Part I
"If we're gonna do this Mrs Lovett, you will have to promise me," he whispered, still not looking at her, just staring into the clear abyss of his half empty tumbler.
Eleanor Lovett stared at him longingly, for it was the longest sentence he'd ever said to her… she was lucky if she had gotten four words out of him, let alone a whole sentence that he, solely composed.
"P-promise ya what?" she breathed, standing by the booth he'd occupied. His frown burrowed farther down his strong brow.
"Promise me," he said quietly, slamming the glass down to purposely alert his accomplice. "Promise me that you will not lie to me Mrs Lovett. Now we are business partners, I do not want you to deceive me."
He paused and flicked his orbs to her. "We are in this together. Whether I like it not."
She glared at him, nodding her head. Clearly she'd been invisibly gagged… she was quite speechless at his sudden confrontation.
"From this point on, there will be no secrets."
She swallowed, feeling the ghost of Lucy burn into her mind set. She blinked a few times and then the pale, yellowed hair apparition disappeared.
"Am I clear?" he interrupted, turning his head in the opposite direction to the baker.
"Yes," she replied, eyes wide and voice uncontrollably wobbly. "You're perfectly clear love. No lyin'... an' no secrets."
He nodded.
"Good."
Mrs Lovett always made promises. And nearly always made them to the barber.
But she never kept them.
No matter how hard she tried.
Mrs Lovett ran, and ran, and ran… slowly flailing over the November frost. She regained her balance, her boots' heels grappling into the thin web of ice as her feet pounded the crumpled autumn ground.
Her incessant gasps made her windpipe dry, gradually, coarsely choking her senseless. Her hair pins were lost, forever gone; her auburn ringlets were knotted and matted against her pallid, clammy forehead.
Eleanor's usual opaque opal complexion was now tampered with… her cheeks were a sore red, her forehead was blotchy, and her skin was scattered with deep nail incisions, and gauges.
Despite the utter shame she felt, she sprinted on, knowing exactly who turn to. After all, who was left? She couldn't go to her Father… he was dead and he wouldn't have cared if he was still alive. She always had been the neglected one that no one seemed to notice—just the girl in the background… always the one forgotten.
The second person she thought of was Toby. Ha, like she'd turn to him, he was the one who'd gotten her into the ashamed state in the first place! How could she ever forgive the lad after this? All she wanted to do now she thought of him, was to wring her hands around his neck, see him in cruelly engrossed pain…
And the last she thought of? Mr Todd, the stoic barber who never uttered a word, unless he needed to. And as delusional and mad as it seemed, Eleanor just knew that he would have to sympathise with her, she knew that he'd comprehend her state and her current feelings… despite the fact he was "unfeeling and too caught up in 'is own miserable grief" as she'd once called it.
She was almost certain he could console in her hour of need.
She felt stray salty tears slice menacingly into her flushed cheeks.
Pain
Her itchy throat caught, the freezing night air and her hitching breath, causing her to sob manically.
Ordinary street-goers stopped and stared as she raced by them, leaving a trail of hair grips as she went.
The obvious shame continued to eat her, the disgusted and bewildered glances she received throwing her to an isolated kingdom - there for show, there for nothing but usage.
Swallowed
Luckily, and to her relief, when she rounded the next bricked corner, she'd reached her dark end of Fleet Street.
Anticipation flooded through her nerves and she slowed into a jog. Leaves littered the damp, sodden cobbles, which caused her to slip slightly.
She sobbed as she soon as she reached 186 Fleet Street, completely ignoring her shop, instead she headed for the familiar stairs of her favourite barber, nearly clumsily tripping over the first stair.
Her half gloved fingers gripped the frosty banister tightly as she hauled herself up. After a maximum effort, due to her unhelpful wheezing, she conquered the barber's stairs.
Reaching the top, Eleanor knew that he was her last chance, her last resort. But they'd both promised… they needed to stop keeping secrets from one another, so what's the point on making secrets? She had to tell him now. Before she would hide the heavy shame she truly felt forevermore.
The stomping noise already frustrated him, grated on him.
It was the sound of her heels, hitting his wooden stairs.
'Doesn't the woman know that those bloody infernal boots make dents?!'
As he was rudely torn from his thoughts because of the sound, he watched his gleaming razor, observing its glow in the moonlight's reflecting rays. He couldn't help smiling at how magnificent in truly looked…
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Sob.
Sweeney frowned and stopped smirking, flicking his raven eyes to the darkness through the windows of his door.
He could hear sobbing, and the trickle of tears. He usually enjoyed the sound of misery, of pain, of hatred. However, this was something more than that. Something that he did not like. One bit.
And for once, he was certain that he was not the cause… as he usually was if she was crying.
His frown deepened and he flicked back to his friend, admiring its call, its glisten.
Clomp. Sob. Sob. Clomp -
The door burst open, rudely interrupting Mr Todd once more. The shop's bell jingled which only added to the homicidal barber's frustration. Where had all the silence gone in the world?!
He growled, irritated when the door slammed shut, making the whole building shudder—he didn't look up at the quivering form that entered, he already knew it'd be her.
"You did not knock," Sweeney stated harshly, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed.
The female wheezed, half coughing, half sobbing.
Sweeney's eyes widened as he heard this, and his frown lifted, lowering his razor from his eye line.
"What do you want Mrs Lovett?" he spat, still not daring to look at her, he'd explode like a volcano if he did… Who did she think she was, calling in on him at that time of night?!
