"I... I think I'll stay up here tonight," finished the barber, pulling his arm away from her. "Good night, Mrs. Lovett."
He let the door shut in her face, not wanting to see her hurt expression. He quickly locked the door in an attempt to keep her out, but he knew she had the key, so it was pointless. He sat down on the edge of his chair and stared down at the floor.
Mrs. Lovett stared into the window for a moment, tears beginning to find their way out of her eyes. Without a second look back, she ran down the stairs and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She flopped onto the bed, angry sobs wracking her body.
Why? Why did this happen to her? Why was she tortured like this? Why was it she that felt so strongly for a man who showed no emotion back, who couldn't remember what it felt like to love, who didn't feel like he deserved to love anybody? She wished it had been she that had poisoned herself instead of Lucy. At least then he would be happy. They would be happy together.
If none of this had every happened, if the Judge hadn't been so obsessed with women, then she would still be in her shop in Bell-yard, Benjamin and Lucy would still be living in the house she now resided, and maybe she would've gotten over him. Probably not, but at least she wouldn't have to see him every single day, wouldn't have to wash his clothes and cook his meals.
No, she still would've been miserable, and she'd never had the joy she had the night before. She remembered the feeling of his cool skin, and the feeling of them doing what they had been put on this Earth to do. Even the thought of it made her grow warm and antsy.
She should go back up there to him. She had the key... He probably didn't really want her out; he probably just didn't know what to do. Her heart welled with pity for the man and she jumped out of the bed, quickly pulling a quilt off of it, which she folded and draped over her arm.
If he was going to spend the night freezing in the barber shop, she was at least going to bring him a blanket.
Sweeney had moved to sit against the wall opposite the door. He closed his eyes and thumped his head hard on the wall, each time cursing himself in his head. He heard the sound of a key being thrust into a lock, and soon the door was open, and Mrs. Lovett was striding in. She gently closed the door behind her and turned the lock, leaving the room impossible for anyone on the outside to enter.
⌠▒ello, love," she greeted, stifling a yawn. He opened his eyes and looked disapprovingly at her and the blanket, but didn't move as she sat close to him and spread the blanket over them both.
"You didn' really think I'd leave you all up 'ere by your lonesome, did ya?" She couldn't force back her yawn this time.
"I thought you were going to bed," muttered the man, glad for the warmth of the quilt and her body.
"Not without you I'm not." She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. He wrinkled his nose, not sure what he thought about this.
True, he hadn't really wanted to spend all night alone in the drafty barber shop. But he didn't want to hurt her anymore then he already had...
And that's when he noticed the drying tears on her face.
Dang it... he had hurt her again. What was wrong with him? He felt disgusted with himself. He felt her settle deeper into sleep, and wrap her arm through his. He felt her fingers interlace with his own as she fell into a more comfortable position closer to him.
He should take her downstairs to her bed. Sleeping in the shop wouldn't be good for her. If he did so, he was committing to staying there with her. Was that so terribly bad? He wanted her, her warm touch, her kiss. He wanted to hear her singsong voice and see her smiling face.
He knew he would get all of that no matter what he did or didn't do. She would do anything for his attention and his affection, and if she had realized that she now completely had both, he was sure she would squeal with pleasure. Sighing slightly, he moved her into his arms and stood, carrying her with her legs draped across his left arm and supporting the rest of her sleeping form with his right. The wound on his left arm panged slightly at the weight, but he ignored it. She looked like a rag doll in his arms, and stirred slightly when he left the shop.
"Mmm, where are you taking me, love?" she asked, her voice heavy with sleep and almost indecipherable.
"To bed."
She seemed to wake up slightly at his voice. "You plan on staying, don't'cha? If not, put me down this instant."
He chuckled at the thought of her trying to get out his grasp only half-awake.
"Yes, love, I plan on staying."
She snuggled closer to him. "Good."
She somehow managed to drift back to sleep as he carried her through the kitchen and the parlor. Toby was asleep on the couch, and he wasn't awoken by the barber's soft footsteps.
