A.N. Idk, I like the idea of grandma Nellie.
Eleanor's wrinkled hands wielded silver knitting needles in her lap, her vastly greyed hair held off her face by a loose up-do she'd managed earlier that day, and her focused eyes remained downcast on the pile of ruby red thread; she was determined as ever she was to finish Mr. Todd's damned muffler before she finally croaked.
The now ancient barber and baker sat, shoulder to shoulder on the emerald sofa, both more relaxed than ever in each other's company, even without the consistent acknowledgment of the other's other. A contented fire had the darkened room subtly awash with light, and whatever softly-spoken words that fell from whoever prated fed the serenity the aged couple felt at the moment. The modestly small, quiet house they had shared for nearly half her lifetime, set on a knoll and closed off from the world – or so it pleasantly felt - by a thicket of stunning cherry trees, was not anywhere near to the ocean as she had once foolishly dreamt; but after the weeks she spent hurling into a bucket, surrounded by the great wet thing – well, let's just say she'd gotten her fair share of the 'idyllic scenery'.
The thought of her blowing chunks on the terrible voyage to America consequentially resulted in thoughts of Anthony and Johanna. Never mind how offensive the transition may be. Drawing in a breath to gather her company's attention, Eleanor set down her tools and turned to catch Sweeney's gaze before he looked away again.
"How d'you think the kids are?" Eleanor asked, her joking tone going hand-in-hand with the brilliance in her eyes.
He looked surprised initially by the sudden change in subject, but it was so slight and had she blinked it would have gone unseen. Old age had hardly changed either of them, and Sweeney's smile was miniscule and lopsided – but at least it was there.
"Fine, my pet," He said smoothly, his velvety voice quiescent and wonderful still to her ears. "I'm sure they're just fine."
The conversation held an air of conclusion, even though now Eleanor was bursting to continue. But she didn't dare, instead starting up the labour of knitting once again; this time around, she was distracted and silent.
Eleanor wondered what had come of the two lovebirds. Oh, of course every few years or so they received a letter from wherever on earth they were at the moment – Johanna, the poor dear, couldn't stand staying in the same place for more than a few days before she began to feel trapped and desperate; Eleanor hoped the world was big enough to quench her thirst for new, foreign horizons – there was just so much that couldn't be said, even in a library of 'hello's and 'we are just fine, Mrs. Lovett!'s.
She knew for a fact that there was never to be or ever was any grandchildren, which had displeased Sweeney something terrible when Anthony wrote, explaining Johanna's detest for babies – it was understandable, had he not brooded and thought clearly about it: Johanna felt that the runny-nosed monsters would chain her to one place, the exact thing she feared so much – but in the end Eleanor had been able to convince the pouty fossil out of his sulk, and stopped any grudges that may or may not have been brewing for a certain, dewy-eyed sailor.
She knew also that they were married, nonetheless the lack of children; they wrote about their fall wedding somewhere in the lower colonies of Canada; Sweeney had been upset then too, and Eleanor had tried to get his mind off of missing his only child's wedding by offering her own hand in holy matrimony… Sadly her proposal was for naught.
But most importantly she knew that in each and every letter the two had sounded genuinely blissful. And Sweeney was proud of them for being happy.
Eleanor looked down at her soon-to-be scarf, her smile sinking as she ran her fingertips across its yarny face. Her lips twisted suddenly and her old eyes swelled with tears. Why now? Why hadn't she noticed that her project for over 3 months now was red before it was too late to scrap it in a fit of frustrated remorse?
…Why did she think she didn't deserve to mourn properly, over her dear little boy?
Angrily, she swept a hand over her eyes, sniffing and glancing instinctively over to Sweeney. They locked gazes before she dropped hers. After a beat of uneasy silence, Sweeney shuffled closer and wrapped an arm around her weak shoulders. He pressed a hesitant kiss on her temple, whispering sweet nothings to calm her, as it was his turn to not let her fall.
He drew away back to his corner of the settee as soon as she sent him a grateful smile and patted his leg in reassurance.
She heard the words mulling about in his tongue before he gained the courage – or the incentive – to open his mouth and say them, but she didn't want to hear him gently reminding her that there was no point in dwelling on the past, on what she knew couldn't be erased or reversed. She was sure he had absolutely no idea what's so ever why she was on the verge of bawling her wrinkled eyes out, but he knew it had to do with something gone and passed. It always was, with these two.
