Passing Strange
The room is dark, pitch black now that night has fallen. He is fast asleep under the covers, dead to the world until his bedroom door opens and light spills into the room, illuminating everything. He stirs, blinking sleepily as a dark figure slowly makes its way to the edge of the bed. Squinting, he sits up to get a better look, and the blanket slides from his bare chest to pool at his waist. The figure crawls from the foot of the bed to sit on its knees in front of him. "Eleanor?" He asks gruffly, able to see her now. She is in her nightgown, a slinky black thing, her red hair falling around her face as she stares at him. "What are you doing in here?"
She doesn't speak, only reaches out one delicate hand and trails it down his cheek, biting down on her bottom lip. "Eleanor, it's three in the morning." He shakes his head as she inches a bit closer and drags her finger down his chest. Grabbing her wrist as she gets dangerously low, he says icily, "Go to bed."
Eleanor smiles lightly and pulls her hand from his grip to run it through his dark hair. "Not tired, love," she finally whispers, nipping at the skin of his neck with her teeth.
He swallows with difficulty, finding it hard to keep his wits about him. "I don't know what you're trying to - " Sweeney is cut off when Eleanor moves her head up and presses her lips to his, bringing her hands to the back of his neck to hold him in place. He opens his mouth to protest vehemently to this outrageous behavior and she uses the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth, moaning softly. Any form of protest Sweeney has disappears at this little sound, and he brings his hands, which had been frozen at his sides until now, up to rest around her rib cage. She tastes warm and cool at the same time, like cherries on a hot summer day, and he finds that he can't get enough of it.
Smiling into his mouth, Eleanor bites gently at his bottom lip. Sweeney groans slightly and slides his hands down her curves to rest below the hemline of her nightgown, at her knees. She pulls back briefly, lips red and swollen as she whispers in a husky voice that goes straight through him, "Should I go to bed now, Mr. T?"
Unable to form words, he only growls in response and covers her mouth with his own again. She lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a whimper as Sweeney's hands creep back up her thighs, taking her nightgown with them. He pulls her flush against him, their hips colliding. "Sweeney," she moans.
"Sweeney?"
Jolting awake, Sweeney Todd sits up in bed breathing heavily, to see an annoyed Eleanor standing over him, brow furrowed and hands on her hips. His alarm clock is going off, buzzing loudly in his ear, and he wonders how long he had slept through it before Eleanor came to rouse him.
"Get up, you lazy brute," she huffs, starting to pull the covers back, much to his dismay. "You're goin' to be late for work. Come on, up you go."
He grabs the blankets in a vice-like grip, eyes wide. A certain part of his anatomy is already up and he doesn't particularly want her to know which part. "I am not a child, Eleanor," he snaps in his panic. "I'll get up when I'm damn well ready to."
Letting go of the blankets, she takes a step back and raises an eyebrow. "Very well," she says coolly. "You 'ave 'alf an hour before you're late for class." She turns on her heel and walks out of the room without another word. He curses himself for losing his patience with her. After all, it's only a dream. It doesn't mean anything. Right?
As he very slowly pulls himself out of bed, he tries to contemplate this from a professor's point of view. Thinking professionally instead of personally tends to keep him from panicking, which he finds most unbecoming. Dreams can mean anything, they're a manifestation of all the things going on in a person's life. Eleanor was obviously there because he lives with her, but why...Why is he dreaming about her coming on to him? Is it a subconscious desire? As he walks out of his room and to the bathroom, hoping he doesn't run into Eleanor in the hallway, he quickly rules out this option.
How ridiculous.
Shedding the rest of his clothes, he steps under the spray of cold water, wincing as what feels like needles of ice pelt against his bare skin. Closing his eyes, he tries not to think about the dream. He tries to block out thoughts of her lips on his, the husky quality to her voice, the way her warm skin felt under his hands. Catching himself, he shakes his head wildly, flinging water this way and that.
He can't very well go to work like this. Scrambling for thoughts that have nothing to do with the redhead in the other room, he thinks about pop quizzes, car parts, former presidents, anything.
He doesn't want think about her that way, and he suddenly hates his own subconscious for making him do so now. He can't do this to Lucy. To have lascivious thoughts about the woman who'd caused her death is disgraceful to his late wife. He feels that old anger toward Eleanor bubble to the surface as he remembers what she had caused him to do so many years ago, and he holds on to it. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his heart, he knows that as much as he tries to deny it, she hadn't meant for him to kill his wife, but it doesn't make the memory any less painful.
