"I didn't know you could play piano, mum."

"I can't," Nellie replies with a laugh as she sits down upon the harmonium bench, tracing her fingers along the grooves between the keys. "This isn't a piano though, love, it's a harmonium. Can't play this here either – but I couldn't resist buying it. Business's been doing so well lately that I just had to treat myself."

Who knew a single human would yield enough meat for four dozen pies – and counting? Moreover, who knew human meat would be such a commercial success? She hadn't thought she could feel any further surprise at the ignorance and stupidity of Londoners, but – yet again – she had been wrong. Pirelli's pies had been selling faster than hot cakes.

"And this harmonium was such a bargain too," she continues. "It was only partly singed when the chapel burnt down."

Toby shifts from foot to foot in the doorway. "I always wanted to learn how to play the piano," he admits.

"Well, don't just stand there," Nellie pretends to reprimand him. "Come learn how to play with me."

Grinning, he takes a seat next to her.

"But you've got to stop calling it a piano," she says, reaching up to ruffle his hair, smiling as he whines and bats away her hands. "It's a harmonium. Can't have you wandering around calling things what they're not."

Toby swats her fingers and looks at the harmonium keys. "How're you going to learn to play? You don't have any books or nothing."

Nellie snorts. "Books? You think I learned to make pies by reading books, dear? Or how to do laundry, or run my own business?" Or extract revenge? "I'm not saying books ain't useful, love. They are when the occasion calls for 'em. But some things can only be learned through sitting down and getting your hands in it."

She lays her fingers along the keys, one fingertip against each, the way she's seen it done. She presses her left index finger down and the room trembles with a single chord. Her right fourth finger descends upon its key, her widow's ring rubbing between flesh and ivory, and a second note pulses through the room, discordant to the first.

"You learning a lot with that experience?" Toby teases.

"Lots," Nellie confirms with mock certainty, proceeding to stamp her fingers along all the keys in no particular order. The room jangles with her unmelodious song and it grates against her ears. But she keeps playing.

"C'mon, love, join in," she urges Toby.

He gives her a dubious look, but places his hands against the far right end of the keyboard and pushes a single key.

"That's hardly the spirit, love," she chides him. Continuing to slam the fingers of her left hand along the keys, she loops her other arm around his shoulders, crushing him against her side and ruffling his hair again.

"Mrs. Lovett!" Toby yelps, squirming, flailing against her without any real will to tear himself away. "I told you to stop that!"

Nellie sets her jaw and issues her ultimatum: "I'm not going to stop until you play the harmonium with me."

"You're not even playing it properly – when you said you was going to learn it, I thought you was actually going to learn correctly, not just slam the keys – "

"Who says this's incorrect? It's making music, ain't it? What's incorrect about that?" Her fingers rumple his hair further, making it stand on end with static and adding at least two inches to his height. "Now, are you going to make some music with me or not?"

"Alright, alright!"

Nellie abandons her mission to add a third inch to Toby's height with his hair, moving her hand from his scalp to the keyboard. Her arm remains curved around his shoulders.

Toby begins to slap his hands against the keyboard, beating with wild freedom at the keys. He tosses her a glance beneath raised eyebrows. "Happy now? This more like it?"

Her lips twitch. "Much better."

She doesn't know how long they continue on like that with their fingers smacking the keys – but when her eyes drift to the clock on the mantelpiece, she lets out a gasp.

"Quarter to midnight! Sweet Jesus, I'd no idea it was so late. You ought to be asleep, love."

"I'm not tired," he protests. "And I'm old enough to decide when I go to bed."

"Don't whine, Toby – it's unbecoming." She makes to rumple his hair again but he dodges out of her grasp, leaping up from the harmonium bench and folding his arms over his chest. Without his body pressed against hers, she becomes aware how cold the room is. The summer heat of August is fading fast into fall.

"Go on, love," she urges, gently, "off to bed with you. You'll thank me tomorrow when you're up at the crack of dawn."

"Alright," he agrees, petulantly digging his toes into the carpet. "But I'm getting a glass of gin before I go to sleep."

"Fine," she says, rolling her eyes, "so long as it's only the one glass and not the whole bloody bottle again."

"Fine," says Toby, his peevish tone an exact mirror of hers, arms still folded across his chest – but before he exits the room, he crosses back over to the harmonium bench and kisses her forehead.

