A/N: I often like to lament about how the ST fandom has had a sad population decrease over the past two years. It's clear, however, that I really shouldn't lament as much as I do, considering that this fic has gotten 15 reviews and nearly 500 hits - and we're only two chapters in! It continues to shock me how many of you are still lurking around. Shock in the best possible way, of course. =)
As per usual, I hope you enjoy the chapter (and that it answers, or at least begins to answer, what just about every single one of you has asked about, bahaha).
And, also as per usual, I adore reviews of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
"He's here every Thursday. Eyetalian. All the rage, he is . . ."
They walk through the market. Everything around them is a whirl of color and action and noise: merchants selling their wares and customers haggling over prices, feet clobbering against stones and hems rustling over thresholds, money changing hands and entrance bells tinkling . . .
And Sweeney Todd is oblivious to it all.
Sweeney Todd is oblivious to every color and action and noise around him save for the tints of ivory skin and black fabric, for the heat of her arm knotted around his, for the cocoon of her voice.
He closes his eyes. He could drown in this moment and he would not be able to give a damn if he did.
"Mr. Todd, you fool, what the hell d'you think you're doing? How d'you ever expect to walk 'round the streets of London with your eyes shut? Maybe that worked for you down in bloody Australia – though I can't imagine how it would've – but there's far too many people and carriages and whatnot here for that strategy to succeed long, love . . ."
Sweeney opens his eyes and throws his gaze sideways to her. She's staring ahead as they walk, eyes tight and set upon their destination ahead, lips chopping together faster than his eyes can blink as she continues chiding him.
He finds the corners of his own mouth twitching as though in the beginnings of a mental fit. Panic swells within him. He's made it this long without turning insane; surely he can make it just a bit longer.
Then he realizes his mouth is trying to remember how to smile.
"Here we go," says Nellie, tugging at his arm. "He'll be here any minute now. Always says he starts at eleven, but always appears on the nose of seven past." She sneers. "Apparently, being precisely on time isn't fashionable in 'his' country."
Sweeney doesn't offer any word of acknowledgement to this; they've already silently established that he's quite disinclined to use his vocal chords, or provide a response of any kind, more than is absolutely necessary, and he doesn't want to alarm her.
His eyes roam the streets and his lip curls in disdain. Had London been this filth-ridden fifteen years ago? How had he ever thought it a place of beauty? Were it not for the woman beside him, he would already have left. As a matter of fact, he would never have returned. He would have gone far away upon his escape – stopping in London first, of course, for she is the reason he escaped – but after that, he would have promptly sailed away again.
His vision clouds over: and just what is stopping him from doing exactly that? Once he has extracted her revenge and revived her with life, why could that not be his (our?) future? Not just an escape from the prison of Australia, but an escape from the prison of London . . . for, however physically unstopped they might be here, the guises of civilization are just as ensnaring as the primitive society of prison . . .
If they were free from it all . . . if they were free, and once he had liberated all the weights from her shoulders, she would not be forced to carry the burden of Lucy's plight. She would live with him in a little cottage surrounded by nothing and no one but the ocean – not because he loved the ocean, but because he remembered from fifteen years ago that she loved it. She would not be forced to work herself to her wit's end for no ultimate pay off.
She would smile at him and mean it.
His heart pounds loud and heavy and he wonders if she can hear it. Throwing her a sideways glance reveals nothing: the lines of her eyebrows and mouth are apathetic, her eyes fixed upon some point in the distance. He follows her gaze and instantly forgets all of his fantasies:
Beadle Bamford strolls through the market.
His jaw finds a determined set; his hand finds the familiar cool metal; his feet find the pavement, one step, two steps, three –
Fingers seize his forearm and halt his movement.
"Hang on," she murmurs. Her tone is as calm as ever. Only the oscillating pulse of her fingertips as they press into his flesh reveal her true temperament.
Blindly, he steps backwards, one step, two steps, three, until he stands by her side again.
Nellie frowns to herself. The man is irreversibly, pathetically rash. How such a foolish thing managed to survive in a prison colony for fifteen years is beyond her imagination. Even further beyond her imagination is how such a foolish thing managed to escape from said prison colony. Such an endeavor would require planning and care, and he's certainly never exhibited these traits around her.