It's been over one hundred years, he can no longer remember what Lucy looked like. He knows she had blonde hair, but he isn't sure if he knows this because it is a memory, or because he has spent so long repeating it to himself so he never forgets. 'She had yellow hair'.
Having shaken off the dream enough to go out in public without causing himself any further embarrassment, Sweeney turns off the shower and hurriedly dresses for class. Eleanor is waiting for him in the kitchen, sitting at the table and reading a magazine with Louie at her feet. She's dressed for work, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other toying with the loose curls she'd styled her hair into that day.
The dream comes rushing back the second she looks up, and he immediately turns his gaze elsewhere, suddenly finding his shoes infinitely more interesting. Still, the dream won't go away, those images seem to be seared forever in his memory. Biting his tongue hard, he begins to mentally recite the Declaration of Independence to keep thoughts of Dream Eleanor at bay.
When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to -
"Breakfast is on the counter," she says, interrupting the Introduction. She turns back to her reading material and crosses her legs, her high heeled shoe sliding from her heel and dangling precariously from her toes. He unfortunately picks today of all days to notice what she's wearing - a skirt. Bare legs. Very smooth, soft bare legs he'd just dreamt about running his hands over.
He shuts his eyes briefly to focus and moves on to the Preamble, his favorite part. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Feeling fully in control of his mind and body, he takes a deep breath and finally looks up. Eleanor hasn't moved, nor has she spoken since announcing rather coldly where his breakfast resides. Realizing she's still miffed at him for snapping at her earlier, but not having the time to deal with it and not being able to look at her without thinking very inappropriate thoughts, Sweeney grabs his briefcase lying on the table. "No time for breakfast."
She doesn't respond and he walks out the door without so much as a goodbye.
--
Paranoia.
Sometimes, a person can be paranoid for no reason - thinking someone is near when you're alone, thinking your every move is being watched, hearing voices that aren't there. But as Eleanor walks through the halls of the hospital on Thursday morning, the paranoia she feels is completely justified.
The walls seem to be humming with life, sets of eyes seem to follow her wherever she goes, and when she passes a group of co-workers in the hallway, she is positive she hears her name among their whispers. Puzzled by this strange feeling that something is not right, Eleanor tries to go through her work day as she usually does, which includes several surgeries and a few hours in the clinic. She is in the middle of taking the temperature of a preschooler when her cell phone rings from inside her lab coat.
"Don't take that out yet, love," she says gently to the little girl when she reaches up to touch the thermometer. The girl's hand immediately goes back to her lap, and she smiles shyly as Nellie reaches inside her pocket to answer her phone. Glancing at the caller id first and seeing Carol's name, she frowns and flips open the phone. "What?"
"Where are you?" Carol asks, her voice sounding strained.
Turning away from the little girl and her mother, both of whom are watching her intently, Eleanor lowers her voice slightly. "I'm with a patient, d'you need somethin'?"
"No," Carol says cautiously. "Just...um, just come to the lounge when you're done."
Nellie glances back at the mother and daughter, smiles patiently, and turns back to face the wall. "What's wrong? You sound terrible."
Carol sighs. "You're-you're not gonna like it. Just hurry."
A feeling of dread settles in the pit of Eleanor's stomach as she closes her phone, slipping it back into her lab coat. She has an inkling that this has something to do with the funny feeling she has been having all morning. But then, maybe Carol just had a fight with Tom and she's in the lounge crying her eyes out over a bowl of chocolate covered pretzels. Maybe her bad feeling is just because of how her morning had started off with Sweeney. He hadn't been in a very friendly mood that morning, less so than usual.
She sighs as she sends the mother and child away with some antibiotics. Just when she thinks she and Sweeney may be growing closer, he pulls away. Sometimes, she feels like she's the only person in the world who really knows him, and then other times, she feels like she is living with a complete stranger. She knows he tends to play things close to the vest, and she tries to give him his space, but sometimes she just wants to shake him until he tells her what he's thinking.
As soon as the flow of patients in the clinic begins to ebb away, Eleanor makes her way to the lounge, where she assumes Carol is still waiting for her. She ignores stares of passersby as she strides through the halls, in a much better mood after dealing with patients. Sometimes she hates working in the clinic, and then there are times like today, where she meets good people - caring parents, sweet children, and a college student who is actually sick and not faking it to get out of a test. Those are the days when Dr. Lovett leaves the hospital in a good mood.
