Chapter 8
Thanks to everybody for voting on my poll and, and for all the encouragement :) I was absolutely blown away by the amount of support I have and for all the kind words, and I just want you guys to know that I love you so, so much XD I can't thank you enough! XD XD XD
MK: Yeah, he's like a jerk sometimes. But he's Sweeney Todd. He's allowed :P Yepperoo, he definitely seems to be warming, doesn't he? :D
Bloody Pumpkinhead: Thank you! :D You're just anxiously awaiting that Sweenett, aren't you? :P I am too, actually... XD
Several days later, Sweeney's headache had abated a great deal, but was still a great throbbing nuisance, and he now had an irksome cough and sore throat as well. Additionally, he was even more short-tempered then usual. He was still fuming over his moments of weakness, and how his landlady had completely misjudged the situation after she'd awoken him from his dream.
The bell tinkled as the door of the barbershop opened, permitting a gust of frigid wind to swirl inside and fill the room. The sound of it also caused a twinge of pain to shoot through Sweeney's temples. He was almost tempted to rip the thing down, once and for all, and be finally rid of its eternally irritating cheerful sound.
Sweeney was staring out the window fixedly, gazing at something in the street as Mrs. Lovett entered the room. He coughed, his dry throat aching nearly as much as his head. He knew that his voice sounded horrible, so he refrained from speaking.
"Goodness, its cold in 'ere, ain't it?" she said, shivering and smiling a little. "You sure ya don't want to come downstairs for a bit, eat by the fire? It'll be warmer …"
No response.
"Well, where d'you want this, then?" she asked him cheerfully, holding up the tray of food she had brought him. Sweeney merely glanced at her irritably, before turning back to stare out the window once again. He coughed again softly.
"Oh love, you're still angry with me? Ya were making the most awful noises, Mr. T. Scared the life outta me, ya did! Ya were tossin' and turnin', and shakin' like mad! Ya didn't even look like you were woken up completely when ya'd sat up… Wot was I supposed to 'ave done?"
You could have left me alone, Sweeney thought bitterly, without turning to face her. I was perfectly fine. He knew he still owed her a behemoth of thankfulness for finding him in the street when she did, but adhered steadfastly to his prior opinion. He remained obstinately facing the window.
Sweeney didn't hear the clinking of the tray as she set it down, or the door bang shut as she departed. He was, in fact, more interested in what he was looking at in the street then he had appeared to be. It was a dismal day, like most, only there was no rain falling through the clouds of smog and the fumes above the city. The street was gray and gloomy and colorless, except for the lovesick pair cuddling intimately in the doorway of the building across the road.
Ever since he had heard of their plans to meet at Fleet Street, he had watched for them. The one Johanna had been meeting, much to Sweeney's surprise, had been Anthony, the sailor boy who had been on the ship that had picked him up off the coast of Australia.
Johanna and Anthony had not only met on the day that they had spoken about, but every day since then. And Sweeney had kept an eye on them, concealed like a dark wraith of a guardian angel in the shadows above them in his barbershop. It was this way that he watched over and protected his little girl, so he could be there should anything happen to her, God forbid. Sweeney had sworn to himself, that if he ever caught word that the sailor had hurt her, the boy would find himself in a very dire situation indeed.
Sweeney was almost on the brink of nauseousness, coughing as he appraised the behavior of the besotted pair. How could anyboy in his right mind enjoy snuggling so much?
It was at that moment that Mrs. Lovett decided to barge in, breathless and wide-eyed.
"What?" Sweeney snapped before she could speak. His voice was hoarse and weak, and upon hearing it his annoyance immediately flared.
"I think you might want ta come downstairs, Mr. T," she began tentatively, sensing his anger.
"And why is that?"
"The Judge is 'ere. 'E arrived a few minutes ago," Mrs. Lovett said frankly.
Sweeney felt his blood run cold. "He is? Is… he alone?"
"Yes," Mrs. Lovett said. "He is. Listen, Mr. T, I 'ad an idea, about 'ow to deal with 'im —"
"You really think I would allow anyone else but me to get rid of him?" Sweeney interrupted. He was seething already. The Judge was his, all his. He wanted to see the man's blood spilling onto the floor, watching his life ebb away as he begged for mercy, begged for the end… How dare she even suggest a different way?
"Well, no, but…" Mrs. Lovett was taken aback. Just a few nights ago he'd wanted to hear her ideas, and now he was as withdrawn as he had ever been. It annoyed her to great lengths how he could be like that. But there was something else nagging at her mind, something that was bothering her about him, something that he didn't seem to have quite grasped…
"Mr. T?" she asked tentatively. Sweeney said nothing, but the expression on his face was one Mrs. Lovett knew very well to mean he really was listening to her, though he didn't appear to be. She took a deep breath, wondering how he would react to her suggestion.
"Did you ever stop an' think, that it might not be only the Judge you 'ate so much?"
Sweeney whirled around to reprimand her, but it was then that it hit him. He stopped dead, newfound realization sweeping through him. The Judge wasn't the one he hated the most. It was her. Lucy. The woman who had abandoned him and stolen his daughter away. The woman who had fallen in love with someone else and started a new family, because she'd been too impatient and heartless to wait for his return. The woman who had stopped loving him, when she had been all that he'd lived for when he might have let himself slip away.
The one who had broken his already broken heart.
He turned to Mrs. Lovett then, a new understanding of himself surging through his veins. She was right. Of course she was. She was always right. The woman really was a bloody wonder. Every now and then Sweeney got the idea that she knew him better then he did, which was a frightening thing in and of itself.
Mrs. Lovett shrank back slightly as he advanced, unsure of his response. Her heart fluttered as he placed his hand on her shoulder, and she could feel the slight warmth of his skin against her own.
"Mrs. Lovett—" he began, but broke off in a coughing fit, his hand falling away and reaching up to cover his mouth. Mrs. Lovett winced inwardly; he sounded awful. She was disappointed at the loss of contact nonetheless; a cold spot had formed on her shoulder where his hand had slid away, but she could still feel the outline of the ghosts of his fingers against her skin.
Sweeney composed himself quickly, though the remnants of his cough were still discernable in his voice.
"Mrs. Lovett, I'm quite curious as to what you have in mind in view of the fate of our dear friend downstairs."
Mrs. Lovett smiled. She'd known that she could change his mind.
