"So, um . . . how'd you end up with that dreadful Eyetalian?"

"Got me from the workhouse, he did," says Toby Ragg. "Been there since I was born . . ."

He chatters on as he ambles around the parlor, glancing into the photos lining the mantle, prodding bits of furniture, taking swigs of his gin.

Nellie wants to listen to what the boy says. She wants to learn of the trials he's been through and deduce how can she relieve his pains. But she can't. She's too distracted. Too alert to what is not happening within this room.

Her eyes shift to the ceiling yet again before she forces them back to Toby, hoping he didn't noticed her lapse of attention. How much longer will she need to keep the boy down here? How much longer could Sweeney possibly need to talk to Pirelli? She's already fed the lad two pies, given him a house tour, and presented him with a whole bottle of gin. She can't offer much more. Sweeney Todd possess absolutely no sense of time.

She wants desperate to traverse upstairs, but she knows it will be best if she does not interrupt. If there is one thing she has learned in her forty-one years, it is that men need to operate under the delusion that they control the world and women merely accessorize their arms. Sweeney, as deep as his devotion to her runs, is no different. To intervene, then, during what should be entirely a masculine transaction, would be dangerous.

But for God's sake, how long do they need?

She rakes her gaze over the ceiling yet again, straining to hear the scrape of shoes, the drone of words, the hiss of razorblades, anything at all that would clue her in . . .

xxx

The blade pulses as a second heart within his palm.

It beats in a rhythm directly opposite his own heart, creating a continuous thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud in his ears.

Bliss is so close he can taste it, so close his hand is shaking with all the power of God Himself – but then, he doesn't believe in God, not any longer – so perhaps God has transferred all His former powers to him – perhaps God too sees the need for retribution, even if He would never publically announce that He condones murder –

Sweeney surges forward, razor snicking open, arm raised, eyes rooted to Turpin's neck –

Wait.

Her word clutches him like the nip of a lover, tender but firm, and he halts in his tracks.

Wait.

But of course. Had she told not him it is better to enjoy the moment? Had she not told him good things come to those with patience? Each time he is upset that the beadle and judge have not yet come, she – who had shouldered the pain of being unable to retrieve retribution for fifteen years – has been calm. She has cajoled him, soothed him that all would be well, that the Fates could not be cruel forever. That their hour would come.

And she was right. She is always right.

But even she could not have predicted that, mere hours later, the very man she had been aching to sink her teeth into for nearly two decades would be reposing within Sweeney Todd's barber chair.

He flashes a savage grin at Turpin's back. Yes. He must enjoy this moment. He must enjoy Turpin's death. For her. Clouds of euphoria fuzz over his mind again – for her – she will be so pleased when she finds out that the judge is dead – she will be so pleased to learn that he killed this bastard for her – it is fortunate that Pirelli came just before, that he was able to practice on that baboon before being offered his true prey, else he might be anxious as to the outcome . . . as to what could go wrong . . .

For now, safe with the knowledge that this murder is possible and that the Fates are truly on his side, he knows that nothing can.

Composedly, he mixes up a cup of lather before beginning to paint the judge's face with white froth, eyes already glossy as he envisions how stunning it will be when red permeates the white. How should he do it? A single cut along half the circumference of the neck? A vicious tear at the jugular? A succession of short jabs all across the stubbled surface? A piercing into the –

"Mr. Todd!"

Anthony Hope barrels into the room and eradicates all his fantasies.

The judge is on his feet and snarling into both of their faces, the boy is blinking and stumbling through a mileage of half-formed replies, and the barber cannot move, cannot speak, cannot comprehend what is happening. Everything plays out before him slowly, the words echoing in a series of meaningless sounds. The razor hangs limp in his hand, lifeless, and not his blade nor his own heart pulses against his skin any longer.

He comes back to life as the door slams shut, rattling on its feeble hinges.

Turpin is gone. Retribution is gone. His balm for her is gone.

"M-Mr. Todd?" stutters Anthony.

"Out," whispers Sweeney, the world barely passing as a breath. His throat is tight, his mouth dry. His heart stagnant.

"Mr. Todd, I – "

"OUT!"

It's a scream this time, a shattering of the rage bottled up for too many years, a cry that rattles in his bones –

But it is not Sweeney's voice that shrieks the word.

"OUT, I SAID OUT!" Nellie roars, and Anthony doesn't need to be told a third time: he bolts for the door, practically throwing himself down the stairs in his haste.

Nellie's feet batter into the room, charting her from one end of the shop to the other, then back, then again, again, again. Red burns against her pale complexion so deeply he almost anticipates her blood to break that last barrier of skin and gush upon the floor. Half of her hair has fallen from her up-do and waterfalls unmethodically around her neck; the rest of her curls leap from her skull like vipers poised for attack.

He stares at her, wide-eyed: He's not seen her exhibit so much genuine emotion in fifteen years.

"Nellie . . .?" he dares to whisper, but she doesn't notice.

"Nellie," he tries again, a bit louder.

She comes to a halt and spins towards him, her fury drafting towards him and nearly knocking him off his feet.

"You had him," she says. "You had him – his throat was bare beneath your hand – "

"Nellie," Sweeney tries to placate her; he is not normally the voice of reason, but one of them must be, and she is clearly unable to be so at this moment. "Nellie, calm down – "

She growls and digs her feet harder into the worn floorboards as she maps angry patterns across the room. She who loves to talk is speechless; she who dwells with words as easily and naturally as a tiger hunts its prey cannot catch even a mouse. Thoughts spiral without form or reason through her mind, half-shaped, indistinctly sharp:

No justice – where did Pirelli – Turpin – Turpin just left – never get him – never save her – the fool – the bastard – Turpin – never never never –

She cannot process it. She cannot believe it.

What is the point? What is her purpose? There is none. There is none if it's unobtainable. If justice does not exist – which she has always known and yet never accepted – why should she continually pursue it?

Nellie Lovett has never accepted defeat. Nellie Lovett has never allowed herself to shrug her shoulders and give up. She would not ever take the coward's route out, she told herself from a very young age. Each time she fell to the ground, rather than sprawling about and moaning of her aches, she gained strength and picked herself back up.

But even gaining strength from falls doesn't mean that they don't hurt. It doesn't mean that bruises don't blossom, or that skin doesn't bleed.

"No – you had him!" she manages to yell. "You had him right there and his throat was bare and just when exactly did you plan to come find me so I could get him?"

Sweeney's forehead wrinkles. "I was – supposed to come get you?"

She barks out a laugh that makes the walls tremble and makes him wince. She paces even more viciously than before. "What – you thought you'd get to kill him? You thought I'd let you do what I've waited for longer than anyone else? His throat is mine, Todd – it's been mine since he raped Lucy and it'll be mine 'til the day he dies – "

"Lucy is my wife," says Sweeney, stupefied. "I must avenge her – it should be my hand that – "

"Oh, drop the act – you're not doing this for her anymore than you actually stole Turpin's pearls fifteen years ago, and we both know it."

His heart belly-flops to his feet – not because what she said is untrue, but because it is true . . . and neither of them has ever acknowledged it aloud. They both need their facades to survive. For her to stomp upon them, even in a moment of such passion, is unthinkable.

"And you had him!" she cries again, feet still beating without remorse upon the floor. "His throat was bare and he'll never come again – "

"Easy, now," says Sweeney, his legs striding towards her, his arms stretching out as though for an embrace – but his limbs wither against his chest before he can touch her. "Hush, love, hush – "

Their shoulders slam into one another on her next stride across the room. He reels backwards and resumes his former place near the wall, well out of her pacing range. She doesn't even notice.

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit and it's filled with people what're filled with shit," she mutters under her breath, faster than a nun chanting over her rosary, "and the vermin of the world inhabit it – "

As suddenly as she whips back and forth across the floor, she comes to a halt, directly beneath the large slanting window. Her eyes feast upon the panes. She moves one step closer, then two, pressing her face and palms against the glass, fogging it with her breath and her fingerprints.

A cold smile stretches across her mouth.

"But not for long . . ." she whispers, lips crawling against the glass panes, leaving a smudged path as they wipe away the condensation of her breath.

"They all deserve to die," says Nellie, as matter-of-factly as the participants of the Crusades, purpose driving her to speak with brutal calm. She turns to the side and directs her smile at him, her eyes stretching far beyond. Sweeney finds himself shivering and clutches his arms against his sides to keep still. "Tell you why, Mr. Todd, tell you why . . ."

So she reveals to him her epiphany, basking in it. Why did it take her so long to understand the world and realize how futile her every action is, yet how significant too? – the limits of her potential, and the far reaches of it? – how her role in restoring justice to this earth may seem small, but it is as crucial as breathing? – for if not her, who?

The thoughts are scrambled, but they are clear.

There is no justice. Those who do hold its power should not, and those who do not hold it should.

Not any longer. She holds just as much power as the gluttonous vultures of the law. They've never realized it before, and neither has she – but she does now, and they will soon.

And all will be as it should.

Her tirade comes to an end. Nellie kneels against the ground, silent and still, face turned to the floor, eyes hidden beneath downcast lashes. Reverence burns within her soul and through her fingertips as she pushes them to the ground.

He looks at her, sick with fascination: He never thought a woman so strong could be burned by anything; he never thought the Devil's wife could hold reverence for anything.

"Yes," Sweeney agrees. He doesn't fully understand what she's raving about – she can't truly think to butcher the entire London populace and not draw attention to herself? – but he will aid her pursuit however he can. Anything for her.

There are, however, more pressing matters than the massacre of London at present. And, though this may not be the best time to discuss those matters, he sees no other option.

"But, Mrs. Lovett," says Sweeney with as much delicacy as he can muster, jerking his head towards the trunk in the corner, "what'll we do with him?"

She doesn't so much as flinch.

"Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett?" He strides over and falls to his knees in front of her, tapping her shoulder. "Nellie."

Her chin lifts. She turns dead eyes upon him and only with effort does he hide a shudder.

"What," she says, her voice as empty as her gaze.

"What are we to do with him?" Sweeney asks again.

Nellie stares at him. She's never felt so alive in all her forty-one years – and he dares trivialize the moment by urging her with words of nonsense? Can't he understand that, for once, for fucking once in her life, she doesn't need words to fill the silent rooms and devoid space? That she's reached her own heaven – but she does not believe in Him who dwells in heaven – and too, another but: she is still alive, so alive, dear God she hopes she always remains this alive, so alive in her death – and that in her heaven, she doesn't need to keep up a continual stream of chatter to keep her going?

Something warm snakes around her waist and hauls her upward. If she could register shock, she would feel it now: Sweeney has not been bold enough to initiate physical contact between them since his return to London, yet he has just twined his arm around her waist.

He begins to walk forward, urging her feet to move with his. She drags her legs across the floor, but the muscles in her body hang limp, unresponsive. So, rather than walking together, they end up performing an odd shuffle down the stairs and into her shop, he leading them both, she flopping against his side.

Inside Mrs. Lovett's Emporium, he perches her on a chair. He does his best to prop her carefully and not slam her legs against the table, or drop her too heavily, though he doubts she would notice even if he did.

The silence roars in his ears. Desperate for her voice, he fetches a bottle of gin and two tumblers, pouring them both a generous measure. The glass of the bottle and the tumblers clank together as his hands tremble.

"Drink," he urges her as he sets one glass down.

He takes the seat beside her. He watches her shoulder hike towards her ear, her bicep rise towards the table, her elbow bend and swing her forearm outward, her every muscle flex as she stretches for what she is only half a foot away from, her fingers close upon the glass, her arm fold back together like an accordion and her shoulder blade press into her back and her wrist curve towards her mouth and her throat buckle in a swallow. Each move precise and automatic, a long-perfected machine that wastes not a single movement.

He downs his own shot, then gives them both refills. Hoping that the alcohol has revived her to discuss at least one practical manner before moving onto the matter of her genocide, he says, "Mrs. Lovett, what should we do about Pirelli?"

She flicks her eyes at him without concern, as one might towards a bug on the window.

"Didn't you already do – whatever was needed with him?" she mutters.

"Well," says Sweeney, frowning, "I did kill him, yes, but – "

The smack of her head hitting the table cuts him off. "You idiot," she groans into the tabletop, then snaps her head back into place, berating herself. She knows better than to insult Sweeney's intelligence to his face.

Sweeney rears indignantly. "He tried to blackmail me."

Typical man, she thinks, watching his defensive stance.

"Half my earnings," he elaborates, when the scorn does not leave her face.

"Oh," she says, blinking, deflating. Maybe she underestimates his intelligence. "Well. That's a different matter, then."

Sweeney, calm again under her approval, nods.

Nellie Lovett, master of brilliant plots and trickery, squints into the bowels of her tumbler and suggests, "Well, later on, when it's dark, we'll take him to some secret place – and bury him."

"Ah," says Sweeney. "Yes. We could."

But he frowns to himself. A plan so simple has too many potential routes leading to failure. A body is too bulky to carry manually for any great distance without being noticed, but taking a carriage would draw no less attention; decomposing human flesh is the worst smell in existence and is thus bound to turn noses; Pirelli will drip blood on the ground, a trail not of breadcrumbs but of liquid rubies, for anyone to follow home; officers will surely suspect; and just where the hell are they to find 'some secret place' within the largest city of the world?

