Hello there! This is my first contribution the "Sweeney Todd" fandom and I've been working on this for quite a long time. I've seen the musical (and read parts of the book) a positively unhealthy amount of times and after careful consideration decided to base my story on the original Broadway version, that is, Len Cariou's Sweeney and Angela Lansbury's Mrs. Lovett. I feel that their work doesn't get enough recognition nowadays in spite of them having created these characters in the form that we see them today. Especially Angela—I mean, the woman really ran with this role; and Mrs. Lovett's songs were written solely for her.
My story begins during the intermission and will work its way through the second act. With me shamelessly changing a lot of things up, of course. I'm not going to touch the part of the story that doesn't include Mrs. Lovett or Mr. T, so things can get a bit confusing if you're not familiar with the original storyline. If that should be the case, I implore you to go and see this magnificent show first.
Since you're already here and the Todd fandom is relatively warped, I'm guessing I don't have to tell you to watch the rating, but just to be on the safe side, please do make sure you're okay with the rating. Oh, and if you can guess where the title is from, I'm proud of you 'cause you really know your Sondheim.
I hope you enjoy, and please leave me a review if you do! :)
Sweeney Todd threw open the creaking front door of the pie shop and stepped inside, glad to be greeted by the familiar warmth of the house. He dropped his soaked leather coat onto one of the chairs, glancing around the room as he did so. There was no trace of life as if at two in the afternoon no one was awake yet. He didn't bother to wipe his feet on the dingy old carpet, for as he knew very well, there were worse things than mud down on the floor of the pie shop. Stepping straight past the kitchen table and into the parlour, Sweeney frowned at the silence that filled the house. He was used to the clatter of pots and pans and the cheery out-of-tune humming of his landlady.
The parlour was a murky place with only a couple of candles burning at the moment; the rain clouds had cut away the sun from the little window. Right there in the middle of the room, Sweeney could see a hunched figure sitting on the sofa, fumbling with what seemed to be a rather tangled knitting. He knew he had not yet stepped into the circle of flickering light, but already his presence was known.
"Well now, look who's back." There was an unusual distractedness in Mrs. Lovett's tone, for she always greeted Sweeney with bubbling excitement. "An' where 'ave you been roamin' abou' all night?"
Sweeney came forward from the shadows, stepping up next to the sofa and remaining there, his eyes nailed to the woman in front of him. There was something terribly amiss about her. "I've been having a drink in every pub I could find, and finally falling asleep at one of them," he replied seriously. He'd had to get out of the house last night, because in the darkness every wall and floorboard had called out to him in Lucy's voice. He'd had to drown his grief in gin to be able to sleep off the weariness of the hard day's work. However, now he sensed he might not be the only one with worries on his mind. "Why, what's the matter?"
"Oh, nothin'!" Mrs. Lovett's answer came all too quickly and with an overdose of unconcerned airiness. "Nothin' at all," she added quietly, keeping her eyes fixed on her knitting. "Nothin' at all."
Her behaviour awakened a dreadful doubt in Sweeney, a small but alarming possibility, and he asked, "Really? Where's the boy?" To his momentary relief, Mrs. Lovett raised her head and nodded towards the doorway Sweeney had just passed through moments ago.
"Oh, 'e's sound asleep in the kitchen, 'e is," Mrs. Lovett told him, lowering her voice in accordance with her words. "I told 'im to 'ave a nice rest today, 'im 'avin' worked so 'ard all week."
Sweeney nodded his head with relieved contentment, although he could see the distance and the unsettling tranquillity return to the woman. She was not smiling, he realized—not even smirking in that very characteristic way she had. That was three strange changes already with her silence and lack of enthusiasm at seeing Sweeney.
"You could 'ave easily 'ad a drink 'ere," Mrs. Lovett pointed out apathetically, her tone flat as opposed to its usual jumping notes.