The clock strikes seven minutes past and, sure enough, a young boy appears from behind the platform's velvet curtains. The boy begins to beat a drum and shout gleefully to the assembled audience.
Nellie's lip curls, but not from derision. She doesn't usually stay to watch Pirelli's lavish performances, but on the few occasions that she passes by, she's never seen this boy. His clothes are patchworked and worn; his shoes are too big, his feet sliding around in the shoes' large parameters with every step; his body is petite, fragile, emaciated fingers peeping out from beneath sagging sleeves.
Her heart pangs. Another innocent soul desecrated beyond repurification by the shit of the world. Another Lucy Barker.
Her heart pangs again and her eyes sharpen with focus, with purpose:
Perhaps this one she can save.
As the lad offers around bottles of some godawful-smelling substance that he proclaims is an elixir, she crafts her expression into one of disgust and asks Sweeney in a voice that carries across the vicinity, "Pardon me, sir, what's that awful stench?"
And just as they rehearsed, he replies, mock puzzled, "Are we standing near an open trench?"
"Are we standing near an open trench?" she echoes at the same moment he turns to the portly woman standing next to him and inquires, "Pardon me, ma'am, what's that awful stench?"
The eyes of the crowd turn towards her and Sweeney, a confused assembly of raised eyebrows, pursed mouths, and wrinkled noses. She twists her lips at them in an expression of repulsion, her soul singing. If this works – if they can establish a good reputation for Sweeney and draw in the customers – then surely, surely Turpin will return to her establishment, despite the fact that he's avoided Fleet Street like the plague for going on a dozen years now. The beadle is here, after all, so Turpin will surely hear of this – Turpin will surely know, surely come, surely, finally plunge into the bone-dry pool of her mercy –
"What is this?" Sweeney questions of her.
Blinking, she spins her eyes to him. He's gotten hold of one of the bottles and is sniffing it with utmost care as he pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, much like one might handle a dead rat.
"What is this?" she parrots him, sounding ridiculous even in her own ears: they hadn't rehearsed this and she's nervous. Why is he continuing the charade with unpracticed words? What if he does something spectacularly wrong? The man's unstable, that much is plain. He can't be trusted to regulate his emotions, to manipulate his words, to masquerade himself as she does. What if he makes a mistake? What if Pirelli beats him in whatever battle of wills and skills is to come? What if Beadle Bamford scoffs at him and decides to tell Turpin what a horrible barber dwells on Fleet Street? What if –
"Smells like piss," he says, raising his eyebrows and flaring his nostrils as he offers the bottle out for her inspection.
Her heart leaps around within her, bouncing from rib to rib, making her insides rattle and clack loud enough to wake the dead – or at least alarm the alive.
But Nellie Lovett is nothing if not a born actress.
Ignoring the bounds of her heart, trying to carefully jostle it back into place against the left side of her chest, she leans towards the proffered bottle.
"Smells like – " she takes an exaggerated whiff " – pfffew!" She twists her neck towards the bearded man standing next to her, who watches her with baffled eyes. "Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear!"
"This is piss," Sweeney declares, brandishing the bottle out before him, "piss with ink."
She watches with satisfaction as the crowd begins to grow clamorous, angry. The boy talks faster, rivaling even the speed of her mouth on a good day, frantic to deny their accusations. Poor thing. She will make his life better. She doesn't know how just yet, but she trusts her sound intuition and capable mind to weave together some sort of plan soon enough; neither has ever failed her before.
"Let Pirelli's activate your roots, sir," the lad shouts out, his fingers shaking so badly she has no doubt he'd be tearing out his hair right now if he wasn't clutching those bottles.
"Keep it off your boots, sir," Sweeney returns without hesitation, "eats right through."
"Yes," cries the boy, "get Pirelli's, use a bottle of it – ladies seem to love it – "
"Flies do too," says Nellie, elbowing Sweeney in the ribs, and they both break into laughter. She bends over, hands clasped over her stomach, powerless against the chortles racking through her body.
They both manage to recover themselves as some baboon of a man dressed in an ostentatious purple suit bursts onto the stage, demanding to know who dares insult his work.
