Another one-shot... only to warn you I got a bit carried away with the drama, so this isn't really as fluffy as I originally wanted it to be.
Hope you enjoy anyways xx

Disclaimer: I'm just a fangirl, I don't own anything.

Slow Dancing into Insanity

The restless tapping of footsteps from above had woken her hours ago, yet Mrs. Lovett had not dared set foot into the upstairs premises of her barber, instead settling into her mundane tasks of daily routine. With monotone regularity the tapping continued while she prepared everything for the day, increasingly worked up the more time passed. A single look at the calendar had been enough to tell her what was wrong, of course. It was their anniversary. His and Lucy's, that was. On days like this the pain exceeded the hate in the barber's crazed mind and nothing could pull him out of his mood, no number of victims, no insult spat towards her. She still did her best to attempt to lighten the atmosphere most of the time but she couldn't bear the thought of him speaking of his supposed late wife. Not when she wished nothing more than to take the place in his heart the blonde had left vacant. Suddenly the steps stopped and eerie silence filled the house. Mrs. Lovett dared not take a breath, expecting what was coming next but wishing she was wrong. No such luck. A thunderous, heartbreaking cry ripped through the air, followed by a crash and the noise of wood, glass and whatnot shattering. In a heartbeat Mrs. Lovett abandoned her promise to spare herself the heartache these moods of the barber caused her and dropped the dough in her hands to sprint to the inside staircase leading to her tenant's room.

She hesitated at his door for a considerable amount of time, debating with herself whether she should really dare cross that threshold and contemplating possible risks. Her curiosity and concern for him finally won out and she held her breath for a second as she pushed the door open without knocking. The room was a mess but not as bad as she had expected. There were pieces of glass and wood shattered all over the floor, yes, but still most of the furniture was fairly intact. No sight of the barber. With a small sigh Mrs. Lovett immediately began picking up shards of glass with a peculiar reddish-brown pattern around the edges, likely the remains of a vase or something of similar purpose. She then collected all lone planks of wood that had once been a shelf and placed them quietly by the door. Quickly the pile of glass, wood and debris grew while the general state of the room became more presentable. When she was more or less satisfied with her quick clean-up she let her eyes wander across the room, heart skipping a beat when her gaze came to rest on a dark figure in a corner.
He sat completely stationary, eyes fixated on a framed photograph to which he held on to so tightly she feared he would break the glass. For a moment she became painfully aware of the fact that she was not supposed to see him like that, that no one was supposed to witness his torment. Seeing his lack of reaction, however, she almost doubted he had even noticed her presence and after fidgeting with her old flour-powdered apron and watching his agonized glare aimed at the picture she closed her eyes briefly and turned to leave him, afraid she could handle his pain even less successfully than him. Just as she was about to take a step toward the door a noise stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a choked-up and half-suppressed whimper. She whipped her head around, her worry doubled as she saw something glistening on the barber's cheek which he was quick to wipe away furiously with his sleeve. Mrs. Lovett found her lower lip quiver in reaction to what she still could not quite grasp she had seen. It was that moment she knew she could not for anything in the world leave him in that room all by himself, trapped up there with all the guilt and grief she could not come even close to fully understand the depths of.

Slowly, cautiously, she crossed the room and knelt down beside him. His eyes were glazed over with emotion but for once it was neither anger nor bloodlust she saw in them, but sheer desperation and a sadness that almost made her throw her arms around him and weep for a woman she had hated all her life just to give the emotion he so obviously kept bottled up inside the release it needed. Hesitantly she reached out and brushed away a tear that spilled over while he stared at the photograph in his hands, still not acknowledging her presence, although she knew he was now ignoring her on purpose. She let her hand wander into his mass of black hair, absentmindedly untangling strands of it in a gesture so maternal it might have seemed to one as if she were attempting to soothe a small boy. And really, at that moment she had no romantic thoughts toward him whatsoever, aware that right now, in his deepest despair over the love lost, what he needed was a friend. And not one "dripping rubies", as he so poetically put it once, but a breathing human being who was simply there, someone who would listen without prejudice or judgment. She gathered all her courage, well aware of what he was capable of if she made the mistake of too much intimacy, and leaned her head on his shoulder, bracing herself for what might come. He did not shove her away. There was no hand closing around her neck to squeeze the life out of her, no silver blade pressed against her throat. No reaction at all. She swallowed what was left of her rational fear of him and tentatively put her arms around him, which was a difficult task, considering their awkward position on the floor. Still she managed to settle into the one-sided embrace more or less comfortably. His only reaction was to hold the framed picture more tightly. For a very long time she didn't move because, frankly, she had never thought any of this would be tolerated by him, therefore she had no idea what to do next. In the glass she could see the reflection of his tired gaze. Only now did she register the dark cuts covering his fingers, a terrifying contrast to his pale skin. A shocked breath hitched in her throat as she realized that the "pattern" on the broken pieces of the vase had probably been his blood.

"We should get this cleaned up-" she stated, flinching at how her voice broke the cocoon of silence that had enveloped them. When he neither agreed nor disagreed she decided to drop the matter, figuring that the injuries on his hands were of little importance compared to the gaping wound in his heart. How long she remained silent – and how she did it, considering her usual tendency to hold pointless rants – she didn't know. Suddenly she just blurted out, "How'd you meet 'er?"
The thoughtlessness behind that question was almost painful but she found herself genuinely curious. Of course she new fully well when Benjamin Barker had encountered the love of his life, the occasion, however, had never been of much interest to the baker until then. When his muscles tensed beneath her she quickly considered running from the room and never cross his path again but abolished that thought just as quickly. "Sorry, love, never mind that silly question. Was just curious, is all."