"I-I want... h-help." she replied shyly, still fighting away her blubbing. He took his gaze immediately upwards to face her shivering form, which stood four feet from where he was sat on the barber chair.
She looked quite the sight.
Her wiry copper hair was tangled into a dark web of humid, heavy mess. Her skin was covered in bleeding scratches (from nails?) and fresh bite marks (from... teeth?). Her usually bright eyes, were shadowed with a red veil of soreness from over an hour of constant tears. Her heeled boots were laden with embers of dead, sopping leaves. And her dress had been fiercely ripped at the sleeves and her middle, revealing some of her half bruised stomach.
"Mrs Lovett?" he addressed, not quite sure what to say when she hadn't said anything further.
She whimpered, knees wobbling as she shivered with fright. She felt exposed in front of him, red flushing to her cheeks again when shame struck her smack in the heart.
"Th-They 'urt me Mr T! They - They - "
He glared and stood abruptly, seeing that the woman was finding even the simplest standing position difficult.
"Sit," he ordered, rather softly than usual gruff tone.
Her lip trembled and she hobbled over to his barber chair, collapsing into it instantly when she got near. Her tired eyes squeezed shut and she started to cry again.
"What happened?" he asked, in a small voice.
"I don' wanna talk 'bout it!" she snapped, throwing her face into her blood-soaked palms.
"Well," he retorted, crossing his arms as he stood in front of her. "If y'don't tell me, I can't help you, can I?"
"Ha! Ya won't anyway!" she shot back, sniffling into her hands. "Ya don' care!"
He scowled and lowered his arms, balling his hands into fists by his sides.
'Oh if only you knew Mrs Lovett,' he thought, 'You should see what I'm thinking now as I look at you… So lost. So… stubborn. So distraught… as I.'
"Tell. Me." he pressed on, clenching his teeth. She took her scratched hands from her face, the fresh tears vanishing to dry over the thin wounds on her face, stinging her skin.
"I-I'm too ashamed," she whispered, like she was one of those little girls scared of the dark. "You might laugh at me…"
He dropped his mask of irritation, leaving an almost compassionate look about him. "No… I won't, if someone… hurt you… I would never laugh. Why should I?"
It sounded wrong now he'd said it, but it felt better now he'd admitted it.
Mrs Lovett winced and sniffed. "Alright then," she said shakily, sighing shallowly. "Well, y'remember 'bout two hours ago I came up t'give y'some supper early?" He nodded, getting the lost puppy eyes she always felt remorse emitting from. "You were going out?" he asked, but it came out more like a statement.
"Y-yes. Toby were determined t'take me to the opera, an' since we 'ave a bit 'o money now, who am I to refuse? So I went along with it… an' I knew you wouldn't wanna come so I never bothered askin' ya.
On the way, Toby decided t'take a short cut so 'e could go t'the sweet shop… but I said 'cause it were so late that we should stick t'main roads… but 'e'd already ran off! I tried t'keep up with 'im but the lad 'ad already ran off too bleedin' fast for me t'catch 'im!
I dunno where I were, but it were dark an' near some public 'ouses… and a load 'o alleyways… I were so lost… I didn't know wot t'do! I didn't know whether t'go back or t'follow Toby!"
Sweeney met her teary eyes when she lifted her gaze to him.
"So what did you do?" he questioned, already fearing the answer she was about to enlighten him with.
"I went after 'im… an'... an'… I passed the first pub… an' there were a-a- group 'o men outside… didn't know any of 'em… jus' mindin' me own business I was!" she exclaimed all in a rush, still short of breath from her sprinting earlier. "I wasn't fazed at all, they didn't even look like bad men… An' the one of 'em caught me arm an' pushed me into an alleyway nearby… an' the others followed… 'E pushed t'the wall… and 'e… 'e… "
Sweeney glared at her, horror and pity wired into his eyes.
"'E… did things t'me… an'… the others joined in…"
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she sobbed again, squeezing her eyes shut.
Sweeney stood motionless, opening and closing his mouth. Eleanor? Eleanor Lovett? Eleanor had been… raped? She was the last woman he'd think of to suffer from that… well… yes she was… attractive, but, she could also handle herself, fight in her own wing…. It hadn't occurred to him that such a thing would ever happen to her.
After the hesitation, he grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the barber chair, fairly firmly.
"Oh god Mr T… Please… Please don't—" she begged. "I ain't gonna let you do it to me—"
He lifted her chin with his thumb, letting her face his shocked glare.
"I would never do a filthy, perverse thing like that to you. Nor any other beggar under my watch, Eleanor."
She swallowed and blinked back tears as she stared longingly into his wonderful averted orbs. She was bewildered at the (relatively) softer side she'd seemed to have dug up inside of him.
"Do you have any bandages? Any ointment?" he asked hurriedly and their eyes slowly met again; she bit her bruised lip.
He wasn't going tend to her wounds was he?
"Y-yeah. In me bedroom... " she said quietly.
He frowned and nodded, rather like a soldier doing his duty; he took hold of her full body in his arms, one arm firmly gripping her waist, one arm hoisting up her legs.
"Come on then," he said gruffly. "Hook your arms 'round me or else you'll slip an' break somethin'."
Without a word, Eleanor let out a shuddered breath, and with a genuine look of adoration, she wrapped her arms around his neck cautiously.
"Thanks Love… " she whispered hoarsely.