"I do," says Sweeney.
The tide of faces turns towards him. He keeps his gaze locked upon the baboon – he can't remember the man's name; as per usual, he was too much enjoying Nellie's voice to listen to all of her actual words this morning – as he proposes a shaving contest. Cornered, the purple baboon agrees. Sweeney peels off his leather overcoat, presses it into Nellie's arms, and mounts the platform.
The baboon – Pirelli, he knows now, as it's written all over the stage, though Sweeney still feels his own name for the fool is far more fitting – begins in haste the moment Beadle Bamford blows the whistle. Sweeney, however, only lifts his razor gently to his face. Once his promises and sweet nothings have been silently spoken to his silver friend, he takes up his strop and begins running his friend along its surface, straightening the blade to perfection.
He feels Nellie's eyes roasting against his skin as he leisurely goes about this task. He knows she is worried that he will fail in this shaving contest after having not shaved anyone in fifteen years, and to loiter about as he is doing is to commit suicide.
He is not worried. His mind may not remember how to swiftly and carefully shave a man, but his hand does. His mind may not have been able to recall the feel of his metal friend during all those years in Botany Bay, but his hand did. Like a lover, his skin still knows his friend's touch, her steps and her gestures and her caresses, the patterns they create as they move together, glide together, breathe together across the expanse of lather and flesh –
Wheeeeeeeeeeeewwww!
The whistle's trill and Beadle Bamford's subsequent holler shatter the intimate ecstasy of the moment:
"The winner is Todd!"
Blinking, Sweeney's eyes go first to his friend, who flashes him a smile; to the man in his chair, who pats his smooth cheeks with awe as he thanks Sweeney; to Pirelli, whose face is so crimson with throbbing blood it is possible his skin might rupture; to Nellie, whose smirk of alloyed astonishment and pleasure tosses his heart into his throat.
He did it. He never doubted that he would, or that he could – and he did.
And she is pleased.
Pirelli is saying something to him, congratulating him on a well-played contest, but what does Sweeney care? The man could be calling him names fouler than those thrown about in the colony and Sweeney would not be able to give a damn.
He holds out his hand and quietly demands for his earnings, his eyes never leaving Nellie. When he feels the money slide between his fingers, he dismounts the stage.
"Well done, dear, you pulled it off," says Nellie as she helps him back into his leather jacket. He feels like an invalid, having her dress him like this, but the heat of her fingers trailing along his skin sew his lips shut. Besides, his heart remains wedged up his throat, pounding against his Adam's apple, making talking as impossible as flying.
After getting both his arms through the sleeves, Nellie loops her arm through his (his heart throbs and his Adam's apple gyrates against it) and begins to walk him along the street, blathering about something he tries earnestly to pay attention to and can't.
Then Beadle Bamford is standing mere feet away from him and his feet are no longer treading against the ground and his heart has leapt from his throat to his mouth and is hammering against his threaded lips, demanding for release –
Yet when he opens his mouth, rather than his heart hurling itself to the ground, carefully oiled compliments come tumbling out. The beadle takes the praise in stride.
Within less than a minute, they've parted – with Beadle Bamford scheduled to come into his shop before the week is out.
Before the week is out.
The words chime in his head louder than Big Ben and lovelier than an angel chorus. Before the week is out, Beadle Bamford will be nothing more than a heap of clothes and sinews and rubies in his chair.
Before the week is out, he will be one step closer to making her happy.
Frowning, Nellie eyes the sedentary barber, his face slack of all emotion, gaze riveted to nothing. So rash, she thinks again. Not a bit of rationality to his actions, at least not when his emotions get in the way, and his emotions do get in the way – far too often for her liking. If he keeps confronting the beadle directly like this, soon the beadle too will be just as suspicious of Sweeney as he is of her, and then he'll tell the judge, and then . . .
Come what may, she tells herself firmly. Vengeance will happen, one way or another. Sweeney has time to learn, and you have time to teach. After fifteen years of waiting, a few more weeks isn't going to kill you.
Determinedly, she turns her attention to Sweeney, who remains motionless, estranged from reality.
