Proof of Heaven

Hyde Park is a sea of people. It seems as though everyone in the city is milling about the park, taking advantage of another beautiful day. London has been plagued by sunny skies for the past three days, and although Eleanor has to wonder at the sudden change from clouds and rain, she isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, Johanna's birthday deserves such fine weather.

Seated comfortably on a large picnic blanket underneath a towering oak tree, Eleanor watches Toby drag Anthony off to help him get his new kite in the air. Johanna had bought it for him when she'd learned they were headed to the park for the day, and Eleanor thinks it couldn't be more like her to give others gifts on her own birthday. Sitting next to her in a brand new pink frock from her mother, Johanna munches on a cookie and hums contentedly to herself, blissfully unaware of the tension between the three adults on the blanket.

Lucy hasn't spoken to her since Eleanor had accused her of taking the arsenic two days ago – and Eleanor genuinely feels terrible about that, but honestly, what else was she supposed to think? Lucy could have at least informed her that she'd moved the poison. In any case, the women haven't done much but exchange frosty glares since Friday.

Furthermore, it hasn't escaped Eleanor's notice that Mr. Todd hasn't so much as looked in her direction since their conversation about Lucy's brush with suicide. He has been very careful ever since not to be in the same room with her alone.

She isn't sure what happened between Mr. Todd and Lucy, but there is an obvious tension between them that Eleanor can't quite fathom. All in all, the only people speaking to Eleanor at the moment are Johanna and Toby. Johanna hasn't noticed the odd strain between them all; Anthony is a marvelous distraction for the girl. Eleanor has done her best to hide it. She couldn't bear to see the look on Johanna's face if she found out what her mother had been so ready to do. Johanna's relationship with Lucy is already strained – finding out Lucy had been willing to leave Johanna alone in this world just might damage their relationship beyond repair.

Anthony and Toby stand several yards away, Anthony holding the kite and Toby clutching at the tail. Both of them are staring up at the sky with their brows furrowed. Watching Anthony lick his finger and stick it in the air to test the wind, Eleanor suppresses a laugh. How that lad made it as a sailor is beyond her. Surely he must be some wealthy Lord's rebellious son, because she's never encountered a sailor quite so careful and refined in his every action as this boy. Eleanor sneaks a glance at Johanna to see her smiling in his direction, her eyes sparkling with mirth and affection.

The girl is hopelessly smitten.

A warm breeze rifles the leaves on the trees and brushes Eleanor's curls from her forehead. She lifts her face to the wind and sighs, smiling a little. It's hard to be in a bad mood when the day is so lovely. This morning, she had risen early to bake Johanna's cake so she could have some when she finally tumbled out of bed. For breakfast, they'd had cake and a glass of gin – before Lucy woke up, of course. It's hard to believe she came into the world seventeen years ago; it seems like another lifetime ago when she'd learned of Lucy's pregnancy. She vividly remembers the brokenhearted ache she'd felt, the burn of tears in her eyes even as she'd hugged Benjamin and murmured her congratulations into his starched collar.

Now, she can't imagine her life without the little imp sitting beside her, nose buried in a book – a gift from Eleanor this morning. Sensing her gaze, Johanna looks up from The History of Tom Jones with a smile. The book is positively rife with prostitution and promiscuity, but Eleanor had decided Johanna was old enough for the material. Johanna has wanted it for ages, out of mere curiosity, but Lucy always refused to buy such 'absolute filth'. Eleanor hadn't been predisposed to outright defy Lucy's wishes until now. By the look on Lucy's face when she saw the leather-bound book, she had been furious, but one of the many advantages of her not speaking to Eleanor was that she couldn't express her supreme disapproval.

Leaning back on her hands and turning her face up to the sun, Eleanor closes her eyes. "Learning anythin', dear?" She asks with a smirk.

Johanna's laugh is scandalized, and Eleanor opens one eye to see her glance quickly at her mother to see if she'd heard. Lucy's thin-lipped gaze gives her away. "Auntie Nell, honestly."

"Just askin'." Eleanor shrugs innocently. "Might be somethin' in there I 'aven't figured out yet."

Lucy's resentful sniff reaches her ears, and Eleanor doesn't bother to hide an outright grin. She hears the rustle of skirts, but doesn't open her eyes as Lucy says stiffly, "Benjamin, I wish to take a walk. Would you care to accompany me?"

Though Mr. Todd's reply is not verbalized, Eleanor doesn't need to look to know what his answer is. No matter that they've had an argument and probably aren't speaking, no matter that Lucy still calls him by another man's name, Mr. Todd would still follow her to the bloody ends of the earth.

When she opens her eyes, they're strolling through the grass toward the paved walkway, Lucy twirling her parasol and Mr. Todd looking decidedly out of place. Eleanor giggles and reclines on the blanket, staring up at the sky with her hands behind her head.

Johanna looks down at her, shaking her head in amusement. "You're indecent."

Ignoring her, Eleanor squints at a cloud. "That one looks a bit like muffin with frosting. What do you think?"

For a moment, Johanna says nothing and Eleanor thinks she might go back to her book. Then, with a sigh of exasperation, Johanna reclines next to her, directing her gaze to the cloud Eleanor points to. She copies her aunt's squint and scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous, Auntie Nell. That's clearly an elephant wearing a top hat."

Eleanor raises an eyebrow and remarks dryly, "Yes, that's much more logical, love. Don't know what I was thinkin'."

"Auntie Nell?"

"Hmm?"

"What does love mean?"

Eleanor props herself up on one elbow and stares down at her niece. "Where did that come from?"

Johanna frowns. "I've been thinking about it practically my whole life – I even asked Mother once."

Lying on her back once more, Eleanor directs her wry smile at the clouds. "And what did she say?"

"I remember climbing into her lap and asking her what love meant," Johanna begins, sounding relaxed and thoughtful. "She ran her fingers through my hair and said it was how she felt about me." She smiles softly. "I remember leaning into her and wanting any attention she would give me – she smelt of lilacs, I think. And I said, 'I meant how you loved daddy'. She stopped playing with my hair, so I sat up and she had tears in her eyes. She asked me to go play, and I recall being very distraught that I'd upset her. I never thought to ask again until now."

The feeling and detail Johanna can manage to put into one memory never ceases to astound Eleanor, and for a moment, she can do nothing but think of a blonde cherub of a girl sitting on her mother's lap and asking the question no one really knows the answer to. And then she begins to genuinely think about it. What does it mean to love someone?

Staring intently at the Muffin-Elephant cloud, Eleanor begins quietly, "It can mean anythin', and it usually does, to different people. Take your books, for example." If she's going to try to explain this, she should at least try to explain it in terms Johanna will understand. "For some, like Heathcliff and Catherine, it means somethin' obsessive and miserable. And then there's Romeo and Juliet, who felt so much they died for it."

"What about you, Auntie Nell?" Johanna asks, and Eleanor waits patiently for her to elaborate. "Did you love Uncle Albert?"

Shaking her head, Eleanor offers the sky a tiny smile. "Not the way you're s'pposed to love your husband, no. But I did love 'im in my own way. The question isn't what love feels like, though, because you won't know until it 'appens. It's special for each and every person, never the same. The real question, my heart, is what to do with it once you've found it."

Johanna laughs softly. "I like that answer much better than 'Mummy's very busy, darling. Please go and play with your dollies.'"

Snorting, Eleanor says, "Glad to be of service."

"Auntie Nell?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Swallowing painfully, licking her suddenly dry lips, Eleanor answers softly, "Just once."

Johanna shifts next to her, turning to look at her, but Eleanor doesn't take her eyes from the sky above. "What did it mean to you?"

Lips lifting into a sad smile, Eleanor sighs. "It meant letting 'im go, dear."

They spend several long moments in silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees and the vague murmur of other people in the park. As if sensing the melancholy mood suddenly blanketing them, Johanna sits up and reaches out a hand to a particularly unruly patch of grass. Turning toward Eleanor with a mischievous grin, she blows a dandelion directly into her aunt's face.

Spluttering indignantly at the white fuzzies clinging to her hair and eyelashes, Eleanor sits up. "You li'tle brat, I'll get you for that."

Johanna giggles, scrambling off the blanket. "I'm afraid it will have to wait, Auntie Nell. Anthony will never get that kite in the air without me!" She begins to scurry off, only to turn a few steps later, still grinning. "It's a good look on you, by the way!"

Eleanor merely offers her a rude gesture and Johanna's cackle of delight makes her smile despite herself. Sitting up, she brushes herself off and watches as Johanna reaches the boys. Tangled in the kite tail, Anthony looks relieved to see her, and allows her to take over without complaint.

Eyes wandering, Eleanor scans the crowded park until she spots Lucy's blue parasol very far off. She sighs, looking around the empty blanket and leftover food, thinking that maybe things had been normal and a trifle boring before Sweeney Todd showed up on their doorstep, but at least things had been simple.

XxX

Since his return several weeks ago, Sweeney has shared a grand total of two kisses with his wife. The first had been made up entirely of a longing fulfilled. It had been frantic and thoughtlessly violent on his part. It had tasted of home. The second kiss had been quite the opposite. Its composition had been that of desperation and tentative hope. It had been too soft, too gentle. Sweeney's mouth had tasted faintly of defeat for hours afterward.

Since then, Lucy has been unable to look directly at him – preferring instead to stare at his shirt collar whenever she speaks to him, her voice soft and awkward. Whatever they had been searching for in that kiss, they hadn't found it.

To his utmost horror, he's found himself wondering what someone else's kiss might feel like, how it might taste. Willing to do anything to stop the treacherous thoughts, Sweeney has done everything he can to avoid Mrs. Lovett. He goes to bed when Lucy does, he never sits alone in the parlor, he keeps away from the kitchen when he knows she's in there. He hasn't had a glass of gin since Friday afternoon.

When a picnic was suggested this morning in honor of Johanna's birthday, a part of him had been relieved that he wouldn't have to spend another day avoiding Mrs. Lovett in the little pie shop. So he sits next to Lucy on the blanket and very carefully keeps his eyes from flitting in a certain direction. He walks with Lucy through the park, her arm in his, and they try to pretend they have things to say to each other.

At last, the hour comes when it's time to pack their picnic back into a basket and begin the walk back to Fleet Street. It surprises Sweeney when, instead of Lucy, Johanna comes up to him and threads her arm through his with a smile.

"I thought we might walk back together," she says shyly. "Since Anthony insists on carrying the picnic basket and escorting Mother."

Sweeney glances in their direction, and several paces ahead of them, Anthony and Lucy are walking arm in arm, followed by Mrs. Lovett and Toby. He looks away quickly to Johanna's smiling face.

"Besides," she says. "I've been meaning to speak with you."

Eyebrows raised, he murmurs, "Have you, now?"

She nods, but says nothing else for a while. Watching her closely, Sweeney thinks she must be working up the courage to ask him something, with the way she's frowning and looking determined all at once. He allows her all the time she needs, and they walk in companionable silence. In the meantime, Sweeney tries his best not to look at the two women walking ahead of them, having their own conversations with their companions. He also tries not to think about the fact that today is his daughter's seventeenth birthday and he has missed so much that sometimes he wonders how he can bear it. It's a struggle to keep his mind away from the two subjects it most wants to dwell on, but he manages well enough.

Finally, Johanna sets her jaw and looks up at him with warm brown eyes. "I wanted to ask you about marriage."

It's the last thing Sweeney expected to hear, and he can do nothing but stare at her.

Johanna surges ahead without him. "It's just that I've heard so many wonderful things from Mother and Auntie Nell about your marriage – about how happy you made Mother and utterly blissful the two of you were. Are." She glances away. "Were, I suppose. I know it's a bit early to be asking these sorts of questions, but you know how impatient I can be."

'How utterly blissful the two of you were.'

It's not untrue. They used to be so happy – Sweeney remembers the sunny days of his marriage with such intensity that he could almost live them over again. He remembers Lucy's soft laugh and the way her eyes sparkled when he'd said something particularly romantic. There were trips to the market where they tried on scarves and hats to be silly, and later, sunny afternoons in the park with their beautiful baby. Sweeney spent a lot of time during his imprisonment dwelling on his family and how happy they had been, determined not to ever forget that he had a reason to come out of that hellhole alive.

Casting about in his mind, he tries to remember if Benjamin had some sort of philosophy that he adhered to when it came to his marriage. For the life of him, he can't remember. "Honesty," he says, swallowing heavily. "And trust…are very important."

Johanna seems to be listening with rapt attention. He wants to tell her how important it is to communicate, to let Anthony know when something is bothering her, because, as a man, Anthony will be utterly clueless unless she comes right out and says something. He wants to tell her that laughter is vital in a marriage, that it's okay to be ridiculous and silly when the occasion calls for it. He wants to tell her so many things, but he can't. He would sound too much like a hypocrite.

All the things he wants to teach her are the things he and Lucy no longer have – the things they can't seem to bring themselves to do. Sweeney wants to tell Johanna this too, but he can't seem to make his mouth work.

Thankfully, his daughter takes pity on him. Squeezing his arm, she says with a soft, understanding smile, "It's alright, Father. I know this must be hard for you."

Sweeney nods and looks away, unable to look in Johanna's eyes just yet. Instead, he looks ahead and finds his gaze landing directly on Mrs. Lovett's fiery hair as she throws her head back and laughs at something Toby has said, reaching out to smack the lad on the back of the head. Remembering his own resolve, Sweeney swiftly glances away again.

A look at Johanna's faint smile tells him she had seen Mrs. Lovett's display as well. "I just have one more thing to ask you."

Rattled from even that cursory glimpse of the forbidden, Sweeney can only grunt his acknowledgement.

"I'm already spending most of my time living with the Foster's, and I'm afraid that after Anthony and I are married, I'll be spending even less time at the pie shop," Johanna looks pained by the knowledge, biting her lip for a moment before she forges bravely ahead. "I know you'll already be looking after Mother, but I want you to promise me that you'll take care of Auntie Nell, too."

Sweeney nearly stops in his tracks, and Johanna seems to notice his suddenly stiff posture, because she glances up at him in surprise and hurries to explain herself.

"I know she puts on a good show, and she really can look after herself, but I don't want her to have to. Do you understand? She's taken care of me since I was a baby, she's made sure Mother and I had a place to stay and food to eat. She's been so good to us, Father. She's the best friend I ever had, and she's also like my mother." Johanna looks up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I worry about her, that's all. I don't want her to be alone – she doesn't do well without people. Please just…look out for her. For me?"

Unable to answer, Sweeney only stares at his daughter. Can it really be that Johanna is asking him to look after the very person he has been trying his damnedest to avoid? Surely his life isn't so full of such cruel irony.

Brow furrowed in worry, but more composed, Johanna continues, "I wouldn't have asked you, but I thought since you and Auntie Nell were such good friends before you went away, it might not be such a burden for you." Fingers digging painfully into his arm, Johanna stares ahead at Mrs. Lovett's figure in the distance. "Promise me, Father? Please?"

Up ahead, the pie shop is coming into view. In the twilight of the evening, it looks forlorn and oddly forgotten, even as surrounded as it is by people and buildings. Sweeney feels a strange kinship toward it just then, filled with memories of a past life and looking far too broken to have much of a future. Silhouetted against its murky windows, Mrs. Lovett is a dark shadow fumbling for the key in her coin purse. Unable to see her features in the gathering darkness, Sweeney thinks passersby might mistake her small figure for a young girl rather than a grown woman.

He sighs and pats Johanna's small hand. "I promise."

XxX

That night, once the picnic supplies are packed away, Johanna is downstairs trying to coerce Toby into reading Shakespeare and Anthony has wandered off to his lodgings – wherever those may be, since Sweeney never bothered to ask – Sweeney sits on a settee in the quiet parlor of the upstairs apartment with his wife. He has a book in his lap, though he has no idea what the title is and has no intention of reading it. Instead, he busies himself studying Lucy.

She sits in a straight-backed chair next to the window, mending a tear in the hem of one of her dresses. Completely absorbed in her task, she doesn't even pause in her sewing when she glances at the framed picture sitting to her right. Sweeney watches the way her expression softens just slightly and her lips twitch into the gentlest of smiles. He doesn't think Lucy is even aware that she's doing this, but she does it all the time. Before tonight, Sweeney did his best not to notice.

The picture is of Benjamin with baby Johanna in his arms – the very same picture he spotted on the day he returned. He wonders if it should feel so very much like a betrayal that Lucy is casting her fond gazes to a man in a picture instead of the one sitting in front of her. Then, he remembers his own traitorous thoughts and decides he has no right to judge which betrayal is the more egregious of the two.

Lucy glances at the frame again. Sweeney fights the urge to twitch.

"Benjamin," she says, her tone questioning, and for a moment, he wonders if she's addressing the photograph. "How did you acquire that…streak in your hair?"

Spine stiffening, Sweeney abandons all thoughts of pretending to read and stares at his wife. Lucy is finally looking at him properly – in the eye instead of at his collar or some unknown point over his shoulder. Her gaze is oddly piercing, and he almost wishes she would go back to looking everywhere else but at him.

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "I don't remember. Didn't know I had it until I was aboard Anthony's ship."

Lucy nods thoughtfully, turning bright blue eyes back to her dress hem. "You don't have any idea how it came to be?" She purses her lips for a moment, thinking. "Surely you must have some theory."

Sweeney shakes his head, averting his eyes from her contemplative expression. He has a feeling the streak of white in his hair has more to do with stress and horrors unimaginable to most men. It isn't something he wants to share with someone as innocent as Lucy.

Oblivious to his unwillingness to speak of it, Lucy continues, "Perhaps it was some kind of traumatic experience…Can you remember anything particularly traumatic happening, Benjamin?"

Botany Bay was a place for the most hardened of criminals – the bloody thirsty scoundrels who had no hope of ever being redeemed. Sweeney had seen a man eaten alive right in front of him. He'd seen a man who'd been on Botany Bay for thirty years and had lost every single one of his teeth. He'd been whipped into unconsciousness. He'd been afraid to fall asleep every night for the better part of two decades because no man would think twice about slitting his throat – or worse – as he slept. Particularly traumatic does not begin to describe his fifteen-year experience.

Lucy's soft voice interrupts his thoughts before they become any more morbid. "You're thinking about it," she says. "I can tell."

He isn't sure what to say to that, so he remains silent, staring at the cover of the book he'd picked up from the table in front of him. David Copperfield. He frowns at the well-thumbed pages and fumbles for the right thing to say.

Sighing, Lucy tries again, her voice noticeably strained as she pleads, "Just tell me. I'm your wife, Benjamin. You can tell me anything."

More than anything, Sweeney wishes that was true. "You don't understand what you're asking of me," he says instead, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"Of course I understand!" Lucy says, incredulous. "I know that you went through horrible things. I really do. But can't you at least try? Maybe if you talked about these things, you would feel better." She smiles encouragingly, looking hopeful. "We could start over."

In the end, it always comes down to Benjamin. No matter what Sweeney does, no matter how hard he tries, nothing will ever be enough. Not until Benjamin Barker reemerges from years of trauma utterly unscathed and ready to begin anew. He wants to give that to his wife, but he doesn't know how. He can't – and he's going to stop trying.

Eyes narrowed at the floor in consternation, he says slowly, "What would you like to talk about first? The beatings, the rapes, or the cannibalism?"

Lucy gasps and he glances up just in time to see her bring a hand to her chest. "Benjamin," she breathes. "How can you be so - "

Standing abruptly, Sweeney tosses the book onto the coffee table, ignoring the thud it makes as it slides across the surface and tumbles onto the floor.

Lucy stands too, the torn dress in her lap falling to the floor as she watches him walk away with a hand still to her chest. "Where are you going, Benjamin?"

He stops in the doorway, bracing himself against the frame. "I'm not Benjamin. All you have left of him are your pictures." He pushes open the door, and just before he slams it behind him, he says, "Spend your time with them."

XxX

When he leaves Lucy, no doubt gaping after him, Sweeney isn't sure where he's storming off to – only that it had seemed like the right course of action. Thundering down the stairs and planning on going right out the pie shop door to stalk the deserted London streets for a few hours, he surprises himself by stopping in the parlor doorway.

A light is on and Mrs. Lovett is curled up in an armchair, a book in hand but her gaze on the doorway. She had to have heard his footsteps on the stairs. Eyebrow raised, she looks at him enquiringly, waiting. It feels like a question, though she hasn't opened her mouth. For a moment, Sweeney only stares.

Ever since he decided to start avoiding Mrs. Lovett's company, he has been able to do anything but. Instead of spending time away from her in order to grow closer to Lucy, he had ended up whiling away an entire night drinking with her, and instead of ignoring her, he has been studying her like one would a strange painting, trying to find the hidden meaning within.

He has discovered that spending time with Mrs. Lovett comes just as naturally now as it did all those years ago, when he was someone else. With her, he doesn't feel the way he feels in Lucy's company – as though he is some child's unwanted, forgotten toy. With her knowing smirk and that oddly devious, sparkling light in her eyes, Mrs. Lovett makes him feel like she understands him. How she could possibly understand anything about him, he has no idea. He knows she can't even fathom what he's been through. Her empathy should make him feel angry, but it doesn't. It only soothes him, somehow managing to make him feel less alone in this world.

Mrs. Lovett had helped him when Pirelli wanted to blackmail him. Most women would have fainted or run to the nearest authorities after what he'd done to that man. Mrs. Lovett hadn't even batted an eye. She had understood – he had no other options. Not only that, she'd helped him drag the corpse through the pie shop and into the sewers. Both of them had been covered in sewage and blood by the end of the night, but instead of going to bed, Mrs. Lovett had offered him a glass of gin.

There is no doubt that Mrs. Lovett is extraordinary, if a little odd. She has always been this peculiar combination of bizarre and fascinating, but Benjamin never felt the need to be anything other than her friend. Therefore, only one question remains: Does he find her so compelling because he wants Mrs. Lovett herself, or because she gives him the female companionship he has so desperately craved with Lucy?