"I didn't want to have it here," Sweeney replied with a great deal more vigour than he had meant to. Down here he was not haunted by his memories. Down in the pie shop and in the parlour, there were only he and Mrs. Lovett, Toby and their sensational meat pies. But most importantly, a kind of a new life Sweeney had begun to enjoy lately, more than he had ever thought he could enjoy anything. "Why, did you miss me?" he asked with a smirk of his own, intent on getting a lively reaction out of his landlady.
But Mrs. Lovett's attention was drawn decisively to the knitting that didn't seem to progress any. "Oh, what a silly idea!" she nearly muttered her reply. "No, I was just wonderin' where you'd got to." Silently Sweeney watched her make the same stitch four times and pull it loose again four times. On the fifth try something seemed to have gone wrong, for as far as Sweeney was familiar with knitting, a grouchy, "Oh, bugger!" was not part of the practice.
Contemplating his options and his position in Mrs. Lovett's life, Sweeney wondered if it would be right of him to pry further. But the woman's odd behaviour was so perplexing, so disheartening that for the first time Sweeney had a feeling he was not the most depressed person in the room. He had never seen Mrs. Lovett like this. "You don't quite look yourself, Mrs. Lovett," he eventually stated, and driven by some bizarre curiosity and boldness, he reached out a hand to lay it on the woman's shoulder.
But as he brushed against her arm, the strangest thing happened—Mrs. Lovett winced, drew in a sharp hiss and pulled away from his touch as if he'd burned her with his cold hand. Still she wouldn't budge from her needles.
"Are you all right?" Sweeney asked now with clear worry to his tone, even as he doubted Mrs. Lovett could detect it there.
The woman attempted a short cheerless laugh. "Of course, dear," she told him hastily. "By tomorrow I'll be right as rain, you just watch me."
Distracted by her earlier reluctance to be touched, Sweeney's eyes were drawn to the rest of her body rather than the shadowed side of her face he'd been looking at the whole time. He registered her pink dressing gown, tinged deep purple by the candlelight, its light lace sleeves and collar, and most importantly, a tear in the latter. Part of the lace collar was dangling loose from its rightful place and if Sweeney was not very much mistaken, it looked as if it had been ripped apart.
"What happened last night?" he asked in a hoarse voice, another dreadful image taking shape in his mind's eye.
Mrs. Lovett shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "What makes you think somethin' 'appened?" she asked as a reply, but there was a certain doubt in her tone, perhaps a fear of Sweeney guessing the reason behind her reticence.
And he did, vaguely but enough for it to alert an inner sense of protection in him. A sense that had driven him to his will to avenge his family and what was now brooding on doing the same for Mrs. Lovett's sake if need be. She was nearly family after all they'd been through together. And for some curious reason, Sweeney was more aware of the fact now than ever before. However, this primitive sense awakened an animalistic roughness in Sweeney, one that he was not exactly proud of and yet one that was necessary for getting any kind of information out of the headstrong Mrs. Lovett.
Forgetting to consider the scare he would give her, Sweeney suddenly grabbed Mrs. Lovett by the arm, hauling her to face him and proceeding to keep her in place by gripping her other shoulder with his long cold fingers. Now she was forced to look up at him both by Sweeney's move and by her own fright. Whatever the barber had expected her to look like and to do, not in a million years had he expected this.
Mrs. Lovett's big eyes were wide with terror, her round cheeks streaked with the excessive eye-paint she was always so proud of. She stared up at Sweeney with an expression of shock and scare, her full overpainted lips quivering, and in her eyes, in addition to fright, there was a deep and desperate pain that startled Sweeney to such an extent that he let go of the woman almost instantly. The knitting fell from Mrs. Lovett's hands when she hugged herself with one arm, using the other hand to pull her collar tightly shut over her chest.
Sweeney watched her body start shivering as she turned her face away to escape his piercing look. He had never thought he would see the strong Mrs. Lovett, his unflappable partner in crime and his boisterous landlady cry. If he had been surprised when he'd entered the room, he was completely astounded now, so much so, in fact, that he had to extend a hand to the back of the sofa to feel himself able to stay upright. A fleeting thought went through his mind that if Mrs. Lovett wouldn't talk now, he would not pry any further. It was simply not his place, he thought. And the two of them had a good thing going on, he wouldn't want to jeopardise it by making her afraid of him.