"C'mon, love," she sighs. Patting him on the chest, unable to feel her former prickle of delight when he quivers beneath the control of her touch, she steers him back towards Fleet Street.
xxx
"Why doesn't the beadle come?"
"Hush, darling," Nellie soothes him, torn between admiration and amusement at his lust for her, revealing neither in her tone. "Don't fret. He'll come soon enough."
A grunt is her only reply.
She sprawls in his barber chair, fiddling with the frayed hems of her sleeves. He paces the length of the room, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and she finds her jaw clenching: her own feet beating against the ground provide comfort, a soothing rhythm to the unsynced chords of her rocketing thoughts, but the repetitious footfalls of others chafe against her eardrums.
"Before the week is out – that's what he said," spits out Sweeney.
Nellie's fairly certain that's the longest sentence he's said all week. He must be in quite a state of agitation.
"Who said the week's out yet, hmm?" she asks, lolling her head against the back of the chair to watch him pace. "'S'only Tuesday."
He snarls like a wildebeest and hurls his razor into the corner of the room with a slash of his arm.
His muscles paralyze the instant the deed is done, feet parted mid-stride, arm angled in a triangle towards the far wall. He did not mean to do that. He did not mean to lose control. No – he already lost control – he has no control over when the beadle comes, or when the judge dies, or when she is happy – but he's been clinging to the remains, dressing himself in the tatters and pretending he's regally clothed rather than nearly naked . . .
Her eyes are wide and locked on his. Caught off-guard by his moment of violence, her incognito of indifference is thrown aside.
She finds it again within the next heartbeat, eyelids lowering to half-mast, face relaxing into its usual knowing nonchalance. "Easy now, love. What's your rush to get to that man anyway, hmm? He'll come sure enough, and does it really matter if it's in one day or five dozen?" Seeing him wince at the very thought, she plows on: "The lead up to the thing is half the fun, love. The planning, the plotting, the building anticipation for a greater satisifaction once it's all over and done with . . . y'see, Mr. Todd, all good things come to those who can wait – "
The incongruous notes of the shop door whacking open against the wall and the shop bell ding-dinging beside it fill the air, cutting off Nellie's chatter. A young man barrels into the room, babbling in a language that might as well be Japanese for all that Sweeney can understand it in his consternation.
It takes Sweeney ten seconds to recognize the male as Anthony. It takes him another ten seconds – by which time Anthony has finished his gibberish and is staring at him with a slavishly hopeful expression – to process the word Johanna and realize that Anthony has something in mind regarding stealing her away from the judge and bringing her to his shop. Here. Home.
Shame floods over him. How could he have forgotten his beautiful daughter? How could he not have thought of her once since returning to London? She had plagued him just as Nellie had all throughout his days as a convict, the one illness he had not minded bearing – but since setting eyes upon the pie maker, he'd neglected to think on her at all.
No matter. He thinks of her now. Thinks of her – and will be with her soon.
Truth be known, he loves Johanna more than he ever loved Lucy. Even though he shared her with Lucy, and even though it is naturally a different love, from the moment the midwife handed him the little pink body, he loved Johanna more than he would and could ever love Lucy.
Truth be known, he always wished he shared her with Nellie instead.
And now you can . . .
And they will be a real family, the barber and the baker and the little lamb, just the three of them . . .
His heart throbs in his head, so fast it makes him dizzy and swirls colors around his retinas. Could it really be this easy? Could it truly be that, in a mere week, everything he's yearned after for fifteen years will happen?
Anthony and Nellie stare at Sweeney, the former looking earnestly perplexed, the latter with a frown.
For God's sake, Nellie wonders, what's taking the man so bloody long to answer? This is what he wants, isn't it? Must she do everything for him? The only thing currently separating her from a governess of a spoiledly incompetant child is the fact that she's not getting paid.
Your pay will come, Lovett. Follow your own advice and wait.
"Bring the girl here, love," she tells Anthony, mustering all of her willpower not to roll her eyes at Sweeney.
Anthony's face lights up. "Thank you, mum." He turns to Sweeney, whose expression is still slack. "Mr. Todd? Do I have your consent as well?"
Sweeney blinks and rolls his lower jaw into place. "The girl may come," he grouses.
