Passing Strange
The sound of the alarm at five thirty on Monday morning is an unwelcome sound, and Eleanor groans in her sleep, reaching out one slim hand from under the covers her whole body is buried beneath to take a swipe at the offending object. She hears it hit the floor with a satisfying thud, and she burrows further into her nest of pillows and blankets with a contented sigh.
It only takes a couple seconds to register with her that it is Monday morning and she has work. Before she can even get ready for that, she has to wake up a certain former barber sleeping down the hall so he isn't late for his own job. Muttering under her breath moodily, Eleanor sits up and shoves the blankets off her body, swinging her legs to the floor. She stands to stumble her way down the hall, but ends up tripping over the alarm clock she had so carelessly knocked to the floor a minute ago.
The stream of profanities that leave her mouth as she kicks at the offending object would make a sailor gasp. When she has put it back on her nightstand, she yawns noisily and pads down the hall to the guest bedroom where Sweeney Todd is lying in bed, oblivious to the world.
"Rise and shine sleepy 'ead," she calls from his doorway in that chirpy sing-song voice he hates so much. She grins when the huddled figure under a layer of blankets emits an annoyed grunt and reaches out to swat at her, only to find nothing but air. "Get up, you great useless thing. You're goin' to be late. The subway station's murder at this hour."
She leaves him to slowly get out of bed and throw on some clothes, wandering into the kitchen in the sweats and NYU sweatshirt she had gone to bed in the night before. Putting on a pot of coffee, she thinks of Friday evening, when he had gotten the call saying the job was his. She had been so excited when Sweeney told her, but he'd only smirked unpleasantly, as if he'd known he was going to get it all along. She has learned in the past three and a half weeks that said smirk irritates her for reasons beyond her understanding.
He comes into the kitchen a few minutes later and she hands him a mug full of strong coffee and puts a plate of eggs and a bagel in front of him at the table. As usual, he murmurs a begrudging 'thank you' before she leaves the kitchen holding a bagel in her mouth to get ready for work.
They have established a pattern throughout their days. She pulls him out of bed, makes the coffee and breakfast, he pretends he isn't grateful for the roof over his head and food to eat, she leaves for work and comes home exhausted to find dinner waiting for her, unless it's a Friday, whereas she'll pick up takeout on her way home. And then the rest of the evening will pass in relative peace, where they either watch something on television together or go to their separate corners, depending on their moods. It isn't much, but it works for them, which is all Eleanor can ask for.
When she's thrown on a black skirt, a red blouse and some heels, she grabs her bag and the thermos full of coffee waiting for her on the kitchen counter. Nodding to Sweeney, she says, "See you later love", before breezing out the apartment door, down the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the crowded streets of New York.
She hates Mondays, hates having to get up and go into work. It isn't as if she needs to. She has managed to acquire quite a bit of money in her many years of living, and all of it is sitting prettily in a savings account in Jamaica. However, she finds that working like a normal person is the thing that keeps her in contact with people, keeps her sane.
It has taken a while, but she finally found the right job after 162 years of self-searching. She has already been a singer(she decided she hated fame), a librarian (she claimed she hated the quiet), a pie maker (too many bad memories), a maid (she despised picking up after complete strangers) and a writer (she hated the solitude). So finally, she has decided on the one thing she can handle - blood. She figures it must be some sort of redemption thing, saving lives to make up for all the ones she has helped take away. She shakes her head. It isn't as if she regrets helping Sweeney Todd take his revenge, but sometimes the memories are haunting. Cold, lifeless faces staring up at her wide-eyed with gaping neck wounds, waiting for her to chop them into pieces. It is enough to scar anyone.
At the hospital, she shrugs into her lab coat and works in the clinic through the afternoon, writing prescriptions for runny noses, rashes and relentless coughs. She is bitten by a three year old, and even cures a twenty year old college student of the hiccups and sends him off to the class he is no doubt trying to get out of. It's one in the afternoon when she leaves the lounge where she has been commiserating with the other doctors and nurses.
