of innocence, and he attributes part of this to his grand payment, but he wonders if perhaps this poor woman is in need of only untainted affection, and he feels like he could not deny her of that. Even the most experienced of prostitutes do not give one such heartfelt smiles unless they mean it.
She does not speak, though tonight there are a thousand words hanging on her tongue, and she digs her fingernails into her palm to restrain herself from leaping forward and hugging him. He is her employer, and she is the employee, and she must not act any differently. But she will thrive on every touch and every word, and she will do everything she can to keep him coming back to her.
It is sad, but it is now life.
Sweeney walks over to the little round table and sets down the paper bag, looking over to her. When he sees she's unsure of how to act, he glances down to the bag before looking back at her.
"This is for you," he says quietly.
Her eyes widen a bit by default, first wondering if he intended to pay her again, then frightened that it might be something obscene that would make her cry if her husband were to offer it to her. Biting her lip and fearing the worst, she walks beside him, a little fuller clothed than their first meeting because she felt so ashamed, and she timidly reaches out for the bag.
She says a silent prayer, and opens it.
The item is lifted out of the bag, long and tall, and she gasps in delight when she is able to identify it. Sweeney is watching her closely.
"Shampoo!" she says excitedly, unable to help herself.
He nods.
The little token warms her heart and makes her tear up, but she quickly blinks the tears back because she has promised him she will not cry. She does not know her husband does not mind.
"You said you could not afford shampoo…" he trails off, looking around the room, unsure of how to speak.
She nods and feels the urge to hug and kiss and thank him like she used to when Benjamin did something sweet for her, but she clutches the large shampoo bottle and lifts it to smell instead.
It's the same kind he used to buy for her years ago.
He remembers.
It smells of roses, of the finest quality because he had always told his wife that she deserved nothing less, and she is touched that he spends such money and such thought on a troubled prostitute. Because that is what she is, though she thinks he does not know she regrets it. But he can tell. She is different.
"Sir," she says in a shaky voice, her cracked heart healing somewhat by this little gesture. Oh, how she aches to call him Benjamin, but she refrains. She knows it is best. "This is so thoughtful. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it and cannot wait to use it."
He nods.
But then she cannot help herself, and she peers up at him, his dark eyes watching her with a softness not previously used on anyone else. She swallows hard, knows she is testing the limits, but this is how far she will go – "Is this what your Lucy uses?" she nearly whispers. It feels strange, talking about herself like that.
Sweeney is surprised by her question, his eyes widening ever so slightly, but he hesitates then nods. "I thought…I thought you might like it, considering you two…" he takes a shaky breath and looks over at the window. "Considering you two are a lot alike."
Perhaps she can stretch it a bit farther. "Sir, if…if I am not too bold…may I ask why you visit me instead of her?"
Visit was such a much nicer word than the many that could easily be substituted. Sweeney does not meet her eyes, but he focuses on looking out the dark window. She sees he's unable to do anything else.
"The shampoo you hold is what she used, for she is no longer gracing this earth with her presence."
Lucy has to bring herself to look away, tears filling her eyes as her heart swelled. He misses her. But he misses the old her, and though her temperament is the same, she has experienced the harsh world in ways Benjamin had never wanted her to. But he had been unable to protect her.
But what troubles her is that he is under the belief she is dead. Though…it does not entirely surprise her. If he returned to the home they once shared under Mrs. Lovett's supervision, surely she had lied and kept from him that she had been the one to cast Lucy out on the streets. Lucy did see how Mrs. Lovett looked at her husband, and she could not think she was surprised.
"I will wait," he finally says to break the silence.
"Sir?"
"I will wait for you to bathe."
Lucy is surprised by this, feeling very ashamed, and when he notices the hurt look on her face, he feels guilty, a trait uncommon for Sweeney Todd.
"I only mean you seemed eager to use it, and I thought you would like to use it now."
He is being so kind to me!
Lucy mustered up enough strength to treat her husband as a near stranger and nodded, thanking him once more. "I shall be quick, sir."