Upon reaching her bedroom, Sweeney laid the woman down gently on her bed and pulled off his vest and shirt before sliding in beside her. He pulled her closer to him and covered them both with a blanket as she had done earlier.
"G'night, love," he whispered into her ear, but she didn't hear him, because she was fast asleep.
It was the first night in over 15 years that the man slept without a single dream of Lucy haunting his mind. He slept dreamlessly, and it was a welcome relief.
"Oh bugger!"
Sweeney opened one eye as the comment reached his ears, and saw Mrs. Lovett examining a rip in the skirt of her dress. She noticed him awaking, and was quick to comment.
"This is what 'appens when you sleep in a dress not made for sleepin' in." She flicked around to look judgingly through her wardrobe.
"It's Saturday. Need to go to market... running low on some things," she said more to herself then him. "Wouldn't mind a nice piece of beef either."
She turned her head to look at him, winking.
"For us, a' course, not for the pies."
The barber blinked, raising himself out of the bed. What was she talking about? He had caught little of what she had spoken.
"What?" he asked, watching as she pulled off her dress and slipped into a different one. She draped the dress over a chair, mumbling about how she would have to sew the rip together when she got home.
"Hm?" she replied absentmindedly to him, finally looking up. "What'd you say?"
"I asked what in all of London you were rambling on about!"
She cocked an eyebrow at him, and a smile played across her face.
"No need to be angry, love. You comin' to Market with me?" She expected him to say no like he always did, and her smile broadened as he spoke just the opposite.
"Yes, of course."
"Well, you best be puttin' a shirt on, love. 'ere, let me check that bandage." She moved over to the man, who was still in the bed, and quickly unraveled the bandage, examining the wound that had just scabbed over. "Look's fine to me, dear."
She threw the bandage over to one side, planning to scrub at it later along with all of the other bloody clothing. He got out of the bed and wandered into the room next door, pulling on a shirt and vest. He tied his brown and white necktie the way he always did and tucked it into his vest, remembering that his coat was covered in blood... He spotted another one hanging on the door.
"Where'd this come from?" he asked the pie-maker when he saw her again in the kitchen.
"Where do you think it came from, love?" she replied, rustling about in her cabinets to see exactly what she needed.
He decided that it didn't bother him that he was wearing a coat pilfered from one of his victims, so he followed her out of the shop and down to Fleet Market.
People called Fleet Market a stain on the city that was London, but Todd didn't think it was worse then anything else. Sure, the whole thing was filled with lying merchants, rotting goods, and rats, but what market wasn't? He walked through the crowd by Mrs. Lovett's side, not really paying attention to her as she chattered on, but enjoying the sound of her smooth voice. He watched her as she made her way down to the butcher, carefully weaving around the people going the other way. When they arrived there, the butcher greeted her politely and watched her hopefully as she eyed the pieces of meat hanging around.
Mrs. Lovett was extremely picky now that she had the money to be.
"Hold these, dear," she spoke to Todd, shoving her lace gloves into his hand. She ran her fingers down a piece that caught her eye, making sure it wasn't slimy.
"How much for this one?" she asked, now addressing the butcher. He eyed her warily.
"One pound, an' that's as low as I'll go, misses. Beef's not as cheap as it used to be," replied the butcher firmly. She shrugged and pulled out a pound note.
"How many shillings to have it taken to my shop?"
"Five."
"Now, that is a bit much," she bargained.
"Fine, three," he mumbled; now just wanting her gone.
"Perfect." She passed him the rest of the money and he pocketed it. Sweeney caught the angry look the butcher gave Mrs. Lovett on the way out, but said nothing.
"We can get everything else across the street, love," remarked Mrs. Lovett, leading him back down to where they started. She had to admit that it was extremely convenient to have a grocery on the other side of the road, and she visited it often.
That's when the barber left her, mumbling about how he should get up to his shop. She nodded and let him go, already surprised that he had spent most of the morning with her.
He ascended the stairs and entered his shop, twisting the sign to read 'open' on his way in. He then went about warming water and carefully stropping his blades to where they had unusually keen edges. While doing so, his thoughts drifted down the normal path, which now consisted mostly of Mrs. Lovett.