But just as Sweeney was contemplating leaving the parlour and the distressed woman on the sofa, Mrs. Lovett spoke. "I didn't want to tell you," she said in a quiet, quivering tone. "Last night, just as I was tidyin' things up all nice an' pretty in the shop..." She stopped to take a shuddering breath. "The beadle came." Sweeney inhaled sharply. "For a pie. An' a drink. An'… me."
"He didn't," Sweeney uttered blankly.
Mrs. Lovett shook her head hopelessly. "Would I be tellin' you if 'e didn't?" At the end of this sentence, her voice broke and a hand rushed to her face, presumably to suppress the next despondent sounds that were about to escape her lips.
After the first shock had worn off, it was replaced by an agitated panic in Sweeney, one that made it an ordeal to keep his hands from reaching for the woman in front of him and perhaps pulling her into his embrace to reassure her of his good intentions and care. However, this feeling was nearly at once transformed into rage towards the beadle, a wrath so fierce he could feel his fingers curling into tight fists all on their own and his expression turn serious.
"I'll kill him," he growled, a dangerous spark lit up in his eyes. "Be it in the street or even right in front of the judge's house that I see him next, I'll slit his throat right there." As he spoke, he witnessed a complete change in Mrs. Lovett. Her head shot up at his first words and she sprung around on the sofa, leaning towards the barber, despair once again replaced by fear on her face.
"No!" she whispered with urgent secretiveness in her tone. "No, you mustn't do that, dear." She tried in vain to grasp Sweeney's hand in her own, but the man had already made up his mind. He turned on his heel and had already taken a couple of steps when Mrs. Lovett's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Please!"
A curious streak of pain lashed through his chest at the desperate plea in Mrs. Lovett's cry. He couldn't recall a feeling like this from ever before, not even from that dreadful day she had told him about Lucy's fate. His mind had been in a crazed haze that day, overwhelmed by everything coming back to him upon his return to London. There were no sombre memories or heart-wrenching regrets to hide behind now that the violated creature was sitting right there, shivering with anguish and fear. It came to him from somewhere far in the back of his head that it was not for her own sake that she was frightened at this moment, if not only for being robbed of his presence in the house, should he fall into the hands of the authorities.
He turned back slowly, daring himself to look up into the wide watery eyes that had fastened upon him. Sweeney let his fists uncurl as he stepped up to Mrs. Lovett again, answering her apprehensive expression with a serious face he knew not a soul could read. When he'd stopped in front of the woman, he bent down a little and reached out with courteous care for Mrs. Lovett's arms. Moving cautiously, he hoped he would not alarm her again as he gently pulled her up to a standing position. Mrs. Lovett obeyed timidly, her eyes locked with his piercing dark ones.
"Now come here, my pet," Sweeney's exceptionally ardent voice cut through the brooding silence, blowing off the confining mistrust in the air as a soft breeze blows seeds from a dandelion. Paying no mind to her arms wrapping themselves protectively around her abdomen and the wariness that persistently lurked in those pastel blue eyes of hers, Sweeney turned unhurriedly and began to lead Mrs. Lovett backwards towards the peeling pale green door that he knew led to her bedroom. "You must rest."
He was somewhat bewildered by her tolerance for him guiding her so decisively, for he knew her to be a woman of a certain disdain for being handled. However, in spite of her physical willingness to submit to him, Mrs. Lovett was a stubborn dame and no mistake, and she was not quite prepared to be made an underling just yet.
"Oh, no," she said, shaking her head vigorously, and a vague displeased grimace flashed across her face upon the movement. "Not now I can't! There's work to be done. It bein' the week-en' an' all. People'll be comin' for pies an'–."
Sweeney shook his head resolutely. "We're closing down the shop for today," he stated and shifted Mrs. Lovett through the doorway to her bedroom. The woman was, for a little while anyway, silenced by the authority in Sweeney's tone and he was a tad self-satisfied by the reminder of how much power he theoretically had over her.