She cries quietly in her bath, trying to rid herself of all tears before she is confronted by him again, touched by his actions and his kindness and his feelings of her old self. It pains her to deny her heart what it needs, but she thinks it will be best for his. She washes her long hair twice through in the tub, nearly laughing at the joy it gave her to be surrounded by the pleasure of having clean hair and smelling so nicely.
But when she finishes, she clothes herself in her same set of clothes, and she paints her face again so he won't recognize her. Every other part of her body is fresh, but she brings herself to cover her face before even touching her hair. She sighs as she realizes her brush is on her small vanity in the other room, and she fixes her clothes before going out with wet hair to retain the brush.
Sweeney is still standing at the window, and he looks over immediately upon hearing her come in, a little disappointed to find that she has covered her face with makeup. But he thinks she looks refreshed, more at ease, and he likes it. Though her hair is wet and partially tangled, he steps over to her, and she is only able to pick up her brush before he closes the space in the room between them.
"Allow me," he says gently, taking the brush from her.
Lucy is tenderly instructed to sit, and he begins to carefully brush out her long, damp tresses. He does it easily, as if he has been doing it for her every day for years, and she sighs contentedly, closing her eyes to imagine them in their old cheery apartment. She envisions Benjamin in his nightclothes behind her, looking at her adoringly and telling her sweet things, and she envisions herself sighing more easily, thanking him for being such a good husband. She imagines – ouch
"Sorry," he mumbles as he pulls through a particular large not. His hands are trying to be gentle, she can tell, and she nods as she continues her daydream.
She envisions Johanna, their dear child, resting in her crib a few feet away, cooing happily as she listens to her parents' voices. She does not allow herself to think of Johanna's tragic death months after Benjamin had been taken from her, and she does not allow herself to remember waking up to find her still and not breathing. She imagines her happy and unscarred family together again, and she knows she currently has as much as she will ever get. She resists tears.
When she opens her eyes, facing the mirror, she finds Sweeney's eyes looking back at her. She blushes a little, a young girl again near her husband, and his eyes go back to her hair.
If he knew, he would have said something, she tells herself.
As he looks despondently into her tresses, he speaks softly. "Why did you reapply your makeup?"
This question is not what she expected, and she knows she cannot tell him the truth, so she tells him the partial truth. "I am too ashamed to show my face, sir," she says softly.
He thinks on this as he continues to brush her drying hair, mumbling that he thinks she would look rather pretty without it. Lucy blushes. She never wore makeup for Benjamin, as he always insisted he would rather kiss her bare, beautiful cheeks and lips.
"I should hope that in the future you might feel comfortable enough to bare your face around me," he says eventually.
She takes an unsteady breath, unbelieving this good news. "That might…sir, imply that you would be back again."
He nods so slightly that Lucy would have missed it if she blinked. She smiles. Though she know she should be quiet, she cannot keep herself from talking to her husband. It was something she had dreamed of for sixteen years, and though it was under circumstances she did not like, she physically aches to talk to him.
"You are very kind to me, sir. May I…may I ask why?" she asked softly as he finished brushing out her hair.
Sweeney took a deep breath, though he evidently did not need much time to think about his response as he laid the hairbrush back on the vanity. "I cannot…" he took another breath and shook his head, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "I cannot treat my wife well as I ache to, and though I know you must not care to be in so deep a relationship, I wish to be able to share love I have with someone and to take care of them as I was unable to take care of my wife in her time of need. You…you are a replica of her, in many ways, and though that is nearly painful at times, I have found it helps me sleep at night to know that I have helped you in some way."
These are more words put together at once than he had spoken to her yet, and Lucy, for the thousandth time, fought tears. This would hurt her – his longing to care for another woman – if he was not so heartbroken, and if it hadn't been her, and if she hadn't suffered through so many terrible things that she knew put her a hundred levels below Benjamin.
"You are wrong on one account, sir," she says timidly, looking down. She needn't look up to feel his confused stare at the back of her head. "I have no objections to a relationship. I do…I do not like my life here."