The lounge is empty when Nellie finally steps inside, save one occupied chair at the table. A pensive looking Carol sits there at her laptop, biting her lip. She looks up when she hears footsteps, and spotting Nellie, she sits up a little straighter, clearing her throat.
Raising an eyebrow, Eleanor walks up to the table and raps her knuckles against the surface. "What'd you need, love? Sounded downright awful when you called."
Carol tugs on a strand of smooth blonde hair and says with lowered eyes, "That must have been one helluva vacation."
Heart in her mouth, Nellie's eyes fly to her friend's in alarm. "What d'you mean?"
Hesitating for a minute, Carol takes hold of the computer and turns it around to face her.
Eleanor's jaw drops.
--
His morning class seems to be in a talkative mood this morning when Professor Todd walks into his classroom ten minutes late. Normally, most students would have gone back to their dorms by now, and used the professor's tardiness as an excuse to blow off a class. But for some reason, no ever does this in Sweeney's class. No matter how late he ends up being, they are always sitting at their desks, waiting for him to show up.
Except this morning.
This morning, they are all gathered around a desk, leaning forward and staring intently at the screen of one student's laptop. The occasional gasp or giggle is heard from the large group, and Sweeney is reluctantly curious. They still haven't noticed his presence, and he's intrigued as to what has captured their short attention spans. At first, he thinks they're just watching more trampoline accidents on Youtube, but then he hears a familiar tune, and an even more familiar voice.
His stomach drops. Dear God. Someone hadn't...? Had they?
Grip tightening on his briefcase, he manages to slip to the back of the crowd of students silently, like a jungle cat stalking its prey. Peering over the shoulder of one of his taller students, he fixes his gaze on the computer screen and clenches his fist, catching himself before he can let out a rather creative string of obscenities.
On the computer screen, in all her drunken glory, is Eleanor Lovett, standing on top of a bar and flashing her bare thigh for the whole internet population to see.
"That is one hot mama," a sophomore standing next to Sweeney murmurs, entranced.
Sweeney pins him with a death glare, but the boy hasn't seen him, too busy watching Eleanor's rendition of a Beatles classic on Youtube. Now that Sweeney thinks about it, he remembers seeing people holding their phones up during her performance, getting video footage and pictures. It hadn't even crossed his mind that they might take it upon themselves to post it all over the web. He doesn't even want to think about how he is going to break this news to Eleanor. He has a feeling it's going to involve some sort of tantrum on her part.
"Hey," the voice of a boy near the front breaks Sweeney's concentration. "Doesn't she look like Professor Todd's - "
"Professor Todd's what?" Sweeney asks in a stern voice, drawing everyone's attention to the back of the crowd, where he stands looking rather menacing. He isn't sure if he is just imaging things, but he's almost positive he hears a collective gasp from his students at his supposed sudden appearance.
"P-Professor," the boy stammers. "What are you doing here?"
"This is a history class, is it not, Mr. Jenkins?" He asks with raised brows. The boy nods mutely while the rest of the students stare at their professor with wide eyes. The video is still playing, but no one is looking at it besides Sweeney, who finds himself unable to look away. He watches himself yank Eleanor rather forcefully from the bar and carry her out of the building amidst loud applause before the screen goes blank. He isn't sure what to feel at first, but then a sudden protective anger comes over him when he realizes that millions of people could be watching Eleanor in her moment of weakness. Millions of people could be watching her swaying her hips about and running her hands through her hair and flashing her thigh. Sweeney doesn't understand the irritation that wells up inside him, but he goes with the emotion in the meantime, fixing his students with an irate glare.
"Since most of you seem to find drunken bar dancing so much more fascinating than this class, I hope you won't mind staying a few extra hours to go over the next week and half's lectures." He smiles a frightening smile that reminds most of them of a tiger baring its teeth . "I think we'll get through the semester much faster with some extra work, don't you?"
They all stare at him, dumbfounded. A freshman girl closest to him starts to tremble.
By mid-afternoon he is feeling more like himself, and he is able to put the dream and the implicating internet video out of his mind for the time being. Having gone over a short and to the point speech in his head in order to tell Eleanor that there is a video of her on the internet, he feels more comfortable with that particular situation. If worse comes to worst and he decides he can't tell her, well, then he'll just happen to 'forget' about it. He even feels fairly confident that he can face Eleanor without having to recite major U.S. documents in his head to control his body's traitorous urges.