She changes into light blue scrubs, pulls her hair up and heads to room 103 to meet the fifty-six year old man she'll be operating on. It's a basic heart transplant and she's finished in about four hours. The prognosis looks excellent, and she walks to the ER in a good mood. She's finished for the day, and the emergency room is always in need of an extra pair of hands. It is always total chaos there, and a part of Nellie thrills at the rush she gets when she helps out.
She walks to that wing of the hospital just as three people in a car accident are brought in. She rushes to help as someone rolls in a little boy on a gurney. He looks to be about ten or so. There is so much blood that even Eleanor has a hard time taking it all in.
As they rush him down the hall, Nellie looks at the boy for the first time, and it takes every ounce of self control she has not to gasp. Thick brown hair (even if it is matted with blood), a pretty complexion, big brown eyes and a familiar expression of innocence. For a second, she thinks she is looking at Toby and she has to blink several times to convince herself that it isn't him. He looks up at her through half-closed lids, and she knows he is hardly aware of where he is or what has happened.
As she gives the boy her best reassuring smile, soft spoken words from long ago echo through her mind. Nothing's gonna harm you darling, not while I'm around...
The little boy has lost too much blood and he dies in the ER with no one he knows there to hold his hand. It takes two male doctors to pull her away from her attempts to revive him. She shoves them both away and turns from the bloody sight, unable to look at the boy who could have been Toby's twin. As she walks away, a bloodstained hand to her forehead and tears in her eyes, she hears a heartbreaking cry from behind her, and knows the mother has been told that her son is gone.
She can hardly believe what has happened as she sits behind the hospital, leaning against the concrete. She lost him. It doesn't seem possible. She is too stunned to do much thinking, too numb to feel anything except the cigarette between her fingers. So she stands there, smoking and looking up at the sky that seems too blue, until one of the doctors who'd been forced to pull her away from the operating table, comes to find her.
He leans against the brick wall with her, still in his scrubs. "Those things will kill you, Ellie," he says, referring to her cigarette. She doesn't tell him she's been smoking for a hundred years, just like she doesn't say how much she truly detests that nickname. Dr. Felder sighs when she doesn't say anything. "You did everything you could. Sometimes it just happens."
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, she reverts her gaze from the sky and looks at him. "Why don't you go say that to 'is parents, Nathan. 'Sorry your son is dead, but these things 'appen.'" The words bring unexpected tears to her eyes, and she thinks of Toby's smile, wondering if the nameless child had a smile just like his to match their lookalike features. His parents will never see that smile again, just like she will never see Toby's. Tossing her cigarette to the ground, she puts it out with the tip of her shoe. "I'm sorry, Nate. I just-"
He holds up a hand. "I know. Losing a patient never gets easier."
She nods her thanks and turns, walking inside the hospital to change out of her scrubs, wash off the blood, and head home.
--
When Sweeney Todd walks through the door to Eleanor's apartment, their apartment now, he finds the place dark and Nellie lying on the sofa, still in her skirt, blouse and pantyhose. She's curled up in a ball, with her back facing him. Her red curls are pulled up in a style that is oddly reminiscent of the wild 'do she used to be so fond of.
He had expected to be bombarded with questions about his first day teaching, the second he walked through the door, he didn't expect this. "Eleanor?" He asks in a voice too soft for his liking.
She nearly jumps at the sound of his voice, sitting up to face him. He is surprised by what he sees. Smeared makeup, red rimmed eyes. It looks like she's been crying her eyes out. " 'M sorry, dear," she says, her voice cracking. "I didn't know you were home." She gets to her feet and smiles, heading to the kitchen. "How was your first day?"
Sweeney follows her, brow furrowed in confusion, but not wanting to ask. He has learned that Eleanor can never keep things to herself for too long, and asking her only makes him sound concerned, instead of curious. He walks into the kitchen to see her rummaging around in the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients for a salad and roasted chicken.
"Fine," he answers her question vaguely.
