A/N: As promised, the new set of drabbles are in progress now.

Disclaimer: I regret to inform you that I don't own Sweeney Todd.

For the Alive

1. Threat

Sweeney Todd grinds his teeth in unexplainable frustration as he stands on the wooden balcony, watching the crowds roil below with a predator-like gleam in his dark eyes. He clutches his silver friend so tightly that the etchings bite into his skin; when he unclenches his fist he sees the pattern tattooed there, an ugly, red brand. An animalistic growl rumbles lowly in his throat as he gazes upon a sight which has his blood boiling for a reason he cannot comprehend.

Below, Mrs. Lovett laughs, a hand resting suggestively on a gentleman's arm as she leans over the table, giving him a generous view of her bosom. The man in question cannot seem to drag his eyes further up than her chest.

Sweeney's temper rises a few more degrees upon the sight. He decides not to question his ire at the current time; instead he flings open the door to his shop and steps back inside.

He doesn't care. Of course he doesn't. He doesn't even like her. He just doesn't like the idea of her parading around so, acting like a whore. It will be bad for business. The last thing he wants is her scaring away the customers by giving the place a bad name. The Judge will certainly never come again if he thinks that the barber's shop is below him. The last thing Todd wants is for her to stop him getting his revenge.

Much later, when Mrs. Lovett brings up his dinner with a cheery, "afternoon, Mr. T!", he presses a hand against her shoulder and keeps her in place when she has placed her tray on the chest. She regards him with slightly confused eyes, though she is secretly rejoicing (and trying not to react to) the hand which is touching her bare skin; it is such a rare occurrence.

"Mr. T…?" she queries as he continues to stare at her. As much as she loves him, she finds it quite disconcerting when he looks at her like that; she can't quite work out what is going on behind those dark eyes.

He says nothing for a few more moments so she just stands there, leaning slightly into his touch. Just when she is almost sure that he has nothing to say after all, he voices abruptly:

"I don't want to see you doing that again."

Of all the things that she had been expecting him to say, this certainly isn't it. She frowns in confusion, tilting her head slightly to one side, as is customary when something puzzles her. "I don't know what you're talkin' about," she says. "Doin' what again?"

Once more he says nothing, his throat working almost undetectably, as though he is struggling for the right words – or perhaps they are ones he cannot bring himself to voice. "Doing what you were doing earlier."

"I still 'ave no idea what you're goin' on about, love," she says, adopting the tone she uses when she is mothering the street urchin. "'Ow can I know what not to do again if I don't even know what I'm supposed to 'ave done wrong in the first place?"

That same throat work. "Don't ever touch any man again like you touched that one today."

Mrs. Lovett's heart leaps from its place in her chest. She feels as though she is floating. Never in all of

the time since his return to London has he ever spoken to her in such a way. It makes her blood warm in her

veins, flushing her skin a charming scarlet. This is the response she's been waiting for ever since his arrival. It finally seems as though all of her dreams will come true.

"Don't be silly dear," she settles for saying. "I was only touchin' 'is arm. That's nothin' for you to get jealous over, it meant nothin'." Inwardly, she is rejoicing.

At once his blank face turns down into a scowl of disgust. His fingers bite into her skin. She is sure there will be a bruise there in the morning, but it doesn't matter. Not now. Not after this.

"I'm not jealous," he growls. "I don't give a damn about how you choose to spend your spare time. I just don't want you repelling customers with your whorish behaviour."

She chooses to ignore the last comment – after all, it is just the jealousy rearing its ugly (yet oh so welcome) head.

Instead she settles for gently retracting her arm from his grasp. He makes no move to stop her, which she takes as a positive sign. When she is free once more, she slides her hands to his face and cups it between her palms. His teeth grit, as though he is going to protest, and she waits for the space of two heartbeats. When he merely continues to stand there, she strokes her fingers against his cheeks.

"No need to worry, my love," she says softly. "I'm not one for entertainin' strangers after hours." She gives a lewd little wink. "I 'ave you for that. An' those men ain't never goin' to be a threat to you, I can promise you that."

She escapes then, whilst she still can, leaving him staring after her with a half-formed sneer and a glint of what might be relief in his eyes.

A/N: Let me know what you think of this one by dropping me a line. :)