Part II

Mrs Lovett lay in wait in the parlour, feeling evermore tired from the abusive events that had occurred, and from the heat from the roaring flames in front of her.

Sweeney was in her room, gripping his hair with both hands.

He couldn't find her medical box. Where the hell would it be? Her room wasn't even that big!

He felt himself start to panic, and he began to pace, eyes darting about her room. He had to find the ointment and bandages… he just had to… if he didn't, she would be in danger… because of him…

Survival

He muttered curses under his breath and then stopped, seeing a shadowy object beneath her bed. Good job the room was lit by candles, or he would never have seen it.

He heaved out a heavy sigh and knelt down beside her comfy looking bed. He grunted as he stretched his arm out underneath it. He could feel something flat, solid and cool; he frowned.

"What the—?"

"Love?!" Eleanor called to him, clearly feeling so fatigued that she was sure she would fall asleep any moment.

"One moment!" he said loudly, ignoring the object he'd found to move his hand onto a box directly beside the unknown discovery. He snatched the box and jumped up, hearing the heavy thud of the rolling bottle of ointment inside, which was pretty comforting.

He emerged from her room, clutching her medical box, which she was surprised he'd found.

But then again, he was pretty intelligent—so then again, she wasn't really surprised at all.

He sat at the opposite end of the settee, by her feet. She shuffled her lounging body slightly as he opened the wooden box on his lap. "Sit still," he said, making her swallow nervously as he wasn't even looking at her at the time.

A white rag in one hand, and the opened bottle of ointment in the other; Sweeney motioned with his head for her to come closer. She hesitated, but then complied and sat up, scooching over the couch to sit by his side.

"Your face first," he said, pouring a civilised amount of the scary looking liquid onto the cloth.

She winced and turned to face him, closing her eyes. There was no point doing otherwise now. It wouldn't be good if she resisted… and anyway, this was the first time he'd sat down next to her, just to prioritise her first… before revenge. Before Lucy…

"This will sting, but I can't—"

"'S fine love, jus'… do it… " she butted in, smiling when she felt him move closer, and even though her eyes were closed, she knew he was looking right at her, face to face. She found herself rid of all shame she had previously felt when his scent wafted up into her nose, his intoxicating… whimsical… sizzling… scent.

His steady breathing calmed her anticipation when he crept even closer, sodden cloth in one hand. He pressed it to a large scratch on her chin, holding her head still with his other palm. Eleanor hissed and winced, but ignored the singing pain because of his touch on the left side of her forehead; his scent and his pure existence soothed everything.

After a few more seconds, he dabbed the cut and placed the cloth onto another seeping wound on the right side of her forehead.

"Ow," she said quietly, feeling the ointment melt into her ripped flesh.

"Did they follow you?"

"Hm? Whassat dear?" She seemed too out of it, too confused with all the different things happening to her... the last thing she expected was him wanting to converse with her.

"Did they follow you… the… men?"

She sighed as his bare hand accidentally stroked down the left of her face as he lightly gripped her chin so he could hold her still.

"No. I jus' 'eard the bastards laughin' as I ran away. Why?"

"I… don't want them comin' after you. 'Cause… you're not made to suffer such filthy abuse such as that… no woman is."

'Lucy. Lucy had.'

The cloth disappeared from her head, and so did the hand on her chin. She opened her eyes when she felt something soft and skin-like caress the left side of her face. At first, she'd expected his hand and nothing more… but when she was faced with the situation of him nuzzling her with his nose, she closed her eyes and froze, letting him do as he wished.

"How could they… treat you so… in such a way… ?"

She swallowed, feeling his skin vanish from hers.

In the next two seconds, the ointment returned... Infernal medicine!

She really did prefer his touch so much more…

After an hour of pain—stinging pain that was—Eleanor had had all of her wounds tended to. Sweeney insisted that he should take a look at the bruises on her stomach but she just shook her head and said she felt a lot a better, so there was no need.

He tucked a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear, meeting her eyes.

"Eleanor," he whispered, eyes studying her simply, with new found admiration. "You are not to work tomorrow, you understand? I don't want you goin' about work with bite marks an' scratches all over you—"

She frowned. "Why not?! You'll be workin'! Who else'll tend to the pies?!"

He shook his head, tracing her lips with his fingers—he wasn't sure why he was doing this, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time he'd started doing it…

"I'll stay with you down here, tonight and tomorrow. Jus' to make sure that you're not workin'."

'What has gotten into that man?! Yesterday 'e was completely oblivious to me bleedin' existence! An' now look at 'im! 'E's touchin' me all over! Wh-Why?—'

She sighed and nodded, finding her thoughts unhelpful and more tiring to think of, "Fine."

Well, she supposed, if he was with her… she would be content.

"Do you want me to carry you to bed?" he asked uncomfortably.

She furrowed her brow as she tried to sit up, wincing when her stomach felt as if it was crumbling, caving in on her. She hissed and fell back down to her lying position from before.

"No." she answered. Even if she wouldn't have moved her body herself, she would still find any movement around her painful. "I'm fine. I'll jus' sleep 'ere tonight."

He averted his eyes from her improper slouching position (it must have been the most comfortable position for her) and nodded. "I will fetch a blanket for you."

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to protest, but he'd already stood with the maple-wood box in his clutches, as he sauntered stiffly to her room. Her mouth closed and she huffed, " 'E's too damn nice now."

Sweeney dropped to his knees, sliding the box steadily under her bed. His cool fingers brushed against that foreign object again, and he frowned—curiosity was one of Benjamin's weaknesses… and was sadly one of Sweeney's too. That's about the only emotion they shared, that he was aware of.

