A/N: Hey everybody! New Sweeney Todd story . . . but don't worry! I'm still continuing my other Sweenett (and yes, this is a Sweenett). I just had this idea in my head and it would not go away. Please enjoy! :D

London, December, 1983

Oh no love! youre not alone

You're watching yourself but you're too unfair
You got your head all tangled up but if I could only
Make you care

~ Rock 'N' Roll Suicide, David Bowie

The bar was dimly lit, and smoke was billowing all around him. His mind was hazy with drink, but he could still make out the figure standing on what looked like a sorry excuse for a stage. It was a slightly raised wooden platform, about seven feet across and five feet back. But the figure, the woman, was of slight proportions, so she was quite able to perform as regularly as she could've on a real stage. The hard, rough voice that emanated from her throat was very different than it had been a while ago, and the man was not sure if he liked the change or not. He remembered when her voice was melodic, when it soared above the audience but into their souls. When it seemed like it held all the answers to the world. Now it only seemed as if its purpose was to make everyone in the bar leave. That is, if anyone was even paying attention to her.

He sipped his drink casually and allowed himself a small smile in satisfaction as the warm liquid made its way to his belly. The woman on stage was still singing like a strangled cat, the two men behind her playing guitars were still looking bored. They strummed out their power chords with about as much enthusiasm as a little boy whose mother just signed him up for ballet lessons. He would have felt sorry for her, if he had not been too busy growing nostalgic over her features.

Her hair was short and straightened, coming to a perfect angle along her jaw line. The color was somewhere between red and brown. She had switched her hair color so many times in her lifetime he could no longer differentiate between the two. He remembered when her hair had been long and curly: a messy mane. Her big brown eyes were hid behind heavily made-up eyelids, her long dark lashes brushing against her cheeks. When she lifted her lids, she revealed two empty chocolate colored eyes that looked as if she were constantly in a daydream. Those eyes used to be wild. They used to be passionate, and full of life. They used to be full of raw emotion, of powerful hunger . . .

She wore a black blouse that hugged her every feature. She wore a skirt, that probably had once been a pretty white color, but was now smudged with dirt and looked like an ugly grey. She wore no accessories, except a simple black choker. Her boots reached up to her knees, and she was wearing no tights. Automatically an image of a past time glazed over the man's vision. The same woman, dressed in bright red, orange, and practically any other color you could imagine that would hurt the eyes. She used to wear so many bracelets that when she walked, she could pass off as a musical instrument herself.

That was the woman he fell in love with. This was the woman he was not so sure about.

An old man who was sitting next to him saw him staring at the woman. He whispered, "That's Elle Lovett, that is. You know about 'er, right?"

'L.' Lovett? thought the man stupidly. His drink was causing him to lose focus. I thought her name started with an E . . .

"Yeah," grunted the man. "I know about her."

"Shame where she's ended up, ain't it?" said the old man.

"Shame indeed," he agreed.

Finally, the dreadful song came to a close, and for the first time that night, her eyes locked with his. A surprised look crossed her face, but it quickly turned back to the same blank slate. She turned away from him without an sign of acknowledgment, and the man could not help but feel a little stung. He downed the last of his drink, slumped off his barstool, and staggered out the door. The frosty air made him shiver, and he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. The snow was falling thickly around him, catching onto his hair and clothes and causing him to slip against the sidewalk. Luckily, he managed to grab the hood of his car before he fell onto his backside. Once he was righted again, he took a look around. The world was hazy and wobbly. He knew could not drive home tonight. He would have to walk.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled around. There, standing in front of him, in all her glassy-eyed, dull clothes, boring hair glory, was Elle Lovett. Or, as he and few other people knew her as, Nellie Yorke.

"Sweeney," she breathed. She didn't quite know what to say. "What . . . How have you been?"

Sweeney narrowed his eyes at her. She was beginning to swim out of focus, and he was trying to see her clearly, but apparently she took his facial expression the wrong way.

"Er, right." She fiddled with her gloves nervously. "How about . . . how about I give you a ride home? You look like you need one."

"I don' . . ." he struggled to remember what words to say. "I don' needa ride . . ." But he knew she was right, so he reluctantly reached into his coat pocket and thrust her his keys.

"There's a good boy." She offered him a familiar smile, but it faltered quickly. She opened the side door for him and guided him in, then rounded the car to take her seat in the front.

"You . . . you were . . ." He paused, then started to speak again, but Nellie put a hand up to stop him. "You don't have to lie. I know I was dreadful," she said.

"I was gonna say that." He rubbed one side of his face wearily.

Nellie's face fell. "Oh. Well, thank you for your honesty."

They drove in silence for a while, until finally Nellie said, "Was I really that bad?"

"Fuck, Nellie, you were terrible," Sweeney said bluntly. He lay his head back against the headrest. Nellie snorted, then smiled.

"Yeah, I guess I was." She looked over at her childhood friend sadly. How did things end up like this? "I really fucked myself up, didn't I?" she asked, her eyes round with self-pity.

"What? No . . ." Sweeney pulled his head back up so he was staring at her straight on. "No, Nellie, things just didn't work out as planned."

She bit her lower lip as her eyes glistened with tears he knew she would never shed. Nellie did not cry in public. It took him a moment to realize she was not looking at the road.

"Nell – "

But it was too late. He saw the lights of the car coming straight for them and heard the sharp, long beeping of the horn. He did not, however, the skidding sound of the wheels, or of Nellie's panic-stricken face as she tried to swerve vainly out of the way.

There was a crunching sound, and he drowned in blackness.