He sighs and puts his hands lightly on her shoulders. "I thought not."
Soon, without many words being said, she is standing and entrapped in his hug and dizzied by his kisses, and is even more dizzied when he breathes words against her ears. "I should hope," he whispers breathily, "that my actions do not cause you to regret your life more so."
"Quite the contrary, sir," she whispers back into his kiss. She could feel the love in his kiss, love that was held for her old self and begged to be released, and she treasured it and kissed slowly, hoping he might follow suit. He did, eagerly, and she wished to bask in his arms in this moment forever, but the moment wavered slightly when she remembered what his main reason for coming must be. "Sir?" she whispers as she forces herself to pull away, hands trembling on his shoulders. He looks down at her, breathing heavier, attentive. "Is…there anything specific tonight…?" she lets her voice fall, unwilling to continue.
He understands and shakes his head. The night surprises her, as she expects him to make love to her, though he does the unexpected, something much more pleasing to Lucy. After kisses and kisses and kisses and shared breaths, he lets her lie down on the bed, though he lies next to her. She is secured in his loving embrace, her covered chest pulled up to his, and he whispers just for her to rest. When he sees her confusion, he tells her that he can see she is troubled, and she need do more than rest. When she tears up, he whispers that he does not mind her crying. He whispers that she must be hurting somehow, and that he will comfort her.
This would be strange to her, except she is in her husband's arms, and she allows herself to cry freely.
Every Saturday evening he came for her for four months, growing more comfortable around each other. She might laugh, and he might grin, and he took delight in bringing her little gifts. Every week he came, he brought money for her, and the third night he came, she confessed she did not sell herself to anyone since he first came. Though he did not speak on it, she could tell this pleased him, and it filled her with joy.
They did not always make love. Mostly, they talked, both careful to give too much away, Lucy especially. But everything he said made her love him more, knowing without a doubt, it was her husband, even though she had already known. After a few times of coming, he stayed the whole night and would not leave until all were in church Sunday morning.
It was not a relationship between prostitute and greedy man. He supplied her with money so she might not have to sell herself, and when they both felt particularly affectionate, they would make love, Sweeney caring and attentive as a lover. She had whispered that she loved him, and he would always smile and kiss her, but he never responded as he did the first night. When he came, he ensured she was fed properly and had what she needed. It was strange, but more of a courting relationship than prostitute and man, though neither spoke of it. Lucy wouldn't dare to break this pretty picture.
If he can love me for what I am, then I can tell him that I am, indeed, his wife. And perhaps we might be together again after all.
However, that all changed when, after four months of him coming, Lucy saw she had not received her monthly cycle for two and a half months. This panicked her. Any feelings that the existed as more than prostitute and plain man dissipated, fearful that as soon as he learned, he would stop coming to see her. She cried for the few days prior to his usual coming, wanting a child but unable to care for it here, and feeling she would lose her husband again. She must have failed her duties before, since dear little Johanna had passed under her watchful eyes, she concluded. And though Sweeney had been more affectionate as time went on, she just knew that he would no longer care for her and his child.
So she stands, nervously pulling at her full dress as she stands at the ledge. Her dress is from his money, and he's seen it, telling her she looks very lovely in it. She does not stop painting her face, and though he has not mentioned it since their second night, she knows he notices. Queasiness plagues her as she waits for him, slightly dizzy as she leans heavily on the staircase. Though she thinks she is attentive, she sees nothing of him until she feels a light hand at the small of her back.
She spins around, nearly bumping into who she still considers to be her husband, dizzying at the unbalance. Sweeney notices, gently steadying her by putting his hands on her arms, and frowns.
"Are you ill?"
He can already read her, just like he used to.
She shakes her head a little, though Sweeney is not convinced. Tonight, he leads her to her room, sitting her on the bed and locking the door behind them. He studies her from this spot, then sits at the table across the room and studies her, frowning. Lucy cannot meet his eyes.
"You are ill," he eventually says.
She again shakes her head. She needs him for as long as possible.