In the university library during lunch, he obtains a stack of book on dreams and finds the farthest table away from the librarian, in the darkest corner of the large room. Being the anal, analytical thinker that he is, he knows he will not be able to put the dream out of his mind completely until he has a few answers. He researches quietly for around half an hour, in which he learns that sexual dreams can be an outlet for emotional stress, a desire for less ritual in a routine lifestyle, or even his subconscious's way of telling him he is lacking in qualities that Eleanor possesses. Like what, he wonders. Cheerfulness? Friendliness? She can bloody well keep those quality to herself.
Eleanor has managed to make him a little more outgoing, he admits. At least, when it comes to being in her company. He's relatively the same around everyone else, but with her, it's different. He figures this must be because of how long he has known her. Maybe that's why he'd dreamt about her, because she is familiar. It's only natural that he dream about the woman he spends so much time with, right? And Eleanor is attractive, he guesses. If one likes that sort of woman.
Sweeney is in the process of convincing himself that he does not like that sort of woman, when he hears footsteps behind him, followed by a distinctly male voice, "Um, Professor?"
He scrambles to cover the books he has spread out in front of him with an oh-so-casual arm, and whips around to see Kurtis Russell standing there, fidgeting. "Can I help you?" He asks, pasting on what he hopes is a polite, wise professor smile.
Kurtis gestures to the seat across from Sweeney. "Can I sit?" Sweeney hesitates before nodding his consent, and Kurtis takes the seat nervously. The boy adjusts his baseball cap over his shaggy blonde hair, and glances up at his professor. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier today. None of us meant any disrespect. I mean, dude, we didn't even realize who it was up until the end!"
Sweeney only stares at him. Kurtis had been one of the students nearest the computer, staring with his mouth open. For some reason, he doesn't feel much like making this any easier on the boy.
He sighs. "I know I'm not your favorite student or anything, but you're my favorite professor. I hated history till you came along." Taking off his ball cap, he twists it in his hands, too wrapped up in his torment to realize how mussed his hair looks. "I just wanted to say sorry. I never woulda watched it if I'd known it was your chick, y'know?"
This time, Sweeney can no longer stand remaining silent and says with distaste, "She is not my chick, Mr. Russell."
He holds up his hands, fingers still clutching his cap. "Right, right. Sorry." Kurtis hesitates, staring down at the worn wooden table. "About her...I kinda wanted to ask you something."
Still using his arm to keep the contents of his reading material a secret, Sweeney sighs. "Make it quick."
"Well, y'know that chick that isn't your chick?" He asks, and Sweeney glares in response. "If you're not, y'know, dating or anything, I was kinda going to...ask her out?" Kurtis looks at Sweeney hopefully, seemingly unaware of how white his professor's face has gone.
It takes every ounce of Sweeney's years of practiced self control not to gape at the boy. "She is a bit...old for you, Mr. Russell," he finally manages after several seconds of silence.
He shrugs. "I'm cool with the whole Mrs. Robinson thing. Besides, she can't be that much older than me. What, like, 15 years?"
Sweeney almost chokes, fingers gripping the book beneath his hand tightly. Try nearly two hundred.
Kurtis grins boyishly. "It'll be like Ashton and Demi."
Grasping for some plausible reason why Kurtis cannot date Eleanor, Sweeney says, "She's an adult, Mr. Russell. A doctor. Why would you want to waste your time on her when you can go to the nearest keg party and find a willing freshman who drank too much of the spiked punch?"
Laughing, Kurtis looks at him like he's crazy. "She's hot, dude. Who wants a freshman when you can have a Sugar Mama?" He puts his baseball cap back on his head, backwards. "So what do you say?"
Sweeney squashes down the part of him that wants to shove Kurtis against the nearest bookshelf, hold a stapler to his throat and growl at him to back off. Because he most certainly does not care what Eleanor does with her life. She can date Mickey Mouse for all he cares.
"Do what you like, Mr. Russell. Eleanor's affairs are no concern of mine." He tells himself that it doesn't matter what Kurtis does, because Eleanor will never consent to going out with a starry-eyed college boy who only wants her for her body and her money.
At least, he hopes she won't.
--
When Sweeney walks through the door to his and Eleanor's apartment that evening, much later than usual because of his preoccupation with punishing his ogling students, he expects to find things relatively normal. He expects Eleanor to be in the kitchen making dinner and Louie to be on the sofa watching cartoons because Eleanor insists he likes watching Dexter's Laboratory.