She scoffs, but it's a half-hearted attempt at normality, even to his ears. "Just fine? Come on love, something interestin' must 'ave 'appened. Do you like it?"
He thinks of the student who brought a cheat sheet for the quiz the last professor had already scheduled for the day, or the one who had thrown up into his backpack, the remnants of a weekend hangover. He shakes his head. "Pretty boring, actually."
"Well that's a shame," she mumbles, slicing a tomato with such abandon that he holds his breath until she has placed the knife safely on the counter and she is no longer in danger of slicing a finger. "I was 'oping you'd get a class full of trouble makers." She turns to smile at him, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
She pokes at the chicken in the pan with a fork experimentally, and he decides he is tired of waiting for her to tell him. There are only so many fake smiles and polite conversations he can handle. "What happened, Nellie?"
Her hand freezes mid-poke, fingers gripping the fork. "Nothin'."
"Eleanor."
She sighs, dropping her head. "I-" She stops, licks her lips and starts again in a softer voice. "I lost a patient today."
It's quiet in the kitchen as he contemplates this, unused to offering any sort of comfort. He finally settles for, "I'm sorry", and she nods slightly in acknowledgment, going back to poking the chicken. Sweeney knows deep down that a mumbled apology for something he didn't even do isn't what she needs but he can't bring himself to move from where he's standing to wrap his arms around her. He can't remember the last time he hugged someone. The memory of the way Lucy liked to be held when she was upset would not go away, however, so he decides on a middle ground.
He slowly walks up behind her and places a strong hand on her slim shoulder. She stiffens beneath his touch at first, but then she reaches up and places her own much smaller hand over his and squeezes. "Thank you," she whispers.
Sweeney helps her finish making dinner, and she doesn't say much, which is unusual but understandable given the circumstances. At any other time he would have been grateful for the silence. She picks at her chicken and pushes her salad around her plate before throwing all of it out. He leaves his half-finished dinner and follows her like a lost puppy into the living room, knowing that as much as she might want to be alone, she shouldn't be.
She curls up on one end of the sofa while he turns the television on, and they sit for a few minutes watching the TV Guide channel before he gets an idea. "Do you...want to watch your Monty Python?" He remembers that it always made her laugh in the past, and he'll do anything if it means she'll stop that moping.
Eleanor looks at him quizzically through bloodshot eyes. "You hate Monty Python."
"Yes," he says, looking uncomfortable. "But you don't."
She regards him silently for a moment before nodding. She owns every season of the Flying Circus, and he almost puts in the one about the dead parrot because it's her favorite, but then he thinks on what the whole sketch is about and decides against it. He can just see her bursting into tears when John Cleese exclaims, "This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet it's maker!"
He shudders.
No, definitely not a good idea. Instead, he decides on the Cheese shop sketch, which should be relatively safe.
He settles in next to her and she gives him a grateful smile. By the time they make it to the Dirty Hungarian Phrasebook sketch, she has moved from her corner of the couch to his, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as he sits stiffly. Despite his discomfort, Sweeney is slightly relieved that she is at least feeling enough like herself to invade his personal space.
" 'E looked just like Toby," she says suddenly, and he doesn't think she has realized she's broken one of their cardinal rules - no mentioning of the year 1846. Sweeney wisely decides not to mention this, and stays silent, waiting for her to continue. "Thought e' was a ghost at first." She shifts slightly to look up at him. "I tried so bloody 'ard, and it wasn't enough...I couldn't 'elp him an' I couldn't 'elp Toby."
He frowns at this. "You helped Toby, Nellie. You gave him a place to stay."
"I abandoned Toby," she snaps back. " 'E needed more than a bloody place to sleep for a few months."
Surprised by her sudden outburst, he is silent for several moments, and only the sound of John Cleese telling the police officer he has beautiful thighs is audible. "Did you become a doctor purely out of guilt?" He asks bluntly, glancing down at her.
"Course not," she says. "The money is quite lovely."