The man tried to remember years back, when he was a different person in a different time. He remembered when all the local boys, including him, had grown old enough to court the girls, and he remembered how no one had dared go near Margery, who had already donned the name Lovett at the age of thirteen. That's the way arranged marriages worked. He remembered the way she used to look at him, and felt icy disbelief that he hadn't seen how badly she had wanted him.
But even when he had returned and found that he was a widower, it had taken him months to notice her hinting. At the moment, he wished that he'd had her his whole life.
He was brought back to Earth by a jangling bell. The barber looked up to see Mrs. Lovett enter his shop.
"Hello, love." The words slipped from his mouth before he had the chance to pull them back. Normally, he didn't greet her when she came in.
"Oh, 'ello," replied the pie-maker, stunned that he had said the first words. "Meat's 'ere. Mind taking it down to the cellar for me, darling?"
She knew that if he had carried her from up here to downstairs, that he could manage a side of beef. He placed his razor down and pulled off his gloves. He left the shop to see two men waiting, burdened by the meat. They gratefully gave it to him, and he lugged it easily down to the cellar, with Mrs. Lovett flitting ahead of him to open the doors.
"Hang it 'ere, love," she told him, reaching for a hook that dangled from the ceiling. She managed to snag it with the tips of her fingers, and he hooked the meat on it. "Got a razor on you, I presume?"
She held out her hand for it, and he pulled it from his side.
"Tell me where to cut."
The barber got a lesson from the pie-maker on how to correctly cut a side of beef. Of course, he had already gone about finding out how to cut up a human body perfectly, so it wasn't extremely difficult. The woman took the pieces she would use for their supper tonight and piled them in a bowl, then went to check the pies.
"When'd you find time to put pies in?" questioned Sweeney, wiping his razor off and watching her struggle with the heavy door to the bake oven. Her smiling face was illuminated by the burning flames as she looked in at the pies.
"I've been up a lot longer then you 'ave, love." She swung the door shut. "Still like about 'alf an hour." She pulled down the lock on the furnace, grunting.
"Phew, I'm gettin' too old for this." She looked over at him, the vent in the furnace causing light to play over her.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was moving towards her, and drawing her into his arms. She squeaked in surprise and delight, only to be cut off as he pressed his lips against her own. She didn't know which was worse, the heat from the furnace or the heat his kiss was causing inside her. In fact, she felt beads of sweat begin to form on her forehead, and he pulled away, laughing openly at her.
"Yes, it's very funny, isn't it," she whispered, wiping the sweat from her face. "I'd like to see you work as 'ard as me."
His warm breath on her face wasn't helping anything. The firelight played across his pale features, and his smile made her heart boil and melt. She glanced over his shoulder at the two dead men that were lying on the floor.
"I wonder if they got anything valuable on 'em," she remarked, her thoughts distracted from him until he pressed his unnaturally cold hands against her warm face. She shivered at the tingling sensation shooting down her spine.
"Better?" he asked teasingly, barely feeling the heat from the oven they were standing beside. He stroked her face caressingly with the side of his hand and pressed his forehead to hers.
It took her a few moments to find her voice, and she swallowed before replying, "I'd be better if we got out of this bake house. It's a tad warm in here, love."
He pulled away from her and started back up the steps. She grabbed the bowl of meat still laying a few feet away and bustled up the steps behind him, but by the time she reached the top, he was already back up in his own shop.
"What in all of London did I just do?" the barber asked himself in a whispered yell. The silver razor was still clenched firmly in his hand; it had been during all his actions. He loosened his grip on it and it slid from his hand to lay open on the floor.
The edge, it would've became dull with use by now. He quickly snatched it up and hooked his strop to the hook on his chair, gently bringing the blade up and down it in a slow, motherly fashion, the normal task calming his frazzled nerves.
He needed to get better control of himself around Mrs. Lovett. If not, he might slip, and hurt her again. It was like the monster inside him was growing, being fed once again. Except this time, it wasn't being fueled by hate and anger. It was being fueled with something else entirely, and the barber wasn't at all sure if he liked it.