Instead, when he opens the door and steps inside, he is met with complete silence. Louie is lying on the floor in front of the sofa, staring forlornly at the blank television set, and doesn't bother to get up to greet Sweeney with an enthusiastic bite to his pant leg, like usual. He looks around the living room warily before wandering towards the kitchen to find his roommate.
Upon entering the kitchen, he is greeted with an angry looking Eleanor. She's standing at the counter, looking down as she toys with a wooden spoon idly, mouth set in a tight, thin line. He is very well acquainted with this expression, and it never bodes well for him. Sweeney contemplates slowly backing out of the room before she notices his presence, but by the time he takes his first step backward, her eyes snap up to his, that piercing gaze stopping him in his tracks.
From there, things escalate quickly. The glare she sends his way is startling enough, but when she raises her arm and throws the wooden spoon at his head, he is utterly dumbstruck. He manages to dodge the blow, ducking just in time. The spoon sails over his head and smacks against the wall behind him, dropping to the floor with a clunk.
He stares at her in shock, slowly rising back up to his full height, watching her practically shake with rage. "What the hell was that for?" He asks incredulously.
"It's all your fault, you bloody bastard! You jus' 'ad to trick me into doing that, didn't you? And for your own sick, twisted pleasure!" She blindly reaches for another cooking utensil on the counter, this time a plastic spatula, and chucks it at him. He's too slow to avoid it this time and the spatula hits him square in the shoulder. Sweeney takes a step back, taking note of the knife lying on the cutting board, suddenly feeling very frightened of the fiery redhead behind the counter but not wanting to show it.
"Eleanor," he says, hoping his voice is firm enough to talk some sense in the woman. "Stop throwing things, this instant. You're behaving like a child!"
"Oh no!" She shouts, throwing up her hands. "Not a child. Children don't get pictures of 'em drunk at a karaoke bar plastered all over the bloody internet like Girls Gone Wild!"
Realization suddenly hits him like a ton of bricks. "Pictures? There are pictures too?"
She thankfully doesn't catch the word 'too', caught up in her own rant. Moving closer to him, fists clenched at her sides, she looks ready to hit something, and he takes another step back. "Everyone in the 'ole hospital 'as seen those damn things! Do 'ave any idea what this is going to do to my reputation?" She reaches him and proceeds to take her small hands and smack his chest repeatedly. "Of course not! All you bloody care about is your own stupid amusement!"
Sweeney is at a loss for words, still unable to comprehend how this all ended up being his fault, and he stands there like a statue, letting her hit him if she needs to, mind working furiously. It isn't as if her little hands are doing much damage, he only finds it incredibly irritating, like a buzzing fly one has to keep swatting at.
"'Oh, let's get Eleanor drunk,'" she mimics him. "'That should be a bloody riot! And then we'll make sure everyone gets lots of pictures to post on their Facebooks!'" She's practically shrieking, and he's almost certain she is not really upset with him so much as upset with the world and taking it out on him.
Finally finding his voice again, he looks down at her, observing her flushed cheeks and eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Would you calm down? I didn't force you to drink seven shots of tequila, Eleanor!"
"No," she says mockingly, giving his chest one last half-hearted shove. "You may not 'ave forced it down my throat, but you were preyin' on my weakened state o' mind. You coerced me, that's what ya did!"
He grabs her hands to stop further abuse on his person and gives her a firm shake. "Breathe, woman!" It seems as though she is listening to him, because she begins drawing in large, panicked breaths, staring up at him tearfully, face pink. "You're acting like a deranged sociopath!"
She makes a face at this and jerks out of his grasp.
It occurs to Sweeney that he has never dealt with Eleanor in this particular state of Insanity, and he is at a loss for how to handle her. She's pacing the length of the kitchen now, muttering to herself about switching hospitals. "Look, I'm sorry, alright?" He snaps defensively, not sounding at all apologetic. "How the bloody hell was I supposed to know that some idiot from the bar would post your escapades all over the internet? Do you think I wanted to walk into class and find my students ogling your legs?"
She stops pacing, whirling around to face him with wide eyes. "Your students saw it too?!"
He shrugs, figuring now is as good a time as any to break the news to her. "They were watching a video."
"There's a video?" She wails, tipping her head back to hold in hysterical tears, one hand on her hip. She looks every inch the pitiful creature, standing barefoot in the kitchen in faded blue jeans and snug fitting Aerosmith t-shirt, curls piled messily on top of her head. "Great, I can never meet you for lunch again." Eleanor looks at him tearfully, and bites down on her bottom lip. "An' I liked it there, too. They 'ave these really lovely fruit cups."
