A/N: Well hai there! Welcome to my first fanfic! 8D
I hope you enjoy it-but if you like fast paced stories, this might not be the one for you. I tend to write as if it were reality rather than move quickly through events just to get to the next one.
It's kind of mid-movie, and just my own little spin on what you were never shown. This whole story will be from Mrs. Lovetts point of view.
Read & Review = Cupcakes!
Disclaimer: If I owned Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, the characters would live in my wardrobe. ...the characters do not live in my wardrobe.
I listened to the clock tick idly on the mantelpiece.
It wasn't at all like me to brood-not like a certain individual who I knew would be lurking away upstairs, somewhere amidst his dark thoughts and a half emptied bottle of gin. His favourite activities, it seemed, were to agonize and drink; and it was this fact alone that had kept me thinking that evening, wondering, waiting for something to happen.
But what?
I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted anymore, nor what I thought of him. Mr. Todd had come to me as a saviour of sorts, I remembered with a smile, a saviour from my most desolate hours, when all hope had run dry within me and I only appeared to have being because each day might have been my last to rid me of such shameful pauperism. I had sold everything but the clothes on my back and then some, in an attempt to regain a few pennies.
I had been quite aware that I was not alone in my plight: my somewhat of a rival Mrs. Mooney had resorted to stealing away her neighbours cats to slaughter and sell as some sort of improved pie filler. Though I had realised that my business was not doing much better in itself, I would have never considered repeating the act. In honesty, the idea was laughable-far too much trouble than for what it was worth if you asked me. Mrs. Mooney had been cunning in her plan, I admitted it, but not cunning enough.
Word will get around very quickly these days, and it only takes a tiny clump of fur inside a pastry before people begin to ask questions. It was just the same with the job I had then, I reasoned with myself, excepting that people had no fur except for that on their heads and the risk of us being caught ran a lot higher.
It was then that my smile dropped. A hundred pussycat lives were not worth one humans' existence. A wave of nausea always came over me when I started thinking about that. I knew it would only take one careless blunder or accidental slip-up on either of our parts and we were as good as hung.
What had come over me on the day that I suggested that I use his first kill as mince, I'll never know. I had been so overjoyed that he had thought it a wonderful idea, but I now knew a harrowing sense of regret.
To explain this, I thought, I'd have to narrow it down to three conclusions:
One. I had wanted to give him solace and convince him that it was not his fault that Seignior Pirelli had been killed at his hands. Strange though it may seem, I believed this fully. Though Mr. Todd had been a murderer, I did not think for a second that he had first intended to take Pirelli's life. A shroud of instinct could do odd and dangerous things to us, I knew this. Mr. Todd had all the right reasons to be angry.
Two. I had been so desperate for so long and just needed a form of escape. Any longer in the situation I had been in and I was sure that I would have lost interest in having a life at all. I had already been considering selling my body to the men who would take it, but the memory of my poor Albert kept me shy from such matters…Most of the time.
Three. I had been lost in my little fantasy that because of said idea that he thought so brilliant; Mr. Todd would love me at last.
It was no lie. I had always had a soft heart when it came to him, even though I recognised that no good would ever come of it. I'd loved him even before I'd met him, longing for the man who may return to his home and rescue me from the depths. But when he had returned, I knew instantly that I had forgotten about the rumours that later became truth. So lost, he was, in the sorrows of his past, that I had deemed getting through to him an impossibility. And that, I supposed with a conclusive little sigh, would have to be the end of it. I had a job to be getting on with.
Though he would never love me, I knew I still wanted to care for him and take much of his responsibilities upon myself. I pitied him a great deal-he had turned an average job into an uncommon nightmare, and though he thought that he was only doing the world good by ridding of what he considered vermin; I knew that the deaths took their toll on him in the lazy afternoons which followed. I fumbled for the tray that I had slid under the chaise-lounge and stood slowly with a stretch before moving down the little hallway and into the bakehouse.
I would not give him a pie that night; I decided as I eyed the oven, it would be too much of a reminder of his deeds. He seemed a little more despondent than usual, and I didn't want to do anything to provoke his awful temper. I did fear him, even if it was just a little.
So instead it was back to the stove to heat up some of the vegetable stew that I had prepared the night before. The steam rolled from my cheeks as I stirred, warming them against the chill that drifted about the place. Winter was drawing in, and I busied my mind with thoughts of Christmas. No doubt Toby would be in need of a few gifts, and a Christmas dinner would have to be put together; not to mention the decorations that would have to be hung about the shop and the dining area to keep the customers happy. October I had prepared a jar of mincemeat for the mince pies, and already had begun to think about the expenses of a tree.
I never allowed Mr. Todd to enter my thoughts-I would only get carried away.
Spooning the stew into a bowl, I placed it on the tray to carry up to the man himself, feeling my heartbeat quicken as I counted the stairs up to his quarters-reaching the number ten and then realising I could count no further than that, and cursing my unfavourable education briefly, tapped on the old wooden door.
"Mr. T? I've brough' yer supper." My voice was ever cheerful as I trilled out the nickname I'd given him. I never knew why I did this-perhaps I thought that a friendly alias would make him warm to me a little more. I paused, waiting for an answer. "Mr. T..?"
It was a few moments before I heard his brief reply.
