GLEAM

This is, at its bloody heart, a simple story.

After all, she was a simple practical woman, was Mrs. Lovett. She maybe wasn't the brightest, or the most beautiful, but she was practical. She knew what needed to be done and how. She knew how things worked.

For instance.

This is how razor cuts work: the initial caress, quick and bright and beautifully, beautifully clean. A gasp of a gash. Then the smallest silence—that delectable anticipation, then that softly swelling cacophony of red, and then all the pain. That is how they work. It could require a certain artistry.

Mrs. Lovett was no artist. Her experience with blades and blood was only the rather tiresome matter of scraping dead meat from dead bone and stick the whole mess into the rather humble meat pies she sold at her shop. One of hundreds in London. No, she was no artist. Although she was getting rather clever at the timely dismemberment of a human body, which is more than can be said for most ladies. She reflected on this, sometimes, on the extraordinarily rare instances she was in a pensive mood.

Mostly these moods would strike whenever cleaning took too long. All that dark copper to soak up, lit gleaming wet by just as rosy flames. All that gleaming blood.

This is how her conscience worked: everyone dies. Most do so pointlessly and wastefully, and as always the rest of the world turned on. Her poor Albert for example—pity, certainly, but life goes on. Mourning him hadn't done a bit of good. And these men—well, what with her Mr. Todd going on the way he did (not that she understood, but she knew he was always a dreamy sort of man, unconcerned with the banalities of everyday life) then she was merely picking up the pieces. Someone was going to have to. And might as well be her. That is, really, how her conscience worked. How her life had always worked.

Until him. Oh that phrase. But it was, as usual, the way these things went.

She had so much to be grateful for, from her Mr. Todd. All alone in the world, she was, what with her Albert gone and her not as young as she used to be. And London—her life—had become SO grey, in every sense. Then along came her Mr. Barker, only he wasn't the sweet absent thing she remembered. This new one, Mr. Todd, was an exercise in paradox. A cold white dead cipher of a man, but inside such crackling hot intensity. True, right now it was only the fires of rage and hate and loss and senseless pain that lit him so gleaming bright—but. All that can only sustain a man for so long. The pain could be excised, and left still all that fire. She never had felt things so very strongly herself, because she knew that how a person feels doesn't change a thing. But oh, Mr. Todd.

He was always burning all the time. So warm—his skin, his eyes, his very existence. She almost imagined she could partake of some of that herself—basking in his presence like a bonfire. He was the bright spot in her life.

And she loved him for it.

This is how love worked, for her. Beyond caring about the person in question, their well-being, etc., it was all about reciprocity. You looked out for each other. A relationship is a two-way street, after all. There was nothing ethereal or magic about it, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She had little patience for whatever ephemeral nonsense young people subscribed to. Love, to Mrs. Lovett, was a simple, practical matter. But very real.

She only ever wished Mr. Todd could be as straightforward about things. She knew he cared about her. Even if he didn't say as much, he would sometimes agree with her, or he would not reject her affection. True, if Mrs. Lovett left him alone long enough he'd sink into one of his moods, or start harping on and on again about revenge and death and his lost little brat and heaven knows what else, and she had to help him. Leave it to me, she'd say, and he would. That's what comforted her. He would be nothing without her. That was a kind of love she could understand.

So if Sweeney Todd only rarely showed her the type of appreciation or attention she felt she deserved, well, that was only because they were two different people who saw love and life two very different ways. She didn't let it trouble her.

And it wasn't as if he never…well. Expressed anything. There had been that one night, when he had come to her all blood-soaked and anxious, and she had set him right. She still had scars from that. Mrs. Lovett would smile when she caught sight of them, dressing in the morning. That night, too, had been just the beginning. They were quite the couple, near as Mrs. Lovett could tell.

This is how that first night had worked: it had been quick, and messy, and gorgeously painful. Mrs. Lovett hadn't quite understood why he came to her with razor in hand—and there was her tragedy.

This is how that next morning had worked: she had awoken first, to a distressing glimmer of pain all along her body where the razors had run. He still lay asleep beside her, his surprisingly delicate features not even peaceful at rest. Probably still dreaming of whichever wrong he was favoring at the moment, what happened years ago and nothing he could do about it now, she decided. Bless her Mr. Todd. Mrs. Lovett rose, only wincing a little. She couldn't help still but smile, even as she dabbed all the old black blood away, and carefully dressed. All silently, so as not to wake Mr. Todd. Everything would be different now.