Sighing heavily, Sweeney eyes her slumped form as she leans against the sink, and deems it safe to move closer. For a good full minute, he only stands there, watching her try to breathe evenly, attempting once again to reign in her emotions. When he finally gathers the courage to pat her shoulder uncomfortably, she wastes no time in turning around to face him, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.
He stands there awkwardly, feeling her hair brush against his chin and the warmth her body gives off. Then he forces his own body to relax, and in an almost comically slow fashion, he brings his arms around her tiny frame stiffly. It's been a long time since he has hugged another person, and he can't quite remember how to go about it. Granted, he has been hugged recently, Eleanor makes it her daily mission to provide him with some sort of physical contact, whether it be a brush of her hand against his, tousling his hair as she walks past him, or wrapping an arm around him. She always initiates it, and he is left to sit awkwardly until she turns her need to show affection to Louie, but this time, he has a strange feeling that she needs to be hugged back.
"I'm applyin' for a job somewhere else," she says, her voice muffled against his chest and drawing him from his thoughts.
He rolls his eyes. "Where? You work in the best damn hospital in the city."
She shrugs, considerably calmer now that she's gotten all of her anger out on him. "I dunno. Maybe Walgreen's is hirin'."
Stifling a chuckle at this, Sweeney visibly relaxes, his body becoming less like a stiff board and more like a human being the longer he holds her. "You'll go to work tomorrow, Eleanor. People will forget eventually."
She shakes her head stubbornly. "They won't."
"They will," he argues, voice gruff, and she lets him have his way.
"I'm never touchin' tequila again," she murmurs into his shirt.
"Spoken like a true Girl Gone Wild," he says wistfully, smirking when his comment earns him a pinch in the side from Eleanor.
They stand in the middle of the kitchen for several more minutes, until Eleanor finally comes to her senses and realizes how uncomfortable he must be. Hastily stepping out of his embrace, she glances at the floor and clears her throat awkwardly. "Sorry, love, " she mumbles.
He looks confused, dropping his arms back to his sides and blinking like he has just come out of some sort of trance. "For what?"
She gestures broadly. "For yellin' at you. Blamin' you for what 'appened." Looking guiltily toward the kitchen utensils lying on the floor, she sighs and shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "For throwin' kitchen appliances."
"Well," he says, silken voice full of mock seriousness as he regards her fondly. "Those appliances had it coming."
Eleanor smiles, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He sort of smiles back.
--
But now our fate from unmomentous things, may rise like rivers out of little springs...
"What did I tell you," Skuld smiles with pride as she and Urd watch the scene before them. Desperate to make Lovett her usual self again, Todd had let her put in The Notebook, and the woman is now crying her eyes out against Todd's shoulder. "Worked like a charm."
Urd is doubtful that the dream had had this much affect, she is more likely to believe the discovery of the pictures on the internet has something to do with their closeness now, but she doesn't say this to her giddy sister. "Yes well, if it lasts. You never know with those two." This is true enough, Todd and Lovett are wildly unpredictable when it comes to their romance, or rather, their lack thereof. She had been sure back in 1846 that the two would leave London and go to the seaside with the little boy, but then unexpected things occurred, and here she is, over a century later, wondering if they will ever fall in love.
Skuld ignores her sister's lack of enthusiasm. "I suppose we shouldn't get too excited," she concedes. "But it's a start."
"Indeed," Urd squints at the mortals, and comes to the conclusion that Todd is looking fairly uncomfortable with Lovett weeping into the fabric of his shirt.
"The boy trying to court Lovett should make for interesting opportunities, at least." Cackling, Skuld skips away from the image of the mortals, leaving Urd to her brooding. "He is the perfect catalyst. Everything depends on how those two react to his advances."
Verdandi frowns. "So if Todd doesn't become jealous, or Lovett doesn't turn the boy down, then there is no hope for them?"
Skuld looks hesitant, her good humor suddenly vanishing. "Not necessarily. It just makes our job that much more difficult."
Urd never takes her eyes off of the two human beings that had captured her attention nearly two centuries ago. "Let us hope it does not come to that."
A/N-You guys are seriously the best reviewers a gal could ever have:D That dream sequence was the most scandalous thing I've ever posted and I'm incredibly nervous about it.LOL Tell me what you think! The quote is from Anne Campbell, I don't own The Notebook, Youtube, Facebook, The Declaration of Independence or anything else that obviously isn't mine.