Anthony's grin threatens to break his face. In a flurry of harried 'thank you's and wringing of hands, he races out the door.
"Well, how's that, then, eh?" says Nellie, mustering a grin. "You'll have her back before the week's out."
Sweeney turns his blearied, uncomprehending gaze to her. The sight of her acts as an anecdote: he swims back to himself, focusing on reality – and as the words of her voice sort themselves out, it seems for a moment he might smile.
Then his gaze flashes dark. He turns away, towards the window, with a grunt.
This time, Nellie doesn't have enough willpower left to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.
She stands up and strolls towards him, sliding a soothing hand over his tricep. "Poor little Johanna," she muses aloud, partly so he can hear, partly to reassure herself. "All those years without a scrap of motherly affection. Well . . . I'll soon see to that."
Because that girl should have been left in her care – and it's high time she was allowed to at least save the daughter, as she could not the mother . . .
She throws Sweeney a glance from beneath her eyelashes. If he heard her words, he certainly isn't acknowling them in any way. With a sigh, she pats him twice on the arm, then departs. She stops by periodically in his shop throughout the day, trying to coax him out of his agitation, but he remains in the same disposition no matter the hour.
So when they settle down that evening in the parlor for a drink, the first thing out of his mouth is, unsurprisingly: "Why doesn't the beadle come? Before the week is out – that's what he said."
"Didn't we just have this conversation this morning, love?" Nellie inquires with a tiny smile.
The barber and baker sharing a bottle of gin after hours is not new. It's occurred every night since his return to London, in fact. He relishes this rote because he relishes any moment with her; she relishes this rote because she relishes any opportunity to further drag him under her control.
She approaches him, a tumbler in each hand, and nudges his shoulder. He turns from the wall to face her, brow furrowed and mouth downcasted, and takes the glass.
Settling into the couch and taking a swallow of her alcohol, she peers up at him. "I thought we agreed that you needed to wait it out, dear. Those who can wait are the only ones who get the good things to come, don't you remember?"
With a jerk of his head, Sweeney begins to pace the length of the parlor.
"Careful there, love," she chides, "you'll spill your gin all over my carpet."
He stops pacing, but the scowl remains imprinted on his face and the tension remains stiffened in his body. Nellie sighs as she realizes her own gin will have to wait. Rising to her feet, she crosses to him, sliding her hands onto his shoulders and massaging his muscles.
"Jesus, love, what're you hiding under your shirt?" she teases, clawing her fingers into his flesh in a feeble attempt to make him yield under her touch. "A dozen rocks? Steel? Might as well be, for all the tension you carry 'round with you all the time. You need to relax, Mr. Todd."
As if he can relax with her hands on his body. Sweeney swallows hard, relieved that she is behind him and thus cannot see the rapid pulsation in his throat as her fingers caper across his skin, or the way his eyes close against his will.
Her easy familiarity with him astounds him. Yes, they were friends once, and yes, simple touches on the arm or hand were natural between them then. But that was fifteen years ago, and they were different people . . . and neither of them would have dared link arms or caress shoulders in those days. And yet here she is – always – grasping his arm or kneading his shoulders or fingering his jacket buttons as naturally as she breathes.
Why can he not breathe just as easily as she?
"Really, love, you need to calm down," she tells him with mock sterness. "I'm not going to eat you alive, y'know."
Placing his glass of gin on a little table housing a candle, she guides him to the settee. She sits him down and positions herself behind before resuming his massage. Her fingers play, firm but tender, across his skin, delving into every hardened sinew, working each one soft and supple.
Even though her hands dancing along his physique are anything but calming, he finds himself relaxing, body slackening, headache abaiting; Beadle Bamford becomes a niggling thought in the back of his mind rather than a pounding absent presence.
"He'll come eventually," she hums. "You've just got to hold on and wait it out. What's your rush? It's been fifteen years already – a week or two more won't hurt you. All good things come to those who can wait, y'know."
He focuses more intently on her words than he has all week, absorbing her meaning rather than just her cadence. She's right, of course. She's always right.
She finishes his massage and relaxes back into the sofa. He picks up his tumbler and takes a long sip, relishing the burn in his throat as he does the burn in the sinews of his shoulders and back.