This is practicality: that even after what was certainly an odd, draining, restless night, she was still up at dawn getting the dough started for the evening's pies, and making breakfast for herself and her two men. Mr. Todd wasn't a great eater, but Toby certainly was. And she was never a woman to let someone go wanting.

Toby would eventually wander into the kitchen, she knew, so she left a plate with food on it out for the boy. He'd be grateful she wasn't waiting in the kitchen with a list of chores. Instead, she prepared another plate for Mr. Todd, and brought it into her bedroom.

Mrs. Lovett sat on the side of the bed, next to the sleeping man. "Mr. Todd," she said quietly. "Wake up, love. I've brought you your breakfast." When he didn't stir, she sighed and repeated herself, this time stroking his face. "Wake up, love. Plenty to do today."

Now the man stirred, his mop of black hair falling into his face, making a quite pleasing contrast with his sickly porcelain skin. As least as far as Mrs. Lovett was concerned. His eyes fluttered open, then just as quickly closed. If he was breathing, it was the most shallow Mrs. Lovett had ever seen in someone still living.

She became alarmed. "Mr. Todd!" she cried. "You all right? Mr.—"

"I'm awake," he said softly, darkly. "I…" his face twisted, and he fell silent. She wondered, as usual, if he was ill. He seemed so loathe to even move, to live the new day.

Well, that's where she came in, wasn't it.

"Oh, Mr. Tee. We'll soon put you right," she said, and reached her hands round him so as to help him up. He was so gaunt. So white. Foolishly, sometimes she could just see herself breaking him. Foolishly. At her touch, it seemed an electric jolt had shot through his body. He sprang to life, grabbed the front of her dress harshly to pull himself up.

"Don't touch me," he growled, before releasing her. He then grimaced, and began rubbing his temples with his long fingers. Mrs. Lovett was surprised, but not overly disconcerted. She had seen enough of men to know when they were angry and when they just felt like having a bit of a pout. So all she did was smile, and not touch him again, and let him have a moment to gather his thoughts. When it seemed he had collected himself, she held out the plate of food that by some mercy, she hadn't already spilled on the both of them.

Not that it mattered. With that demon spark all red agleam in his eyes, that what she was seeing distressingly more of these days, he snarled and cursed and batted away the plate. Hot food was everywhere, burning everyone and ruining everything. Mrs. Lovett, placid and matter-of-fact as she usually was, was shocked, and cried out. Her Mr. Todd pushed her aside brutally as he rose and began to dress himself as quickly as possible.

Mrs. Lovett didn't understand. She had only been trying to help. As always. And she didn't understand—why, she had finally given him everything last night. Wasn't that what he wanted? If he didn't want her, why had he taken her? And not just in that way, but—

See. This is how razor cuts work: the initial caress, quick and bright and beautifully, beautifully clean. A gasp of a gash. Then the smallest silence—that delectable anticipation, then that softly swelling cacophony of red, and then all the pain. That is how they work. It could require a certain artistry.

And Sweeney Todd was nothing if not an artist. I will have you, he had claimed, and even if he was unaware of what he was saying or what he meant he would never stop cutting until—

The sad spoiled woman could only sit, wide-eyed and dumbfounded as the man finished dressing. Then something odd happened. Sweeney Todd, as if he had only just remembered she was there, glared at her with such hatred. Such fire, such intensity. But then those black eyes dulled, and he stooped to the floor to pick up the plate.

He held it to himself for a minute, and his eyebrows furrows, and it looked almost as if he was regretting something. If he was, he gave no further indication. Instead he approached his Mrs. Lovett, still sitting hilariously awash in devastation and a ruined breakfast. Tears were, as the phrase goes, gleaming in her eyes.

Slowly, he handed the plate to her. She took it, just as gently. Something unspoken passed between them, but still Mr. Todd felt compelled to speak.

"Oh, Mrs. Lovett. The things you do." He stretched his hand out as if to touch her, but thought better of it. Instead he left quietly. He would come to her again that night, late.

This is how sacrifice works. A person decides, for whatever reason, to give up something dear and important for someone or something else. Maybe even themselves. Mrs. Lovett gave herself up for her cold dour god. And even Cain's sacrifice, as it is said, was made in good faith. Tragically, she got something back. Comically, it was exactly what she expected.

This is, at its bloody heart, a simple love story.

A/N—Oh look. It's another dry character study ending in an act of oddly affectionate yet completely unwarranted act of cruelty. I'm not happy with this, so there's one more coming with like, plot, and dialogue, and crap like that. And it'll be short. Awesome.

Comme toujours, I love everyone who writes Sweeney fic. Please keep it up.