"Hm?"
"I've brough' yer supper, yer ol' silly." I laughed a little, "Didn' yer 'ear me?"I twisted the handle and stepped into the room, pulling a face at the rush of icy air that met me. "Oh, Mr. T, yer's gonna catch yer death in 'ere! Wha' have I told yer about puttin' the fire on in the evenin'? One of these days yer gonna get a nasty cold, I'll tell yer now, so don' go blamin' me when yer do, cause we don' need no more expenses fer medicine or whatnot. Speakin' of winter, wha'do yer think about a tree fer Christmas? I though' it migh' be nice ter get Toby a couple of things too, 'cause he's such a good lad, he does more than his fair share in the shop… "
My voice was talkative, as it always was. It had always been in my nature to talk; and for this I hoped it may bring him out of his shell. As I spoke I placed the tray down and slipped the bowl onto the table, drawing out the chair for him and crossing the room to light the fire. When I finally stood and looked up again, I saw that he still had not moved from his armchair, his pallid face sullen, eyes glazed with some emotion I couldn't fathom.
"Mr. T." My voice was a little sharper this time. His head snapped up. "Yer 'ave ter stop doin' this, love. Sometimes it's necessary fer me ter speak ter yer. Now come on, let's get some food down yer."
He took a deep breath, and drifted over to sit where I motioned. I smiled warmly, pleased that he for once had done as I had suggested, and took the seat opposite as he ate. I watched him closely, my pupils carrying across his sharp features and deep set eyes, until he seemed to notice and looked at me quizzically.
"Wha' are yer lookin' at, Nellie?"
I could feel my face flush a light pink, but I trembled slightly where I sat as his voice rumbled over my name.
"It's nothin'." I said quickly. "I jus' though' yer looked a little pale-mus' be the cold, likes I said." I tutted, hoping that it was enough to cover up my silent admiration.
"I don' feel the cold." He muttered, and I could tell by his voice that he was put out by my doubt in his well being. I rested my elbows on the table, placing my chin in my hands.
"Yes yer do, love. Yer's only human." I could see him flinch slightly at those words, but I said nothing more of it. We silenced again as he finished off the bowl, but this time I didn't much mind, as long as I got to watch him. He didn't mention a thing either, meaning that he hadn't noticed or had stopped caring. At length, he placed the spoon back into the bowl and sat back to mumble something of thanks, and I moved round to gather it up with one hand, and running the other back though his hair. "No problem, Mr. T. See, yer needed tha', didn' yer?"
He smiled vaguely, a rarity in itself, and I felt a warm glow spark up inside of me. I frowned at his temperature, placing the hand I'd used to sweep back his hair on his forehead. He grumbled and shifted back out of my direct touch.
"Yer's warm, love." I said, concerned, "I 'ope yer 'aven't already caugh' somethin'. Tell yer wha', yer wait 'ere an' I'll get yer a nice warm mug of tea, how's tha' sound?"
Sweeney gazed up at me with near black eyes.
"I'm fine." He insisted, and it was only then that I noticed the growl in his voice was not natural, and hung heavily in his chest.
"No yer not, don' be silly. Now I think yer should probably get ter bed if yer gonna be ill, Mr. T-"
"I'm fine! It's nothin' I can't handle. I think I've been through worse than a cold, Mrs. Lovett, don't patronise me. Jus' leave me be, will yer?" He stood abruptly and took back his previous seat. I'd heard the harsh bitterness in his voice that time, and it made me freeze for a moment or two, lingering by the door before I finally stepped through it and down the stairs, absently rinsing the bowl through. As soon as I placed it back inside the cupboard I could feel the tears threatening to spill over, my hands trembling ever so slightly. I raised them to cover my face before I realised what I was doing, and ripped them away.
Why're you letting him get to you, you silly woman? I thought to myself angrily, You've had worse than that from men before, so why the hell is this any different?
I gathered myself again, replacing the cheery exterior as I made the tea. I knew just how he liked it: black, one sugar. I carried the warming liquid back up the stairs again, bracing myself for an irate tone and a glare, but to my surprise I found he was already asleep, head dipped slightly in a peaceful slumber. I couldn't help but smile as I observed him from the doorway. I'd never seen him look so unwound, the prominent frown lines that crisscrossed his features eased out. I placed the tea down on the table, in case he woke up, and tiptoed from the room, feeling very much like a little girl having ventured into her parents' bedroom without permission.
Leaning back against the door to close it as quietly as possible, I made a pledge to myself.
"I'll look after yer, Mr. T, no matter if yer think yer don' need ter be cared fer." I whispered to the door, as if I were speaking to him. Turning on my heel to cross the landing, I spotted a little silhouette standing at the top of the stairs. He mimicked my whisper, in case there was some need to be speaking in low voices, I guessed.
"Who's yer speakin' ter, mam?" Toby asked.
"It don't matter, Toby." I smiled fondly. "C'mon, let's go sit by the fire an' I'll give yer a game of dominos."
A/N: Well okay, ít's not the best thing in the world. Unfortunately I had to block out the story and show how the characters relate to each other and all that rubbish. It'll be better next time, promise...
Suggestions of what should happen/comments/constructive criticism are more than welcome. I actually take note of comments. ;D --Kabbage of Doom