No I don't believe you
When you say don't come around here no more
No I don't believe you
When you say you don't need me anymore
So don't pretend to
Not love me at all

I don't mind it
I still don't mind at all
Its like one of those bad dreams
When you just can't wake up
Its like you've given up
You've had enough
But I want more
No I won't stop
Because I just know
You'll come around
Right?

Pink – I Don't Believe You

There's flour on your dress, egg clogging up scarlet curls atop your head, dough and dirt engrained in the crevices on your hands and underneath your nails as you work. You knead and spread and chop the dough and spread and tuck and fork the dough before sliding it into your tiny oven, soot and slime coming away on your fingers and you stand and gaze upwards for a moment.

Only a moment.

That's all you will allow yourself, you say sternly again and again. A peek, a glance and a wink upwards and you tell yourself quiet Nellie! Those were secret... no one'll ever know. He'll never know, bet he don't even care – he's an ungrateful sod, he is. Don't even care your poor bones is aching slaving away for him, always for him, only for him.

Take it back; take it back, silly girl. You know you don't mean that. Never will, mind.

He told you to get out and not return this morning, didn't he? Yelled it like a monster, a demon, a demon barber bent on revenge – and he hurt your feelings, poor Nellie. He don't know what it's like being all cooped up and not liking it. You're certain if you gave him the choice he'd never leave the filthy confines of that room, always a-watching from that bloody window of his, praying to a God he thought had forsaken him that that bloody Turpin would come a-wandering round to the shop for a quick and close... shave.

You don't believe him, do you Nellie, silly girl?

No, course he don't mean it when he tells you to get lost, to leave him, not to return... when he tells you he'll strike you the next time you show yourself off to a male customer like that again, bad for business that is, being associated with such lark.

He don't mean it – you don't believe him, do you Nellie girl?

You don't mind it either – just his way of showing he cares. Or... something like that anyway. For he's a complicated man, he is. Never was easy to read, always something lurking underneath, so mysterious and alluring, delicious and forbidden-

"Buggar!"

You drop the roasting pie to the floor, sucking your aching, blistering, reddened fingers and rush to your cooling dishwater for any refuge from the ache. You slosh water along your front, across the tiles, soaking the pie with suds and dirt. You hiss a curse once more at the ruined pie blaming it for everything... Silly Nellie girl, you was getting carried away with all those bad thoughts about him. A secret smile slithers onto your face as you think of those secret, bad thoughts again and decide they were worth the loss of one filthy little pie.

"Mrs. Lovett."

You jump again, sloshing more water up your arms and tear your fingers from the water, the air biting at their blistering pain. You bite your lip. He is there, shining and glistening and beautiful just like those damned razors of his.

"Awright, love? What're you doin' down 'ere then, ey? Just makin' a few pies, I was, got a good sale t'day from some orphans. Poor buggars prob'ly nicked the tuppence, but I ain't complainin' mind you, any money's good these days, ey, Mr. T? What're you doin' down 'ere again-?"

"Mrs. Lovett."

He silences you with only your name in brisk, hushed, grinding tones, his eyes bitter and dark and cold and so full of that mystery you seek and crave and need.

"Where is my supper?"

You falter at that and your face splits into a grin that would put the sunshine to shame. See, Nellie, he really does need you, he does, after all! Couldn't get by without your delicious hot dinners and a quick chat every evening, a pat of affection here and there-

"Will you stop grinning like a fool and answer my question, Mrs. Lovett?"

You snap up straight, and flatten the front of your dress ignoring the stabbing pain in your fingers.

"This mornin' you was all, 'Don't bovver me for the rest of t'day, woman!'" you recite, watching as his eyes flicker and his forefinger twitches and he shifts half a centimeter to the right, every little, tiny movement echoed a hundred, thousand times in your eyes. He grunts in realization. He tilts his head ever so slightly, inky eyes boring into you and you gasp.

"You've hurt your hand."

Not a question, not a sympathetic gesture.

A statement.

But he acknowledged you.

"Just a little burn, Mr. T, nufin' ta worry 'bout! Now, I'll bring ya y' tea up in two shakes of a-"

He is already gone.

You smile softly and use a dishcloth this time to remove the pie from the oven.

He does care really, don't he Nellie? Mm, yes, you should think so after all you've done, given, sacrificed for him. He just pretends not to love you, don't he, just his pride talking, nothing else. When he threatens you, it's outta jealousy, it is, or else he's keeping you safe. Yes. That must be it, mustn't it?

And as you place the pie and his copper pot of tea on his familiar black tray ready to descend the steps to his abode, you feel your eyes sting harder than your burning finger. And you dab them with your ruined dress, and you sniff wholeheartedly and stick that ridiculous smile on your face even though you know he hates it.

He'd hate to see you cry even more, wouldn't he?

Thanks for reading (: First attempt at Sweeney ;] Reviews are my lifeblood! (: