Chapter 28
Sweeney shivered when he felt the wet washcloth against his back. He didn't do so because the fabric was cold; in fact, the water that it was soaked with was just as warm as it had looked when Mrs. Lovett had bought the steaming liquid into her bedroom a few minutes ago. It wasn't even because the warmth was strangely pleasant after the coldness of the basement that he had been in all day, the chilliness of the cellar reaching to his bones even as he had exhausted himself cleaning the entire bakehouse. No, his body trembled because of the knowledge that the seemingly innocent washcloth wasn't moving on its own accord; Mrs. Lovett's hand was in it, and if it weren't for the fabric around her fingers and palm, she would be touching his sensitive skin directly.
If she noticed that he was quivering, she didn't show it. Gently, she moved the washcloth over his back, wetting the thing in the bucket every once in a while to remove the blood from the fabric. After a while, there was something else he could feel, something slippery; apparently, she had found soap somewhere in the mess that was her house and was using this now to clean him. The thought of the baker washing him was one that wasn't easy to process.
He closed his eyes and he wasn't sure whether he did so to make it easier for him to pretend that this was not happening or actually to enjoy it more, reminding himself once again that he should end this ridiculous thing. It was dangerous enough already to live in the same house as the tempting baker without being in such an intimate situation together with her. He knew so well now that she was in love with him and since it was obvious to him that he did not return those feelings, he should keep away from her as much as he possibly could. But then why was he still standing there, allowing her to slide her hand, covered with the washcloth, over his bare back?
She placed a warm hand on his arm, gently making him turn around so the light of the oil lamp illuminated his back. She sighed as she did so; it seemed that there was something about his back that she didn't like. When she began to rub harder, he understand what it was. Even with soap and warm water, the blood stains were hard to remove.
It was quite hard for the barber to remain standing still now that she had focused all her energy and will on cleaning him. She was stronger than she looked, even now that she was pregnant, and Mr. Todd had some difficulty to remain standing where he was.
As if sensing that his legs were about to fail him, the baker temporarily gave up her apparent attempt to remove even the last bit of blood from his pale skin.
"This doesn't work," she said, clearly unsatisfied. "You're too tall; I can't reach for your back properly."
It was the perfect moment for him to say that it didn't matter, that he was perfectly capable of finding a way of cleaning his back on his own. But before he could open his mouth to speak, her hand was on his arms again and she guided him towards her bed. Probably sensing that he was never going to agree with what she had in mind, she pushed him forward.
His limbs were weakened already and not expecting her to do something like that, Sweeney lost his balance and, to his horror, found himself lying on his stomach on Mrs. Lovett's unmade bed one second later, his face buried in one of her pillows which smelled just like her.
He was vaguely aware that she placed the oil lamp on her nightstand, thus bringing him into a circle of light. He tried to get up now that he still had the chance to do so. He didn't fear what was doubtlessly about to come because he thought that he wouldn't like it, but because he was rather sure that he would like it too much.
However, only a second later there was once again the gentle pressure of the washcloth against his back and he found that he didn't have the strength and the will to stop her. He did feel awkward however because his head was resting on one of her pillows; the knowledge that she slept every night at the very place that he was currently lying was something that was unacceptable.
He turned his head as far as he could, moving it away from the soft item. It seemed that anything was better than feeling the baker's pillow beneath his face like he just had, but he soon realized that he was wrong.
He could smell the soap now that she was using and he recognized the scent of it almost immediately. It clearly wasn't the one that she usually gave him; it was the one she usually only used herself. He had no idea why she hadn't fetched his own soap, but he found that he had other things to wonder about.
It was miraculous, really, how such a small and innocently looking bar of soap could remind him so much of a human being. When Lucy was still alive, this had never happened. He had always made sure that she could have anything that her heart desired and he could tell that the soap that the baker was using was much cheaper than what he used to buy for his wife. But to him, that had always been just soap, even though his wife doubtlessly had known the difference. But still, she had always smelled like Lucy, just like Lucy. Mrs. Lovett however... she smelled like many different things. He had discovered now that this soap was a subtle bit of her scent and he wondered what other things he might be able to identify. It was better than thinking of the fact that this particular part of her was part of him now as well.
As he was lying there, almost completely motionlessly, he felt something soft but firm press against his back. It took him a moment to realize that this was Mrs. Lovett expanded belly, pressing against his body as she leaned over him to wash his back. The touch seemed so innocent, so accidental, but it made him shiver. Never before he had been so close to her child; it felt as if she made clear to him, without being actually aware of it, that she trusted him completely and wasn't afraid of bringing her unborn child close to him. He wasn't sure that he deserved this trust, but for once he was too content and too much at ease to brood about it.
Because of the warmth of the water, the softness of the bed and the gentleness of her hands it seemed as if she wasn't only removing blood, but some of the tension that had been wracking his body for a long time as well.
He lost track of time as he was lying there, surrendering himself to more than just her wish to wash him. At some point, he was rather sure that his back couldn't possibly get any cleaner, but yet, the washcloth was still there, her right hand caressing his skin through the wet and slippery fabric. He knew so well that he should tell her to stop, to leave him alone, but the longer he enjoyed what was happening, the harder it became to end it. The sensations were just too pleasant; they made him feel nervous and at ease at the same time.
She didn't limit herself to his back; the baker also washed his sides, sometimes even trying to reach the front side of his body by probing the washcloth between his frame and the now wet blankets of her bed. He wasn't sure why this was necessary; it was mostly his back and his shoulders that were bloody, because he had heaved the corpses over those parts of his body in order to carry them into the sewer, dumping them far away from the bakehouse.
Sleeping or even resting was something that hadn't been particularly easy to him for numerous years. During his banishment, every moment in which he wasn't completely alert could be abused by the guards or other prisoners in various horrible ways. But even if he would've wanted to sleep, the memories of the life he once had had and the uncertainty regarding the fate of his daughter and wife would've kept him awake. Once he was back in London, he had been worried about being found out, something that had prevented him from actually sleeping as well, just like the nightmares about his recent past did. But as the weeks in which he lived without being recognized in the room that he once had owned under the name of Benjamin Barker, thoughts of his destroyed family dominated his mind once more. But this time, there was no hope of a happy ending. Lucy was gone, and even if Johanna could somehow be freed from the Judge's claws, it would be the young sailor doing so, and not him.
But yet, when he found himself lying on the baker's bed, surrounded by her warm pillow and blankets, and she was gently washing his back, his mind was strangely empty, only aware of how pleasant it was to rest, especially after such tiring work. It was odd indeed that it was none other than the baker who made him feel so much at ease, but at the same time, he had grown quite fond of her presence so perhaps it wasn't that strange at all that he could let his guard down completely around her.
His eyes fluttered closed, but for once, he didn't fight this urge of his body. He just remained lying there, breathing in the auburn haired woman's scent and sensing how she was drawing soothing patterns on his back.
He actually would've fallen asleep if Mrs. Lovett hadn't turned him around, even though he was hardly aware of it. There was only a gentle pressure against his left side and, giving in to it almost immediately, he rolled over, so he was lying on his back. His eyes were still closed; they simply refused to open as long as the delicious warmth was soothing his body.
Mrs. Lovett began washing his chest very carefully and only minutes ago he would've grasped her hand, pulling it away from him, but now he didn't even realize that the reason she was touching him there had nothing to do with blood.
He sighed, but not out of tiredness or frustration this time. If he hadn't felt so sleepy, he would've lifted his hand to place it over hers, if only to make sure that she wouldn't stop moving the washcloth – if only she wouldn't move away from him.
The pattern of her movements changed and after a while it was only her hand that he felt, the fabric of the washcloth having miraculously disappeared, but he was too content to care. Instead, he appreciated the moment, almost forgetting that he was sharing it with Mrs. Lovett – or at least, he was aware that it was her, but she seemed to be different and he wasn't sure whether she had actually changed or that it was only the comfort of the moment that made her seem such a loving, tender woman instead of the insufferable landlady she used to be to him.
In retrospect, he was rather sure that he would've fallen asleep while Nellie was at his side, touching him like only Lucy should. But just before he succumbed to the baker at last, her hand suddenly moved lower than it had before, resting on his stomach a moment before continuing its exploration there. Instead of her palm, it were her fingertips now, or even her nails, that were stroking and caressing his skin. What the hell did she think she was doing?
He tensed, holding his breath while his mind began racing. What had he gotten himself into this time? Hadn't he reminded himself again and again to prevent him from finding himself in this kind of personal situations with the tempting baker?
His mind was screaming, but his body didn't seem to mind the current developments at all, simply ignoring the pleas of his brain to get away from the hand touching him so inappropriately.
And still, she moved her hand lower, caressing his skin experimentally, teasingly... She couldn't really mean to...
His body suddenly wasn't at ease any longer. His breath quickened as he realized what the baker might be doing, and so did the beat of his heart. The water and soap on his body mixed with sweat and during a few endless seconds, he was torn between interfering and letting her do what she seemingly intended to.
But then, reality hit him. How could he even consider letting her do this? It was bad enough already that he was in this situation with her in the first place.
His body was trembling again, but with anticipation instead of anything else. His eyes snapped open and he met her gaze, which was focused even more on him than usual, if such a thing was possible.
Getting away from her was the only sensible thing to do. The memories of this moment would haunt him for a long time, bother him with questions starting with 'what if', but it seemed nothing in comparison to having to deal with her now. The problem was that he no longer wanted to prevent all her advances without even thinking about it. Her feelings for him had been difficult enough when he had hardly wanted to have anything to do with her, but nothing had prepared him for this moment, in which a part of him – even though this was only his treacherous body – was actually welcome the feeling of her hand on his skin. But still, his mind was stronger, if only barely.
And thus, when her fingers brushed against the rough material of the edge of his trousers, his hand shot forward, grasping her wrist painfully and yanking it away from him, his heart beating furiously.
If that wasn't a mistake, looking her in the eyes certainly was. There was hurt in them, too much of it, and he couldn't take it. It would've been alright with him if she had smacked his head with a rolling pin, thrown him out of the house, yelled at him because of his tendency to get away from her almost immediately after he had allowed her to come closer to him, both with her body and emotions. Anything would've been better than this, that she didn't react at all and just sat there next to him, with obvious sadness in her eyes.
Once more wanting to be as far away from her as possible and staying with her at the same time, he stood up, his still unsteady legs wobbling beneath him. He made his way out of her bedroom as quickly as he could, slamming the door behind him, the pain that had been visible in her eyes after he had rejected once more burned in his memory.