He has tried to be what Lucy wants, working in his shop again and letting her continue to call him by the name of a dead man. However much he tries to lie for both of them, he isn't that man anymore. No matter how much he wants to please his wife, Sweeney can't be someone he's not. Heaven knows he tried anyway, going with Lucy to that carnival, giving her the space she needed when he frightened her, but he doesn't know how to be Benjamin anymore. That way of life is as lost to him as Johanna's childhood. There is no getting it back.

To make matters worse, he can sense Lucy's disappointment whenever he is around her – almost like a physical presence between them. It's the reason he began seeking Mrs. Lovett's company. Lucy will never be happy with him; he's not the man she married and so he'll never be enough for her, whether she knows it or not, because he'll never be Barker. Sweeney will never be happy knowing his wife loves another man – a dream, nothing more than a corpse.

Lucy Barker does not love him. Sweeney Todd isn't sure whom he loves anymore.

Mrs. Lovett is still staring at him, perched in her chair, brow knitted in concern. "You alright, Mr. T?"

He could leave now. Sweeney knows he has the option of merely giving a terse response and slipping out onto the streets to wear a path in the cobblestone streets until he's too exhausted to delay returning to Lucy any longer. It would certainly be easier – like so many things in his life would have been, had he only chosen them. Dying on Botany Bay, letting disease, starvation or exhaustion take him, letting someone murder him in his sleep. That would have been easier than trying to survive. Going upstairs and apologizing to his wife, confessing everything that happened to him on that island and seeing her eyes fill with horror. It would be easier than crossing the threshold to the parlor, stepping over the proverbial line in the sand.

Sweeny Todd has never been very good with taking the easy way out.

Feeling as though something very important has shifted in the universe, Sweeney draws in a deep breath and steps into the parlor.

XxX

After their day at the park, and sitting in the pie shop listening to Toby pester Johanna like one might an older sister, Eleanor had been left feeling rather nostalgic. Retreating to the parlor, she had picked up one of Johanna's childhood favorites – a thick tome of fairy tales – and had begun to flip idly through it, remembering how she had been forced to read Cinderella so many times she knew it be heart, or how Johanna had been absolutely terrified of the story about the girl with no hands.

Eleanor is frowning over the disturbing tale of the Juniper tree, wondering why she had consented to read it to a child and why Johanna never had nightmares, when footsteps pounding on the stairs jolt her from the story. Fully expecting Mr. Todd to walk down the hall, considering Lucy has never stomped down a staircase in her life, Eleanor trains her eyes on the doorway and waits for the man to pass by.

He stops in the doorway and stares for a long time, looking pale and torturously lost. Tender affection for the man wells up in her chest, and she wants nothing more than to reach out to him, to guide him to the settee and curl up next to him. She wants to slide her fingers through his wild hair and whisper that she'll fix whatever is bothering him. Instead, she waits, never taking her eyes from him.

"You alright, Mr. T?"

After what seems like an eternity but must have been only a moment, Mr. Todd moves into the parlor. Eleanor feels herself relax, though she hadn't even realized she had been tense. Watching with dark eyes as Mr. Todd occupies the settee across from her, Eleanor shuts the book of Grimm's gruesome fairy tales and rests her trembling hands on the cover.

She wants to ask what has put the dark expression on his face, but when she opens her mouth to subtly pry, Johanna wanders into the room, yawning sleepily. "I'm off to bed," she says. "Toby is asleep at a table in the shop – I was trying to tell him about the troubling gap in social classes I read about in the paper today, but I don't think he was listening."

Eleanor snorts at Johanna's truly grieved expression, reaching out a hand to grasp the younger girl's. "I think you've got a few years before 'e'll care about anythin' or the sort, love. We can't all be ten years old and absolutely passionate about social classes and capitalism – you were always a special case."

Laughing, Johanna leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek. "I'll try to be patient with him. Goodnight, Auntie Nell."

"Goodnight, my love."

Johanna pauses on her way out of the room to kiss her father's cheek and murmur a goodnight; it isn't long before they hear her soft footsteps tripping up the stairs to bed. The ensuing silence is awkward. Johanna's interruption had robbed Eleanor of her courage, and so she sits quietly and waits for Mr. Todd to explain why he's downstairs with her instead of getting ready for bed with his wife.

As the minutes tick by, Eleanor gnaws at her bottom lip and regards the wooden floor with contempt. They could be sitting here all night if she leaves it up to Mr. Todd to begin a conversation. However, to her unending surprise, just as she is about to break down and ask, Mr. Todd speaks.