"A masquerade ball."

The lack of emotion in his voice startled her just as much as the fact that he had answered her. His tone was cold but even and it was clear that he would not say more, eyes still solely on the faded image of his Lucy. It took her a couple of moments until she could process the information and with realization came the imminent urge to either be sick or furious. Judge Turpin that fucking bastard. His intrigue to get Lucy Barker and the way he had exercised his plan had just been an additional kick in the barber's face, an ounce of salt strewn right into a wound. He could have chosen any excuse to lure the blonde to him but of all things he had to use the one thing he must have known was precious to Benjamin, even though he obviously never expected him to ever return from the colony and hear about his evil doings.

"I never knew… if I had I wouldn't 'ave told ya so boldly 'bout how he... 'bout him and Lu-"

"Don't." the barber cut in, head turning to look at her so forcefully that she fell back onto her behind in surprise. "Just don't." In contrast to his previous growl these words were whispered as he turned his gaze back on the item in his hands, stroking a finger across the glass in a loving gesture. Truly sorry for troubling him even more than necessary she decided to declare her defeat and leave him be. Her presence did more harm than aid his condition. She moved into a standing position and brushed some dust off her dress, which was useless really, before heading toward the door.

"You're leaving?"

The simple question took her by surprise, especially the almost terrified intonation at the end, as if he couldn't bear to be left alone. Again the image of a helpless boy flashed before her inner eye. "Thought I better go get some work done, should've opened shop hours ago an' I'm making things only worse with that big mouth o' mine."

In his eyes was the faintest hint of a look she had never thought she'd see him wear again, his black eyes wide and almost innocent. It was only there for a second but Mrs. Lovett was certain she had seen it. He heaved a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his raven black hair before moving to get up, obviously stiff from cowering in a corner for such a long time. "Mrs.- " he cleared his throat and didn't meet her eyes creating somewhat of an awkward atmosphere. "Mrs. Lovett, my I ask you for a favour?"

The look he sent her then was utterly disarming and she found herself speaking without thinking. "'Course, Mr. T."

"Will you dance with me?"

She was sure her jaw dropped to the floor at his words, uttered with a velvety voice she had almost forgotten all about. She gaped at him with wide eyes, frozen in a confused stupor. First she considered his words to be a joke, a mocking response to her attempts of comforting him but his eyes were dark and serious, the question still burning in them.

"'M afraid I don't understand…" she finally choked out, a hand coming up to her chest to calm her rapid heartbeat.

"Dance with me, Eleanor." This time the emotion in his gaze changed, a crazed component added to the sincerity as he closed the distance between them with only a few steps. She took a step back automatically, observing the smallest sign of annoyance in his features as she did so. "I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered as his arm snaked around her waist.

"There ain't even music, playin'," she objected halfheartedly, already far too comfortable this close to him to reject his plea. But he was already taking her hand in his and starting to lead her around the room in small circles. At first the whole thing seemed quite absurd to her but soon she found herself pulled into his mood and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he moved them so smoothly she could almost hear the music from the way he swayed them around. She had never seen this gentle side of him, this openness to intimacy. Their dance lasted either minutes or hours, she lost all sense of time and couldn't care less about it.

Suddenly he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers surprising her so much she stopped dancing, therefore stopping him too but he just continued kissing her and she didn't have the strength not to respond. So long had she waited for a moment like this, had dreamed about it night and day, yet something felt terribly wrong. It felt like he poured every ounce of love he could find in his shattered heart into the kiss and it was all just too much for her to handle, there was too much pain that accompanied the feeling of love. In the next moment she realized with a start what was wrong.

He wasn't kissing her, he was kissing Lucy.

It made sense. He was clearly out of his mind with grief and she certainly hadn't made things better by bringing up Turpin and what he had done. She deserved no better than this. She deserved the agony, the disappointment she felt. It was only fair that he used her as a physical addition to the memory of his late wife. He truly believed he was with his Lucy, of that she was sure, and although she was certain she had never felt such pain before, she softly responded to his kisses, tears streaming down her face while he took up the slow dance again. When his lips hovered just above hers she had to bite her tongue to hold back her sobs as he uttered something she had yearned to hear from him ever since she'd met him, but now, not directed towards her, the words meant nothing.

"I love you," he kissed her again, "Lucy, my angel, I love you."

It felt to her as if all air had been knocked out of her but the only response she could muster was the answer he wanted – needed – to hear, although she hated herself for it, hated the fact that even now she couldn't be selfish.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. The worst thing was that her words were nothing but the pathetic truth. Overwhelmed by incredible sadness she buried her face in his shoulder, no longer trying to hear the inaudible music he obviously seemed to be hearing, recalling some tune from his memory of a masquerade ball. In a way the scene oddly resembled their relationship. He was deluded into seeing – in this case hearing - something that was no longer there while she, although aware of the reality, played along to keep him sane at any cost.

Only this time she feared the price she paid had been too high.

This time she had paid with her own sanity.