Sweeney stands and crosses the room, sitting on the bed beside her. He takes her hand gently and kisses the cheek closest to him. She smiles a little, though the churning in her stomach cannot be stopped, and she keeps looking at her feet. Sweeney gives her hand a little squeeze. She peers up to look at him and to try to provide some temporary explanation so he might hold her through at least one more night, but the sickness overwhelms her and she covers her mouth with her hand. When she feels it cannot be stopped, she jumps up and runs into the adjoining bathroom, falling to her knees and emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet.
Sweeney is close behind, frowning worriedly as she sobs and tries to rinse her mouth from her crumpled position. He is soon at her side, flushes the toilet, and gets her water from the pitcher for her. When she continues to cry, he rubs her back and says he'll fetch a doctor.
"No," she cries, shaking her head.
"But you are ill," he says firmly.
"I – I…I'm expecting," she sobs, covering her face with her hands. She cries and fills the silence of the room, thinking and feeling that he will now leave her forever. She does not feel a suitable example for her child. Not anymore.
Sweeney doesn't speak, and when she finally sees his face, his expression is unreadable. He just watches her, and Lucy knows her husband is gone.
"And…and you have not…" he cleared his throat. "Been with anyone since our first meeting."
She shakes her head, trembling and tears soaking her cheeks. "I – I am two and a half months."
He lets her cry, though he does not hug her. She stays on the floor in a heap for several long minutes, crying, then he helps her up, cleans her up, and situates her in bed. She is crying too much to say anything, but she is aware that after he tucks her in, he does not kiss her goodbye. He ensures she has water and crackers nearby, but he does not speak before he quietly exits.
Lucy weeps, knowing that that would be the last encounter between her and her husband. She did not even know where he lived, though she knew if she were to find him, he would not want her. Not now. Her hope was ruined.
A week more, Lucy cries in bed, puking from time to time, nauseas and telling herself she will love this child without its father. She knows its father, and she wouldn't want anyone else to be the father. She had taken herbs for years so as to prevent this from happening, and she must have forgotten one morning when they slept in together. She had been too ecstatic in being in his arms as he slept, falling asleep as well, to focus on the necessary. She cries, afraid she will lose this baby too, cries that she has lost her husband – though she can't hold resentment towards their precious child – and cries from her loss all over again.
The week passes, and she hardly leaves her room. She is too heartbroken, too distraught to hardly move from her bed, and too sick. Saturday night comes, and she forces herself to sleep through it. But at midnight, there is a knock at her door. She's half-asleep and too sick to get up, so she mumbles for whoever it is to come in because the door's unlocked.
Sweeney enters.
Wiping tears from her face, she turns on her back, eyes widening as she watches him close and lock the door. He's come.
"You've…you've come back," she whispers.
"Why would I not?" he asks, sounding a bit tired. When he turns, she sees he has dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired, but he looks more…human. Alive.
He starts to walk towards her side of the bed, Lucy's heart rising with every step. His eyes are looking around the room at her living conditions, which have suffered some in the miserable week she has spent in bed. "I have an idea," he says, sitting in a chair near the side of the bed. He still does not look at her face. "I have been thinking on this for the week, and I should apologize for leaving you so suddenly last week, for I'm sure that caused you heartache. I was only…occupied by my thoughts." He sighs and fumbles with his hands. She is excited about his return, though fearful he will not want her to carry his child. She is wrong. But before he can tell his idea of how her pregnancy might go, he meets her face. And his heart stops.
She feels his eyes boring into hers, and she does not look away, though she cannot understand why his face has melted into one of surprise, near fear, and all of the darkness in his eyes melt away. He appears…Benjamin-like.
"You…you…" Benjamin appears lost for words, groping for words in the silence, but now his mouth is dry and is heart is racing. Feelings of guilt and sadness and…joy overwhelm him all at once as he becomes lost in her eyes. "You are not bearing makeup," he whispers.
Her hands instantly rise to her cheeks, blushing as she remembers her cleanly scrubbed face. She had not prepared for him tonight.
"By God…" he mumbles, hands beginning to tremble.