He gives her a look and she sighs. They sit in silence for a while longer, watching the History of Silly Walks sketch, and usually by this point, Eleanor would be giggling her head off, but this time she is too lost in her own thoughts.
"I don't regret it, you know," she finally whispers. "I regret what I did, but I don't regret why I did it, if that makes any sense. I did what I did to 'elp you, to get your revenge. I would do it again in a second. But sometimes...sometimes I think it's why I'm still 'ere. I know it was wrong but I would do it again, so this is my punishment. Livin' forever with all those memories rollin' around in my 'ead."
Sweeney tears his eyes from the spot on the wall he's been staring at just in time to see her hurriedly wipe at her eyes. Crying is a sign of weakness for Eleanor Lovett and she has done enough crying to last her another lifetime today.
He can sympathize with her, almost. He doesn't regret killing the people who took him away from Lucy and Johanna, he thoroughly enjoyed watching the life drain from their unworthy carcasses. But the others, the ones he merely practiced on...
In all the time he has spent in this world, he has learned that men are not naturally good, no matter what people like to think. They are selfish creatures by nature. But sometimes people surprise him. Every now and then he comes across someone with no ulterior motive, someone with nothing but kindness in their heart. It's rare, and Sweeney doesn't generally associate with such people, but every time he meets one, it reminds him of something important. Not all men deserve to die.
With age, he thinks, comes wisdom, acceptance and understanding.
Sweeney Todd does not voice any of these thoughts, thinking it best to keep them locked inside his own head. He looks down at his companion again, and her eyes are dry, once again focused on the television screen. He sees a faint smile at something Eric Idle says. She is much stronger than she looks, his Nellie. He finds himself oddly proud of this fact.
--
Fate goes ever as she shall...
Urd looks on in morbid fascination as Skuld cuts the thread of another life. It has always rendered her breathless, the way the cutting of one thread can snuff out the life of one human. Their very existence ceases to be. All those memories and thoughts, all those dreams contained in a single being. All gone.
The beauty of it leaves her in awe.
It never gets old watching her sister cut a thread. It has always been this way, since the beginning of time. Verdandi spins the thread of life, she is life itself in a sense. Urd measures the thread of life, she is fate. She decides a man's destiny. And Skuld is necessity. She is the one to cut the thread of life when a person's time on earth is over - when they have fulfilled their purpose. For that is the way it is. Every single person on earth has a purpose, and when that purpose has been filled, their thread is snipped by a steady, capable hand.
It has always been this way, but sometimes Urd wishes she could cut a thread, just once. To have the power of extinguishing a life. Alas, this is not her job, so it is not to be. To console herself, Urd checks in on her mortals, two in particular. She finds it best to keep a very close eye on them. Things tend to go badly when they are left to their own devices.
Lovett is curled against Todd on the sofa, fast asleep, and a very uncomfortable looking Todd is trying to decide the best way to slip out from under her without waking the poor dear.
Urd smiles. Things are going beautifully. But she has doubts about how the two had gotten to their current predicament.
"Skuld?"
"Mmm?" Skuld turns to her sister, from where she stands over Verdandi's spinning thread.
"You didn't kill the boy just to bring them closer, did you?"
Skuld looks insulted, and Urd has the grace to be embarrassed for asking such a thing. "Don't be absurd. It was the boy's time to go. I just made sure Eleanor was there when it happened."
Urd nods, turning back to her mortals just in time to see Todd cover Lovett with a blanket, and then hesitate before leaving her sleeping on the sofa.
Yes, Urd looks on in satisfaction, things are going beautifully.
A/N-Firstly, thank you so much for your reviews, I love hearing what you all think. Secondly, I was totally going to have the sisters share an eyeball, but as I did some major researching, it turns out the Fates didn't do that - it was The Graeae, who also apparently shared one tooth. Go figure. Thirdly, please don't forget to click on the little purple button. And I would also like to take this opportunity to say that I don't own Monty Python and the quote in italics about fate is from the poem Beowulf. Happy chapter next, I promise!