"And you're still not relaxed," she laughs, downing half of her gin in a single swallow. "Honestly, Mr. T, this ain't the army. You don't have to sit so straight and proper."
He looks at her: she's sunk deeply into the sofa, sprawled across every inch of available space save for the tiny corner he occupies at the other end. Her back reclines against the armrest; one leg dangles off the side of the couch as the other extends across the cushions, toes nearly brushing his thigh.
With effort, he leans back into the settee, loosening his joints and trying to imitate her slack limbs, dropping an elbow onto the opposite armrest.
"Well, it's a start," Nellie chuckles with a grin. Gulping the remaining half of her gin, she rises to get herself a refill.
"Anyway," she says, pouring herself a generous measure of alcohol before returning to the settee to loll as before, "I've been thinking, love, and your barber shop is quite drab. If we're wanting customers to start showing up – don't look at me like that, I know you've already had a few, I mean if we want lots of 'em – we've got to make more of an effort to tidy up the place. Sweeping and dusting the lot weren't enough. What would you say to getting a few little trinkets to sprinkle 'round the room? We could head out to the market tomorrow for a bit of haggling. Or maybe some flowers. They'd really brighten up the room. Daisies, perhaps."
"Your favorite flowers are daisies," he says suddenly, interupts suddenly, remembers suddenly.
Nellie's chattering lips numb.
"So are Lucy's," she whispers.
When she realizes that Sweeney is staring at her in a manner far too aware for a man so blind, she forces herself to smile.
"All the more reason to buy 'em, then, eh?" she asks brightly. "For her memory? Besides, they're so pretty, and – well, I don't mean to offend you, love, but your barber shop looks pretty terrible at the moment. Some daisies wouldn't mask all the gloom up there, but they could do a passable job of distracting customers, at least – "
She breaks off when he continues to watch her in a foreignly alert way. Discomfited by the fact that her voice – which she has learned quickly is an incredibly efficient weapon in lulling him to calm docility – makes no effect upon him tonight, she bolts the entire contents of her tumbler in two successive swallows as an excuse to stand up and get another refill.
"Mrs. Lovett?"
Her fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. The strength in his contemplation of her is bad enough – and now he's talking, asking even, of his own volition.
See? This is what you get when you let your mask slide for even a second. For God's sake, Lovett, you know better.
"Yes, love?" she replies casually.
He does not answer until – sensing his desire and reluctantly knowing she must obey it – she turns to face him. His eyes are steady and sharp on hers, observing, knowing, black burning furnaces of pain and love.
"Why do you care?" Sweeney questions.
Nellie coughs out a laugh, her tumbler tinkling against the bottle as she dumps gin inside the glass. "Why do I care if your shop looks nice? So you can get business, silly man. What, you think I'm going to let you mooch off me forever? Now, that's just not fair, Mr. Todd. I've got myself to look after, and that's money that I've earned through hard sweat and labor. Besides" – she hacks up another giggle – "don't you think it'd hurt your pride a wee bit to be supported entirely by a woman? Now, of course I'm not a man, but I think I'd find it quite – mmm, what's the word – demoralizing, I s'pose? – were I a man what needed to be backed financially by a woman – "
"That's not what I meant," says Sweeney.
She flounces back to the settee and sprawls across its length as she did before, but now her languidity seems forced, the loafing angles of the spine and limbs too determinedly curled, too perfectedly relaxed. Her head lolls against the armrest, face turned to the cold, unoccupied fireplace.
"Well," she says, "you'll have to be more explicit 'bout what you do mean, love. It's been a long day and I'm not up for scouring around for hidden meanings or some such – "
"Why do you care about avenging Lucy?" asks Sweeney.
Cold traces across her cheeks and down her neck, like frozen fingers caressing her face and leaving icy rivulets in their wake; simultaneously her stomach burns so hot it feels as if she's swallowed the sun and it's attempting to burst free from her body and rejoin the sky where it belongs. The tumbler is slippery between her hands and her spine is follisized in its unnaturally langorious pose and her corset is too tight and her dammit Lovett don't do this don't fall apart don't let him see you think act mask –
"Nellie?" mumurs Sweeney.
