Rating: G
AN: Just a shorty. Wrote this while listening to Lady of My Dreams by VAST.
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He dreams about her.
Flowers. All he can see are flowers: golden daffodils that shine with all the radiance of the sun, pristine daises that blind with their dazzling white petals. Everywhere, flowers.
He doesn't smell them, but rather, a scent of cotton and gentle perfume overwhelms his senses. He knows it all too well, but it is an aroma he can only experience here away from the harsh light of day, along with these
(daises were her flowers not gillyflowers only daises)
flowers. When he is awake, he forgets. Here, where his mind can roam free and the memories chained break free of their bonds, he remembers. He can wander with the flowers brushing up against his legs without having to worry that he is treading upon them and they will die. Here, they never die, and here, he does not have to know that he is calling her over and over in the real world, in the dark where Mrs. Lovett has left him, knowing full well never to intrude. What she doesn't know or hear will not hurt her; let her have her fantasies, but let keep his. His, where he is walking through the white with that fragrance hanging over him like a cloud.
Fingers brush against his palm, and he knows. He doesn't have to look to know she is
(smiling)
beside him. He takes her hand into his and feels her kiss the nape of his neck, and he brings himself to do the same.
When he awakens in a cold sweat with her name on his lips, the tears will begin to trail down his sunken cheeks, but he will never utter a sound. When the smell of cotton and her perfume gone from his nostrils, he won't cry out. He doesn't even have to look down at his hand to feel that hers has left it, he'll know.
Back against the leather padding of his chair, Sweeney dreams.
She dreams about him.
Laughter. Tuneless but musical, sorrowful but euphoric, it's all she can hear. She knows she is laughing with him as he waltzes with her, and that adds all the more to the contrast of her and him. She couldn't be more happier.
She can feel the soft fabric of his collar brush against her cheek, a smooth texture that she would be unable to recall for the life of her in her waking hours. The collar, the shirt, the suit, the body and the man are all gone and close to being forgotten, but not here. Not when he's holding her in his arms and leading her into a slow dance and she can feel not only his clothes, but his
(flesh warm so warm when you held me and we laughed together)
lips. Far more loving and sincere than theirs, men who've nothing to give to but their false gold in the form of paper and coins, not their hearts like he gave her his. Here, he can give it as many times as he wishes to her and only her
Her eyes will open and instead of a heart, he will have given her nothing but the empty night wind, and what good is that? It can't hold you, let alone dance with you and kiss you and make you remember what the suit he wore when they took him away looked and felt like against your skin, now cracked and diseased with your ugliness and theirs. Sour, lying men that don't hold you and whisper come on, love, what's all this nonsense? If you cry, I'll cry, and we can't have that, so please just take a big brave breath and pick your head up and
(laugh)
smile?
But she doesn't need that. Not their words or gold when she has his heart. Here. And the dance can begin once more.
Wrapped in her rags with only the street to lay on, Lucy dreams.