A/N: This is just some random drabble that popped into my head. It focuses mainly on vegetable stew. Er…I think it's better than it sounds, so give it a chance. It's a bit Sweeney/Lovett, too, just a warning. Also, reviews are encouraged. Constructive criticism is much appreciated, too, but flames are not. (Be gentle—this is only my second story!)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sweeney Todd, or anything else you may recognise. If I did, trust me, I wouldn't be here making up fanfiction!
—STEWING—
It was the way she was staring at him, as if he were on his deathbed, as if he were sickening.
"You haven't eaten in ages, Mr T," she said worriedly. "Look 'ere, I brought some stew and bread for yer supper."
Sweeney grunted a bit, a thank-you of sorts. Mrs Lovett knew it was the most she'd get out of him, but still she persisted. "Are yah at least gonna eat it, or let it sit there and get cold again? Yeh've gotta be hungry by now!"
"I'll eat," he said quietly.
"Promise me now?" she said, still leering over him.
Sweeney upturned his gaze, his black eyes landing on her face. He was annoyed; why couldn't she just leave him be? But there was also some comfort in familiarity of her constant flitting and pestering—some sort of routine, perhaps. It was because of this that he indulged her with a simple, "I promise."
He watched as a smile lit up her face. "Good, then. I'll bring up yer washin' later."
With that, she had left, leaving a peculiar scent on the air—spices. It was an odd contrast with the usual musty smell of the draughty little barbershop. It faded as quickly as she had, though, and he was left to stare into the depths of Mrs Lovett's stew. It was vegetable, maybe, and some sort of meat. He knew, even though she had not said it, that the stew was not made from his indisposed customers. Perhaps she considered cannibalism above themselves, or maybe she knew he wouldn't care for the taste of vermin. Whatever it was, Sweeney Todd was—and had always been—a man of his word, and so he began to dutifully eat Mrs Lovett's stew.
To Sweeney's surprise, he actually found the meal…edible. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but after he'd had one of her lard pies, it wasn't anything appetising. He ate slowly, almost musingly, bite by bite, until after a while, he had finished the entire tray.
As soon as he'd put his spoon down, the rusty odd bell rang, alerting him to a new customer. Sweeney nimbly sprung to his feet, pulling his largest, sharpest razor from his holster. He could almost feel it tensing beneath his fingers, as if eager to feel the blood of a new hapless soul running down its blade.
Clear disappointment was etched on his gaunt face as soon as he realised it was only Mrs Lovett, amid one of her many rounds of bustling about.
"Oh, I see yah ate yer supper! Thought yah'd be gettin' hungry soon enough."
She went to grab for his tray, but he brushed her hand aside.
"Wha'—?" Mrs Lovett said, clearly quite confused.
"Don't say anything," Sweeney said quietly. Before even he was what he was doing, he'd slipped an arm around her waist, and drew her closer to his own body.
"Mr. T—wha' are yah doin'?" Mrs Lovett asked, alarmed.
"I said, don't say anything," he whispered, and drew her closer still. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, his arm hugging her close.
He released her from his grip. She stared at him, utterly gobsmacked, until she managed to say, "Mr T, wha' was that abou'?"
Sweeney felt a sort of haughty smirk pull at his lips as he said, "Mrs Lovett, you make wonderful stew."