"'Cause – 'cause it were wrong," says Nellie, without knowing where the words come from, without knowing that she's spoken them. Her eyes move to his. "It were wrong, what happened to her, and Turpin should pay."
"Yes, but – "
Sweeney struggles for words and comes up empty. He looks to her, imploring, but she will not help him speak this time. He raps his fingers against his tumbler, tugs at the sleeves of his shirt, resists jumping to his feet to pace only by tightening the muscles of his legs.
"Yes, it was wrong," he says at last, "but wrong things happen every day . . . people are destroyed every day . . . why do you care so much more about Lucy's plight than anyone else's?"
"Hers is what awakened me to it," she whispers. "To all the wrongs and hurts, I mean."
Her gaze clouds over as she succumbs under the weight of buried memories and aches blossoming over her as fresh as spring. Drowning in the recollections, she forgets that she speaks aloud, and she forgets that he listens.
"I'd never thought the world was perfect – but I did think it was beautiful. A place of happiness and light and even an occasional miracle. I knew pain existed – I'd seen it, and I'd felt it – but the spasms of pain could never rain out the beauty . . . because God took joy in our joy, not our pain, so there'd always be more joy than pain . . ."
She turns her face to the unlit fireplace, pupils wavering to trail the nonexistant dance of the flames.
"But for Lucy to be broken," she mumurs, "for someone so pure to be tattered beyond repair . . . it wasn't right. Right doesn't begin to cover it, but no one's yet invented a better word. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. That's why I care more about her plight than anyone else's: most others were already half-falling, or bearing a few cracks, and Lucy . . . Lucy wasn't neither. Lucy was standing and stable and whole."
Her hands shake. She tightens them around her tumbler to stop the tremor; neither she nor Sweeney think to worry that it might shatter from her tight embrace.
"That something so pure could be soiled without even much a backwards glance from the bastard what did it – it got to me. It made me see what I'd never been able to before: that God is a fabrication – and if he's not, then he and Satan are the same man . . . that there's a hole in the world like a great black pit . . . a hole filled with people what're filled with shit . . ."
Blinking, surfacing back to reality, she loosens her grip on her glass and twists her neck around to peer at Sweeney. He watches her quietly from the opposite end of the settee.
"Well," says Nellie, heaving a grin onto her face, "there you have it. Now you know why I care so much 'bout Lucy's plight and getting Turpin's head on the cutting block."
Her stomach churns. She cannot believe she just told him all that. She knows telling him the truth (in this particular case, at least) won't bring any harm; if anything, it shall make him trust her more and thus further her purpose. Yet a part of her wishes she had not shared a word of it. It is for no grand scheme or necessary façade that she wishes this: Nellie Lovett has merely become uncomfortable offering anything real to another human being.
"Though really, love," she rambles on, "it should've just been enough that I want to help you, rather than you pushing me to tell all my big secrets like a little gossiping schoolgirl. I mean, really – would you rather that I'd just have been sitting idly all these past fifteen years and not trying to kill Turpin? You'd rather I didn't give you a place to stay and food to eat while you wait to get his throat bare?"
"No," says Sweeney without faltering, but they both know it won't be for Lucy that he lures Turpin to his barber chair. "No, of course not. Thank you."
Nellie's grin widens. "Seven words all at once – and add that to all the other sentences you strung together earlier this evening – this's quite an achievement, love. I'm impressed."
He looks at her but does not reply; he would read all of Johnson's dictionary aloud if he thought for a second it would bring a genuine smile to her lips.
"Well, I'd best not push my luck by asking for more words out of you," says Nellie. "I think I'll turn in for the evening." Stretching her arms wide, she rises to her feet and takes his empty gin glass, stacking it within hers to carry into the kitchen.
"'Night, love, sleep well," she says with an affectionate good-bye squeeze on the shoulder, even though neither of them ever sleeps well and even though the lilt of her voice as she pronounces love is just as meaningful as the toothsome syllables a whore whispers to her customers.
Nonetheless, he closes his eyes. Nonetheless, he whispers back even though she's already left the room – his voice not falsely sugared as hers was, but genuine and true, pure in its roughness:
"Good-night, Nellie," he whispers. "Sleep well."