When You're Tired
"Mr. Todd."
"…Mr. Todd."
"Mr. Todd?"
"What is it?"
The anger in his voice shocks her, even though it shouldn't. He kills people for fun, for practice. The innocent –or perhaps not so innocent men, she's not in a position to judge—are all test subjects until he gets his hands on what he really wants. Just a bit of anger in his voice shouldn't be enough to set her heart beating like a drum.
"I…I just brought you some gin is all," she stammers. She tries to keep the unease from her voice, but finds that some uncertainty manages to creep in despite her efforts.
He looks up, as if seeing her for the first time. "Thank you," he says grudgingly, seeming almost disappointed.
He accepts the cup, drinking it all down in one gulp, strangely reminiscent of Toby.
"That boy," she finds herself saying, walking over to the window. "Be grateful for that gin, Mr. T. He's practically had the lot. Going to have to buy some more now, aren't we?"
She looks outside the window, observing the smoke rising up from the chimneys, dissatisfied people living sad lives, the gloomy atmosphere. Queen Victoria is out there somewhere. If only she knew what her subjects have stooped to.
She hears the floorboards creak behind her, and knows without looking that he's come up behind her. She is ashamed to say that something stirs inside her. It is impossible to know if he is carrying his razor with him, anger blazing in his eyes, about to pin her to the wall as has become their ritual. Or if he's in one of those brooding, thoughtful moods where the prominent thought on his mind is vengeance. His mood changes suddenly; it scares her and thrills her.
She turns around. He seems to be relatively calm. "Mr. Todd, love…"
He looks at her with eyes that stare but don't see.
"You don't…you don't sleep at night, do you?"
His eyes flash with what might be fury. "What business is it of yours, Mrs. Lovett?"
The familiar feeling of fear is rising up inside her. "It…it isn't, I'm just wonderin', because I think I have the same problem you do, see, and I don't know, wouldn't it help if we just…I don't know…kept each other company…until…"
She finds herself backing away slowly with each word, until she's hit the window and finds herself rooted to the spot, frozen.
"What…" he begins, bloodlust in his eyes as he edges towards her, his steps marked by the ominous creaking of the floorboards, "…might that problem be, Mrs. Lovett?"
I…" She sees the razor in his hand, sees him edging closer, closer. The close proximity that she has to the magnetic madman and his weapon disconcerts her. "You know. Ghosts, and the like. Bad dreams. Nightmares."
She knows that she's pushing her luck, but she's feeling especially daring and doesn't quite know why. Besides, she tells herself, it's still lust, although altogether a different kind.
In one jarring, frightening, movement, he has her pinned against the wall, the razor at her throat, and its tantalizing blade cold against her skin. "Have you been…observing my sleeping habits?"
The look of amusement mixed with anger on his face is a very strange one to witness.
"Not observing, exactly…" She is ever conscious of the blade at her neck. One little push on his end, and she could end up just like those poor souls in her pies. "Just…noticin' really…you always seem to be pacin' up and down, and those floorboards do creak most of the time…it's just an offer, love…"
He's distracting her, and he knows it. He's moving his razor up and down her cheek, leaving a feel of metal behind that both excites and torments.
"I'm just offerin' you my company is all…"
Unexpectedly, his razor free hand begins to do something else entirely. His index finger strokes her jawbone, coming to rest on her pulse, which promptly quickens. The juxtaposition between the two, metal versus skin, tenderness versus harshness is unbearably cruel.
He smirks. In his eyes she can see the thirst for blood, her blood, any blood, and knows that he could end her life right now with a slash of his razor. The combination of fear and the distraction of his finger on her pulse make her feel dizzy. She thinks she may faint.
"Stop that," she says, barely able to breathe, and cursing herself.
Surprisingly, he does. He steps away. "Mrs. Lovett," he says. "Perhaps I'd sleep a bit better if we kept a bit more of that gin, instead of letting that little bugger drink it all…"
Mrs. Lovett has far gone past the stage of being able to speak. Instead, she nods, and leaves the room, knowing that this little exchange won't help her insomnia in the least.
I wasn't sure of the time period, so I just set it in Victorian times. Feel free to correct me.