Lucy cannot stop her tears. Her time with him is up. For good, this time.
"Yes, Benjamin," she sobs and squeezes her eyes shut, able to finally use his name, though not in the context she had dreamed. "I am nothing more than a prostitute, a worthless prostitute to keep myself alive. I – I regret it more than anything, though I would have died if…if…" she bursts into more tears and forgets her words. "I am not worthy of your kindness, nor your forgiveness. I h-have not told you b-because I feared your abandonment…and I could…I could not have that after so many years…Oh Benjamin," she cried, covering her eyes with her hands.
He speaks gently, though she will not let herself look at his face. "You have no need to beg for forgiveness, my dear Lucy," he says in a tone that makes Lucy cry more. All she wants is his arms around her again. "Though…God…" his voice sounds shaky and like he might cry, and she lets herself look at him. Indeed, tears are swimming in his eyes. "I should be worried of your forgiveness, though, darling."
"M-mine?" she whispers, trembling.
He nods, a few tears beginning to trail down his cheeks, and she sees her Benjamin again, though he is clearly ridden with guilt. "I…oh, Lucy," he whispers, wanting to reach out and hold her. His wife…his wife has been living in this hellhole for almost two decades, and now she is expecting. Oh my God. "You…you have done nothing wrong," he says truthfully, meaning every bit of it.
"I d-didn't try to kill myself," she cries, too emotionally tolled to even sit up. "Turpin tried to kill me. A-and I tried to take care of our precious baby…and she – she passed in her sleep," she continues to cry, the sound breaking Benjamin's heart. "I have t-tried to keep myself alive for you, in h-hopes that you will come back to me someday. This…this…most regrettably, is the only way I could after being kicked out of our home."
Benjamin is visibly shaking, and he shakes his head slowly. "You have done nothing wrong," he repeated.
"B-but you m-must think so ill – ill of me," she manages.
"Lucy…oh, Lucy…" he mumbles, never breaking eye contact. "I've done far worse things. Things…" he shudders, "things that are not warrant of your forgiveness. I am the one who is scared." When she can't speak, he forces himself to. "What you must…what you must think of my appearance…and of me coming and…and paying you," he nearly spat, disgusted with himself.
"I wanted to," she whispers. "I knew it was you."
"You are the only one," he says quickly, a little scared. "You are the only one I have come to."
This does not ease her heart. It only makes her more unworthy of him. "B-but I could – I could not keep myself p-p-pure!" she cries. "I hated every moment of it! Every…every painful…" she loses her words again, sobbing.
"I have done worse things," he manages. "You are not guilty, for you were not willing. I have done…oh God…it's unforgivable " he says, thinking of what he has been doing in his barber shop most every day since he has returned home.
"Wh-what is so unforgivable?"
He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them, staring deep into her eyes. "If…if you knew…oh…please don't make me tell you. Please only forgive me. You are not to beg for forgiveness, you are to be sympathized with and held. Oh, I missed you, Lucy."
"I missed you, Benjamin!" she cries out, half-sobbing half-laughing.
Benjamin can take it no more. He fills the space between them and wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair as he trembles and rubs the small of her back. She cries into his chest, and he whispers that he loves her endlessly. She does the same for him in return. When both have said many times they had forgiven the other, that they did not care, and that they loved each other despite the years they had sent apart.
"I thought of you every day," Lucy confesses, her mouth beginning to turn into a smile.
"I thought of you every day as well, my pet," he whispers. He held her as tightly as he was able without hurting her or her stomach, and he kissed her cheek softly, his broken heart beginning to be put together again. "Lucy?" he whispers into her ear. Already, he sounded like her young husband.
"Mmm?" she responds.
He pulls away just a little, looking into her eyes with a charming smile as he tenderly runs his hand through her locks. He smiles proudly, and all of her worries are washed away by the look in his eyes. She was safe with him. He would not leave her side.
"We're having a baby."
*big sigh*
If you would like more chapters in the future, review! I have a few ideas, and the chapters will not be quite so long, but you must let me know if you'd care for more. Kisses!