Needing to clear his head, he gets to his feet, but finds himself without any primal desire to pace across the floor as per usual. Instead, he ambles to one of the windows, lifting aside a bit of curtain and peering outside, sliding the fabric between his fingers, siphoning in the world outside.

It's strange how removed he feels from these people, even here and now without the ocean parting them as it did only several weeks ago, separated by memories rather than miles. It's strange how he feels so alone in a country of over sixteen million humans. All these bodies, all these souls . . . surely among them there is one whom he could connect with – Nellie aside, of course; Nellie he does not even consider among these worthless hoards. All these people squandering their lives away worrying over social parties or small bits of money or blisters that will heal, all these petty concerns consuming them until there's nothing left, all these wasted lives, all this wasted flesh, all this wasted time and potential and living . . .

Waste not, want not, Nellie trills in his mind as she scraps gristle from the bones of a scrawny slab of beef, a rare treat, picked up at the butcher's.

His heart freezes. His hand fists in the curtain.

His mouth grins.

He turns his gaze upon Nellie, fingers still clutching the curtain with Herculean strength, possessed by muscle and determination and purpose never before experienced. If she wants a massacre, he'll give her one – but the bodies must go somewhere, and she must not starve while he slaughters.

This is brilliant. This is perfect. She will love this.

She will love him.

He clears his throat. She doesn't look at him. He closes his eyes and curses his inability with words, before prying his eyelids and his lips apart.

"I – you – it seems a downright shame," he says.

"Shame," she echoes, not even blessing him with a glance.

"It – seems – an awful waste," he persists, staring at her, willing her to understand.

Nellie swirls the last bit of gin in her glass around, lifts the tumbler to her lips, and swallows.

"Such a nice plump frame he has – had – has," he stammers out, "and where it can't be traced . . ."

She grabs the gin flagon and bangs it unhappily against the table when she sees that it's empty.

Sweeney grits his teeth, furious with himself. He endured fifteen years of living hell in the colony, escaped and nearly lost his life to an ocean as merciless as God – and now he can't even muster up the courage to spit out a coherent sentence? Talking should be small potatoes compared to all that.

He sets his shoulders. He will speak – and she will listen.

"Your business needs a lift," says Sweeney, eyes stabbing like steel into her skull. "You have debts to erase. Think of it as thrift, or a gift. . . . I mean, with the price of meat what it is – when you get it – if you get it – "

Her gaze swings up towards him, sparking with that same fervor that it did just minutes before in his shop. This time, the expression doesn't terrify him; this time, the expression is mirrored within his own face.

"Ah," she whispers.

She sets both the flagon and the tumbler upon the table. "Mr. Todd," she says, standing, "you're a bloody wonder – y'know that?"

He glows beneath the praise. Also typical man, she muses with exasperation. Pretending to be in control with utmost confidence in his every twitch – but he can't possibly be in control or confident without a woman continually restoring his faith in his manhood.

And yet – and yet . . . exasperation is not her predominant emotion currently, as it normally is with Sweeney Todd. Surging far higher are feelings she never expected to hold for him: pleasant incredulity, admiration, partiality. Awe.

She begins to walk towards him – but he is already striding towards her. He meets her beside the table and seizes her around the waist. Her incredulity and awe increases tenfold: save for dragging her down the stairs minutes before – a moment which hardly counts, seeing as how hopelessly inanimate she was then – he has never before reached for her without she reaching for him first.

He pulls her into a dance, moving as naturally as he breathes. He continues to talk as they waltz, tossing out further ideas for her new meat pie business, bantering with her as he did that afternoon in the marketplace. Her mouth grins and her throat bubbles with laughter. He guides her feet across the floor, molds her steps to match his, and she lets him: for once, it's nice not to be in command, worrying perpetually about steering everything in the proper direction.

"Since marine doesn't appeal to you, how about rear admiral?" he suggests, quirking one eyebrow.

"Too salty," she says, wrinkling her nose. "I prefer general."

"With or without his privates?" he returns. "With is extra."

Nellie breaks out in a fit of giggles. She tries to rein in control, tries to hold her lips shut and strain her muscles against the laughs, but their force is just too great. So she succumbs.

Drunk with laughter – and he knows it's the laughter and not the alcohol she's drunk on, because she's built up too much tolerance to alcohol but has developed none for unadulterated laughter – she collapses into his arms.

And everything else goes away.

A/N: Reviews are love.