"Those pictures…the ones of - "

It takes Eleanor only a moment to catch on to his meaning, and she finishes for him out of pity, "Benjamin and Johanna?"

He nods, glancing at her gratefully. "Lucy likes to look at them."

Eleanor nods, bemused. "Always did, dear. After you left, she spent months in bed, starin' at 'em. I s'ppose it gave 'er somethin' tangible to 'old onto."

Mr. Todd works his jaw angrily and grits out, "That's not me."

"No," she agrees quietly, watching him. "Not anymore."

At her acquiescence, Mr. Todd relaxes a little. The tension in his shoulders melts and he sinks back into the settee cushions, frowning. Eleanor would have smiled at the petulant picture he made if she didn't ache all over at the sight of him.

"That what's bothering you, love?" She asks. "Cause if you want, I could nick it next time I'm cleanin' up there. Put it away somewhere."

Mr. Todd's quick look of amusement is enough to send her heart careening wildly into her ribcage. Drawing in a sharp breath as he glances away again, Eleanor struggles to get a hold of herself. She has always been a practical, self-restrained woman, strong and independent. But around Mr. Todd, all of her womanly fortitude goes to hell in a hand basket.

"Wouldn't change anything," he says. "He'll still be gone…and I'll be here in his place."

"Oh, love," she breathes, and she can't control the urge to stand up and go to him. She settles next to him, leaving plenty of room between them but reaching for his hand, resting on his knee. Eleanor had moved without a thought, but now, with Mr. Todd's warm hand beneath hers, she wonders if he'll pull away. He would have every right to – and he has been avoiding her, after all. "She'll come around eventually."

Mr. Todd shakes his head, staring intently at her fingers closed around his own. Eleanor considers taking her hand away, but his skin is soft and hot beneath her palm – she doesn't have the sort of discipline it would require to pull herself away from that. She settles for licking her dry lips and marveling at how natural it feels to touch him.

They sit there for a long time, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth. Eleanor is afraid to move for fear that Mr. Todd will snap out of his daze and draw his hand out from under hers.

"It wasn't caused by just one thing," he finally says, and when Eleanor gives him a befuddled look, he pulls his hand from hers and briefly touches the streak of white in his dark hair.

"Ah," she says, hastily bringing her hand back to her lap when she realizes it's resting on Mr. Todd's knee. "Is that why you're down here?"

Mr. Todd doesn't seem to hear her, scowling at the floor between his knees. "I wanted to explain it to her, but…"

Eleanor watches him pause, looking frustrated. "What, love?"

"I couldn't."

"Well that's all right, dear," she says consolingly. "I'm sure Lucy would understand you're not ready to - "

"I was trying to protect her," he says, glancing at her quickly before looking away again. "I'm not afraid to talk about it."

She isn't sure she wants to hear him talk about it. It's difficult to imagine the sweet, innocent Benjamin Barker among bloodthirsty crooks. It doesn't surprise her at all that he'd gone a little gray – what man wouldn't when he finally saw the world for what it really was?

"I can tell you, if you'd like," he offers, sounding hollow. "How it happened, I mean."

Eleanor can't decide if she feels flattered or offended that he isn't so concerned about protecting her delicate sensibilities. She smiles ruefully and tilts her head, regarding him fondly. "What matters to me, love, is that you're back. I don't give a flyin' fig why your hair is a different color."

She could be imagining things, but just before Mr. Todd ducks his head, Eleanor could have sworn she glimpsed an odd expression on his face – almost as though something elusive has finally dawned on him. She fights back a smile, standing up and suggesting, "Gin?"

He nods and she scurries off to fetch a bottle. Toby is exactly where Johanna had said he was, slumped over a table in the pie shop, mouth open and a puddle of drool forming under his face. Eleanor tosses him an affectionate smile as she slips past him to gather a bottle and two glasses.

With a bottle of gin between them on the settee, three hours passes rather quickly. She tells Mr. Todd more stories about the amusing things Johanna did as a little girl, the rat she'd finally managed to catch with the help of Toby and a mixing bowl, and about Anthony getting tangled in the kite string that afternoon, since he'd missed it when he'd gone on his walk with Lucy. Mr. Todd listens without comment, mostly, but occasionally, he'll say something in his peculiar, dry tone and startle Eleanor into a bark of laughter.

When she finally glances at the clock, Eleanor has the nagging feeling she should go to bed before she passes out on the settee and does something mortifying, like drool on Mr. Todd's shoulder. Reluctant to leave, she sets the bottle on the table in front of them and sighs.