The room they'd entered was only slightly better lit than the parlour. Mrs. Lovett had, possibly subconsciously, left the candles burning, indicating what Sweeney had thought himself—that she was not feeling in the least as confident about working today as she was trying to appear. The damp walls had been decorated with tasteless pink and blue flowered tapestries, the mirror was a spiderweb of cracks. In the farthest corner, hunched against the walls and the wardrobe that seemed to be arduously keeping it on its feet, was an old double bed Sweeney supposed had been there ever since Mrs. Lovett's husband was still around: must have been about twenty years ago now. That of the bed was the direction Sweeney took, the seriousness of the situation making him forget to feel in any way ashamed of nearly dragging a wronged woman to her bed.
Once they had reached the bed, Sweeney carefully nudged Mrs. Lovett to sit down on it. "You best lie down," he said softly and noticed with mild astonishment that the protesting fire in the woman's eyes had died down during their journey and in its place was a shy obedience, like that of a scolded child.
Hesitantly Mrs. Lovett turned and pulled her legs up onto the bed. Reaching behind her swiftly, Sweeney positioned a cushion between her back and the headboard so that she could recline back against it comfortably. And she did, obeying the barber's well-meant unspoken command now with downcast eyes.
"Now, you stay in bed for the rest of the day," Sweeney ordered, his tone firm, yet mellow enough to almost sound caring. "It'll do you no good to be up and about." Although there was some truth in his words, he could also imagine this was the last place Mrs. Lovett actually wanted to be, for Sweeney had noticed the absurdly meticulous tidiness of the bed when they'd arrived, and in spite of how much it repulsed him to admit it, even the beadle had his standards. Involuntarily he let his mind wander a little, and a couple of disturbing images appeared in his mind's eye—violent, outrageous images any other man would have been ashamed of having conjured up, furthermore, with his friend in them.
In a while, Sweeney managed to banish the ugly thoughts and return his attention to the silent, trembling Mrs. Lovett. Her hands stayed limply in her lap and her eyes were fixed upon them as if she had never seen them before. She looked awfully small and vulnerable as she sat there at the scene of the crime with her head hung low and her red locks mussed, revealing an ugly black bruise on the side of her neck. Large tears stole down her rosy cheeks and over her full lips. Sweeney now noticed a deep cut across the quivering lower lip.
"You poor thing," Sweeney sighed quietly, and as if driven by some sort of a primaeval instinct, he raised his hand up to her chin, gently guiding her to turn her head his way. And she did, hesitantly, sniffling miserably. Swallowing the insistent reservations that had appeared in the back of his head, whispering to him in Lucy's voice, he carefully took Mrs. Lovett's round face in his hands.
Her skin felt soft and flushed against his cold fingers, suddenly a stunning reminder of the sultry femininity Sweeney had somehow overlooked until now. He could see the desolate apprehension in her wide searching eyes, feel the vulnerable shudder in her body upon his touch. For the first time, Sweeney saw her as someone other than the floury high-spirited baker, as a feminine human being with deep feelings and genuine fears, a fragile soul and an alluring body.
He traced his finger tenderly across Mrs. Lovett's cheekbone, wiping away a teardrop and barely refraining from moving his thumb over her lustrous cut lip. Mrs. Lovett let out a short shuddering breath, leaving Sweeney wondering for a moment what she must have been trying to find in his dark eyes, and more importantly, what he was trying to tell her himself. The moment he'd caught her face in his hands, he'd known, just for an instant, but the longer he stared at the petrified woman and listened to the slow beating in his ears, the less he remembered what his intentions had been.
He became acutely aware of the strong sweet scent radiating from Mrs. Lovett's skin and also of the two dainty hands she'd placed protestingly over his chest. And with a peculiar sense of reluctance, Sweeney realized the only sensible thing would be for him to withdraw from her, and so he did. Mrs. Lovett let out a small sigh when he released her, although Sweeney doubted it was because she had actually believed he'd hurt her again.