"It's alright, love." She murmured, once again picking up her pace of clinking silver, desperate for something to hide herself behind – old habits die hard, she supposed sardonically.
Despite her grief, she was positive she would have done nothing different if given the chance; they were in peace together now; they'd grown old together just as she always wanted. And it was for the best that Toby hadn't been forced to continue living in this rotten world. She regretted absolutely nothing.
But she understood believing in what she did would never lessen the ache she felt when she walked into her parlor to find an empty rug, or when she drank her occasional glass of gin, or when she knitted a red muffler, or when she simply missed him.
Now, when she thinks back to those moments that were once the best of her life, that her and the retired barber shared, Sweeney's glowing eyes were always outshined by Toby's always brighter smile; the sense of glee she'd caused when Sweeney had been in front of her, whispering loving words she could never hope to hear, to the razors in his palm was outweighed by the joy she made in the little games she once played with what seemed to be the only innocent left in her universe.
Eleanor shook her head, the fierce narrowing of her eyes exacerbating the shadowed crinkles on the edges of her face. She refused to gorge out her feeble heart any longer; especially over something that she could not or would not fix.
The old woman remembered how numb she was after she'd dug her butcher knife across a too young throat – after she had cried over the drained body of someone she loved, and who, for once in her life, had loved her back, on the bakehouse floor. And then - while now she realized she was relieved beyond sanity that she'd found Lucy before Sweeney did – she remembered still feeling nothing as she covered the blonde's howling mouth and carved out every ounce of soiled blood.
Usually she didn't waste time on things like that – things that hurt a hell of a lot more than they were really worth, but she supposed that was how it was always meant to be: thinking of the beginning when one was at their end.
She nearly laughed when she briefly thanked God, or whoever the hell was up there, that Sweeney was busy awaiting the Judge's arrival that night, and was too preoccupied with sweet revenge to recognize the crooning lullaby Eleanor had cut short just beneath his window.
After Turpin's insufferable life was ended and the bodies lying hot in the bakehouse were thrown into the inferno's last fire, they had fled the country, too earlier for decent people to be up and about. They watched London disappear before the sun could even think of waking up and igniting the dark ocean yellow.
Her and darling Johanna had gotten along famously, whenever Eleanor didn't have her pale face glued into a pale, and distinctly amongst fuzzy recollections, she remembered the sweet girl pleading her to tie down the barber on the spot, before someone else did.
Eleanor's lips cracked under the pressure of the warm reflections churning like butter through her mind's eye, twitching into a distant smile. She just knew there'd be a gold band around her finger, had Johanna thought to beg her father.
It was too bad Sweeney didn't wish to reveal his true identity to the young couple – if only he did, she would have had wonderful memories of their wedding night to reminisce on.
Sweeney turned his head and watched the side of Eleanor's face, his lips parting and closing as he contemplated saying something to her. The clacking of her knitting needles seemed to fill every inch of the room, leaving no space for words that truthfully needed to be said. Instead of breaking her song of noise, deciding against interrupting her precise thoughts with something that probably couldn't be expressed adequately enough, Sweeney placed a hand on her knee, silently hoping she'd look his way and think of a way to say the words he had to speak for him…
A small sigh of exhaust escaped out of her pursed lips, and Eleanor held up the finished scarf in front of her, inspecting it with a satisfied, yet brusquely commenting eye. She shifted to hand the gift over to her love, smiling a little childishly, looking a decade or so younger from her radiant happiness. Her years fell back into place in the corners of her mouth and her eyes, her skin losing its brilliant lustre, her hands slowly sinking down to her lap as shock froze her aged heart.
She didn't breath; she didn't gasp or cry out as she once expected to. "Sweeney," She whispered, her throat clamped tight as if his ghost was squeezing her neck in.
Her barber was dead: his eyes closed and his head leant back on the settee, his pulseless hand still clinging in displaced hope on her quivering knee. She drew in a sharp breath, liquid salt searing trails down her deflated cheeks, and Eleanor's shaky fingertips brushed his nose, his lips, his jaw, his hairline in deathly silence.
"Half a minute, couldn'tcher?" She peeped, fisting his muffler against her chest, her beating, heaving chest. "Couldn't yah wait, my love…?"