His hands gripped onto it and he brought the object into view, letting it gracefully rest in his palms. The candlelight helped once again, illuminating the darkness around his form to reveal the flat solid shape.

A book.

A thin, notebook.

It was soft in his hands, with gorgeous leather covers (opposed to the traditional hard back wood). He raised an eyebrow and opened the front, uncovering the contents of the book….

The Diary of Eleanor Susanna Lovett

He glared at the page.

DIARY? She kept a… she could write? Well, he knew she could read… why the hell hadn't he realised she could write too?!

He, without a single moments thought, turned the first page.

She clearly must have had another diary before that one, hence it started at July of the year prior, four months before he had returned from Botany Bay.

He felt his organs tighten as he read her elegant raven handwriting. He was shocked to see how it started…

'I know he'll return. I have faith in him. He's the only reason I'm able to carry on; the only reason why I would cease to exist, if that was what he wished of me. I know he's close to me, and soon I won't have to wait for him for much longer. I can hear his deep voice in my thoughts, smell his scent all around… I like it. I miss it. Yes, you know I loved Benjamin. However, I have a feeling, that I'll love this man much more… '

"Mr T?! 'S everythin' alright?!"

He widened his eyes and slammed the book shut, forcefully pushing it away from him, back under the dark vacuum of her bed.

"Yes. Jus'… getting… your blankets."

He raised himself up from his kneeling position and tugged her bedcovers, pulling them away from her mattress. He gathered them all in a baby bundle in his arms, carrying them out of her room.

Thoughts about her diary plagued his mind. Shouldn't those sort of feelings have been written in Lucy's diary? Not… hers.

Then again, Lucy should have been the one giving him the chance of returning, of making things better. She should have been the one greeting him as soon as he'd arrived at Fleet Street, not Mrs Lovett.

Had Lucy ever believed in him?

'She was raped. She went mad. She took the poison. She died. Of course she didn't believe in me! She would have if… the judge had not had his way with her…

Nellie could end up like her too...

Nellie? Whatever happened to Eleanor? Or Mrs Lovett?'

He lowered his eyes when he reached her, draping the covers over her without a word. His usual empty, thoughtful expression was back. Nellie was a little disappointed at that… but she hadn't expected his odd emotion change to last long… she'd enjoyed it, and supposed he'd just acted like that due to her state.

"Thanks love," she said hoarsely. He nodded and straightened out the covers over her, wrapping her up tightly—she frowned at this action but just chuckled it off.

He made sure she was tucked up tightly, and placed more cushions behind her delicate head.

"Why are ya doin' this?" she asked quietly, gasping when he turned and walked back into her room. "Mr T! Where ya—"

She sighed.

She did feel comfortable. He definitely knew how to make someone feeble very happy with themselves. He was a murderer, yes. But that was beside the point - she felt like a royal queen of some… odd place that didn't even exist. And truly? She felt wanted - something she had never really felt before.

She didn't feel neglected like when she was little, when her two younger sisters and her elder brother stole away the attention.

She didn't feel unloved like when she'd first gotten married to Albert.

And she certainly didn't feel unfortunate like when the Barkers first moved in, she had been terribly troubled those first few months… she'd even considered taking her own life it was that bad.

No.

Now…

She felt wanted.

She felt loved.

She felt fortunate.

He emerged from her room, holding a staff of flickering candles in each hand.

He placed one lot next to the cabinet of her old heirlooms and antiques; he placed the other lot on the small wispy table by the settee, her feet were at that end so the light wouldn't keep her awake.

He sat next to her feet, quietly looking down at the floor under his shoes. Before her eyes started to droop, she swore she saw him look at her with something different in his eyes… something so very him - yet not. Her eyes closed and she leant back into the soft cushions behind her, aching bones falling in a feather light fashion.

She was drifting off, for once, to a world of perfect bland wonder, of unexciting blank dreams and a non-mysterious, boring man to match; or that's what it seemed when one looked at it.

But in actual fact, in reality, it wasn't tedious at all.

In reality, this boring man was mysterious—just watching her sleeping with great intent. She snored a little and the corners of his mouth lifted a little with amusement. He carefully slid over the couch, cautious to not make the covers rustle. He perched himself on the small part of couch left next to her form, and he looked down into her face, watching her abused face take on a wonderful, pure peace that no one could ever fake.

Sweeney ignored the niggling question of why he'd moved closer to her, replacing it with a valid adoration of her beautiful features. Despite being covered in bites, scratches and bruises; her crooked, abused darkness intrigued him.

Infected Angel

He turned and managed to lie next to her, finding that snaking his arm around her shoulders was the only way to keep himself on the sofa. She made a little whimpering noise and then turned to face him square in the face, eyes shut and covering her attractive orbs.

He swallowed when she seemed to snuggle in his right side, very nearly head butting him.

He, without hesitation, sunk down so they were properly face to face, bringing his free arm up to cradle her cheek in his palm. He leant in closer to her, closing his eyes. He caught her lips and left a small, innocent kiss onto her unresponsive mouth.

When she didn't kiss back, he took himself away from her, just lying there next to her, arm coiling around her neck and shoulders, to protect her.

When he'd said no secrets, he'd really meant it.

But perhaps…

This kiss.

This protection.

This could be his own secret - one she never needed to know.

And neither did the ghost of his poor, poor Lucy.

Yes, he'd promised no more secrets…

She had promised no more secrets too…

But surely...

... just one of his own wouldn't hurt?

She would never have to know.

She would never know it, but…

She was his secret.