"I should make up Toby's bed and drag the poor lad from that table," she says with a soft laugh. Mr. Todd nods, setting aside his glass and rising to his feet. "I hope you appreciated this, Mr. T. It's four in the bleedin' morning, and Johanna is goin' to drag me out of bed at eight."

Mr. Todd only looks mildly amused, and she grumbles half-heartedly as she gathers the empty gin bottle and glasses to take into the kitchen.

"I'll be a soddin' nightmare to deal with, all my customers'll hate me, and it'll be all your fault."

Eyes lingering deliberately on her teasing expression, Mr. Todd's lips quirk into an odd little smile. "I take full responsibility," he murmurs.

Nodding in satisfaction, she delays a little longer, muttering, "Well, I guess I'll be off, then. Pleasant dreams, love."

Mr. Todd nods again, but neither of them moves. Instead, they stare at each other silently in the dim glow of the dying fire, entranced. Eleanor doesn't realize she has moved closer until she is looking directly up into Mr. Todd's face, and she inhales sharply, realizing how brash and impudent he must find her. She begins to stumble away in mortification, but Mr. Todd's hand shoots out to grip her elbow painfully, and she regards him with wide eyes.

"Mr. T?" She asks, so quietly she could have mouthed it.

He doesn't answer, staring wordlessly into her eyes with an air so intense it sends delightful shivers up her spine. She isn't sure who moves closer, but suddenly, there isn't even a minute space between their bodies. Mr. Todd is still clutching her elbow, as if afraid she'll disappear, but Eleanor isn't sure she could move if her life depended on it.

Heart pounding in her ears, and breath coming in shallow pants, she drops her gaze to Mr. Todd's parted lips and wonders with unparalleled longing what they would feel like brushing over her own. After a moment, she doesn't have to wonder because Mr. Todd releases her elbow to circle an arm around her waist, drawing her tightly into him. He leans down, capturing her lips in a hard, bruising kiss.

Eleanor is so startled that she drops the bottle and glasses in her arms, not even hearing the shatter the glass must make. Gasping into Mr. Todd's mouth, she slides her hands up his chest and fists his shirt in a tight grip. He cups her neck with the back of his other hand, opening his mouth hungrily against hers. Eleanor sighs and sinks into him, boneless in his embrace.

Ever since she met Benjamin Barker, Eleanor has wondered what it would be like to be kissed by this man. It is everything and nothing like she had imagined. It's different in the way that it is rough and passionate – desperate, like the last gasp of a dying man. At the same time, she had expected the warmth that floods through her from the curls of her hair to the tips of her toes. She had expected the feeling of contentment, the way everything on earth felt exactly right the moment his lips touched hers. It's wonderful and hellish, perfect and torturous all at once – because now that Eleanor has had a taste of him, no one else will ever be enough.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ends. Pulling away abruptly, Mr. Todd releases his grip on her and staggers back, looking stunned. Eleanor feels cold and bereft at the loss of him; she wraps her arms around herself to accommodate for their separation. Breathing heavily, they stare at each other for several long seconds, speechless.

Mr. Todd is the one to break eye contact, his face unusually flushed as he rasps out, "Goodnight, Mrs. Lovett."

Overwhelmed, Eleanor has no response. In a daze, she stares after him as he makes his retreat, listening as he climbs the steps to the apartment he shares with Lucy. She listens to his footsteps overhead as he crosses the sitting room and treks down the hallway to his bedroom. Closing her eyes, she imagines Mr. Todd loosening his cravat and tossing it aside, imagines him slipping out of his shoes and unbuttoning the shirt she'd clung to so fiercely only moments before. He'll probably toss it onto the back of a chair, and Lucy will pick it up in the morning and fold it neatly. The bed creaks upstairs and Eleanor knows that Mr. Todd has just crawled into bed beside Lucy.

Exhaling slowly and feeling strangely faint, Eleanor watches the last embers burn out in the fireplace. "Goodnight," she whispers.

A/N – Title of this chapter is taken from the Ralph Waldo Emerson quote 'thou art to me a delicious torment'. Unless I manage to get a new chapter of this up within a week – which is a possibility – this might be the last chapter for a while. My classes start on the 16th, and I have a fabulous beach vacation coming up as well. So I'm going to be busy for a bit, and while I'll try to update when I can, I don't know how frequent that will be. At least expect another chapter of Passing Time soon. Thanks for the reviews, guys. You're fabulous and I love your feedback! Last, but certainly first on my list, thanks to my super amazing beta Robynne, who not only makes my writing the best it can possible be, but also happens to be an amazing friend. Love you lots, skank ho.