2. Plan

Sweeney sat passively on the small bed of their hotel room as Mrs. Lovett twittered about, asking him just what he supposed they would do, where they would go, and how they would pay for it.

One more throat had been slight he previous night in order to steal the carriage that had taken them as far as the coast. They'd rode all night, finally reaching a small town just outside of Brighton by morning, where they'd located a dingy hotel. Having scraped together enough from Sweeney's purse as well as that of the dispatched cab driver and what was left of Pirelli's, they'd paid the innkeeper enough for a night's stay and used the rest to buy a bit of breakfast and a few other essential products. Mrs. Lovett had been temporarily mollified by the sight of the beautiful British sea. Only now, as the sun was setting on its horizon, was she beginning to worry.

"Mr. T," she said sharply, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes." Flatly.

"So where will we find the means to keep staying here? I mean, it's cheap as inns go, but it ain't that cheap. And aside from that, what of food? What of clothes? Me dress'll go to rags; me hair'll become a regular rat's den."

If he'd cared at all, he would have given a chuckle at this point.

Suddenly, she seemed to stiffen, as if commanding herself to expel any foolishness and actually think about the problem at hand. "Mr. Todd," she said gravely, "we're used to being our own bosses. But for now, I think we should have to set out in this little town and try to find someone to work for. We've both got skills to offer; I'm sure we could find someplace to work, build up a bit of savings, rent out a room someplace, eventually buy a little cottage, right?"

He said nothing. Her brow furrowed in frustration. "Or maybe I'm the only one who cares what'll become of us," she spat bitterly, turning from him.

He sighed, supposing this was his cue to deny her statement. But he had hardly the heart to do so. Instead, he said, "Mrs. Lovett, you spend entirely too much time worrying about things. Who cares what'll happen in the future? For all we know, perhaps we haven't one."

She turned back to him, suddenly eager to soothe once more. She was so loyal, even now, her annoyance with him so impermanent. "Mr. T, don't be so morbid." She knelt before him, attempting to look into his eyes, but he looked down. "I won't let us just fade away. We'll be just fine. Look. I wanted to save this for an emergency, but…" She dug in her bodice, pulling out a lavender purse Sweeney did not recognize. "I have half the profits of the pie shop in this purse," she said quietly. "Last night, before we left, I put it in here. I was intending to go and purchase some new equipment for me kitchen the next day." She waited for his reaction; there was none. "Mr. T," she said, a bit strained, "there's enough in here for a month's rent of a flat, I'm certain."

Finally, he met her eyes, compelled by the implore in her tone. He saw how deeply she craved a reaction; how desperately she wanted him to acknowledge what happy news this was and how much he wanted to settle in a flat with her. He sighed. It reminded him of Lucy, the expectancy in her tone whenever she told him something mildly surprising about her day or something Johanna had done. He'd always indulged her.

"Good," he said quietly, throwing her a bone. "That's just fine."

Her smile warmed some distant crevice of his heart. She patted his shoulder before straightening up. "I suppose I'll set off to look for some work tomorrow, then. But Mr. T?" She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him.

"What?" he asked faintly.

"It'll be a bit suspicious if we rent a flat, being unmarried and all…Who knows? The owner may even object."

No response.

"I mean," she continued gingerly, "we might have a bit of an easier time if we say we are married…Or even actually get married, so we can keep nice and honest." This last bit was slightly rushed, a bit unnaturally phrased and emphasized.

He considered this, somewhat put off by her plainness. He opened his mouth to respond with a flat "no," but stopped to consider her proposition. Before, marriage had transformed his life from mundane to magical. Could it happen again? Dare he hope…?

He scorned himself for having such hopes. I'll marry her, he thought, for the sake of simplicity. Surely she won't stop nagging me 'til I do.

Slowly, he replied, "Perhaps that would be for the best."

She fought not to smile, turning back to him. "That settles it, then," she said briskly, unconsciously wiping her hands on her bodice. "I'll try and find a nice little chapel tomorrow, while I'm at it. No big ceremony, of course, and no dress for me. Just the formalities." She was trying so hard, he saw, to sound detached and no-nonsense, but she could barely contain her joy. He felt indifferently amused at this façade.

How could he have the power to bring her such joy, he wondered idly, when all his life he'd both received and dealt so much pain? How could his mere presence inspire such happiness in her? The notion was foreign and a bit frightening to him. Lucy had been content with their life, but, he was reluctant to admit, she'd never seemed particularly enamored with him or their life together. Mrs. Lovett, on the other hand, seemed absolutely smitten, and positively jubilant at the thought of life with him.

Then again, he realized he shouldn't be so surprised. Mrs. Lovett had done a great deal for Sweeney. He gazed at the woman with her unhealthily pale complexion; messy, frizzy hair that he cringed at the sight of; her gloved hands; her slim but sturdy build, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude. She'd provided him a place to stay and carry out his revenge; food to partake of; the constant invitation of company (which he rarely accepted); a method of disposal for the bodies he accumulated; tolerance rather than disgust or fear at his habits. Many a time, he admitted somewhat reluctantly, her practicality and coolness had neutralized his hot temper and passion just in time to save him from disaster. Despite her dreadful lie, he owed her something.

Even so, Sweeney's heart ached at the thought of Mrs. Lovett's betrayal. Perhaps, though, he thought, her intentions were indeed noble. Perhaps—

Her brisk voice, as always, cut short his train of thought. "Right. Well, it's getting late. We should get some rest." She eyed the single bed that Sweeney sat on. "You can have the bed," she said graciously. "I'll make a place on the ground. No need to get too cozy; we ain't marrieds just yet." She didn't sound too enthusiastic about this point.

"No," he said somewhat sharply, rising suddenly from the bed.

"Mr. T?" she asked uncertainly, halting her process of pulling bobby-pins from her hair.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

"Oh, Mr. T, you must be aching from steering that carriage all night long. Really—"

"Mrs. Lovett," he said quietly, but with an unfamiliar yet powerfully persuasive appeal that surprised her. "You take the bed."

"Well, alright," she said after a moment. "It's up to you, of course."