Her heart swells. Loving this boy was never part of her plan in saving him, and Nellie detests having her plans derailed for any reason. But maybe sometimes, through the derailing, a better track can be discovered.

"Good evening, Mrs. Lovett."

She cries out and whirls around on the bench. Sweeney stands against the far wall, watching her.

"Good God, Mr. Todd," says Nellie, slumping forward. "Gave me a fright, y'did. Just how long've you been standing there?"

His shoulders lift then fall in a shrug.

"Well, next time," she admonishes as she rises to her feet, scowling, "try announcing your presence, eh? It's called being polite, Mr. T, to let others know when you come into a room, so's you don't nearly send them into heart failure later on when you finally do decide to grace them all with the knowledge that you've come in – "

"I did it," Sweeney says to her – interrupts her, moreover.

She raises her eyebrow. She still hasn't adjusted to him being comfortable talking around her, yet ever since he came up with the genius plan to put humans into pies, he's found some inner well of strength with which to do so. Mind, it's not as though he's now spouting elegant speeches or even complete sentences. Still, it's quite a leap, considering where he started.

"Don't play coy, love," she says. "Just what exactly did you do?"

She thinks she knows already what he did – knows from the way his hands are buried in his pockets, shoulders for once relaxed rather than hunched to his ears and hiding the elegant curves of his neck – but she wants to hear him say it.

In answer, he pulls his hands from his pockets and unfurls his fingers, sharing with her the crimson pathways on his palms that detail his victory.

She stares at his hands, imprinting the atlas of flesh and blood to her memory. This is really happening. He is truly willing to do anything for her.

Her dead heart swells for the second time that evening.

"Well," she says in a brusque tone, meeting his radiant eyes with her own skeptical, half-lifted brow, "'s'not like this's the first one you killed, dear. Pirelli came before. And, what with the way you was so calm about that blighter, I'm guessing he wasn't your first either."

The words scratch harsh in her throat. She can't have him knowing that she approves so heartily, after all. She must keep him on his toes.

Sweeney is not deterred by her nonchalance. His face glows with that stoic passion that has already become a brand across his face whenever he stands within Nellie's presence.

"Yes," he says, "but this is our first."

Her heart swells further, but not pleasantly – it swells strangely – foreignly – painfully – it feels too big within the confines of her chest. She clears her throat, meanders over to the settee, and flops upon it, back stretched along the cushions, one arm thrown over her forehead, willing her heart to return to its standard size.

"Ours? Don't be silly, love," she says, craning her neck over the armrest to peer at him. "You did it all on your own."

His eyes gleam and she smiles, heart normalizing, eyes closing. There is a fine line between keeping him on his toes and continuing to string him along.

A rustle of fabric against fabric draws open her eyes again: Sweeney's taken a seat in the armchair beside the settee, bottom scooted so far forward along the seat that it's a miracle he hasn't fallen off, leaning towards her with his hands on his knees, muscles taut with fervor.

A fledgling idea that she has never permitted to hatch begins to birth. The line between keeping him on his toes and stringing him along is a fine one, to be sure . . .

Nellie removes the arm from her forehead and looks directly at him. She counts five seconds in her head before murmuring, "But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you did – have done – will continue on doing . . . 'cause I do, love. Tremendously."

"Thank you," says Sweeney quietly.

She shifts herself into a sitting position, never allowing her eyes to abandon his. "Not many people would do what you're doing for me – if any people would."

"With all due respect, Mrs. Lovett," says Sweeney, bowing his head but also holding her gaze, "my actions are committed for justice, not your sake."

"Naturally," says Nellie breezily. Oh, the man is a terrible liar . . . but at least he doesn't tremble from head to toe anymore just from sharing the same bloody air as her. "All I meant is that we're acting on a common purpose – that we both want the same thing and're working together to achieve it . . . deliver justice where the corrupt lawmakers and enforcers won't, I mean. Most people're too afraid to go against written law and serve what's really just to the world."

Sweeney nods and moves his eyes to his knees, uncomfortable with this conversation. She must be mocking him. She must know that this first murder was for her – that all his future murders are for her – and she is no longer willing to even pretend that he seeks justice rather than her favor, which must mean she is wearying of him . . .

Sensing his unease, Nellie raises herself to her feet and strolls over to him. "There, there, love," she says, sliding her hands onto his shoulders from behind his chair, "I'm not making fun of you. Can't you tell when a woman's being flippant and when she's being serious?"

He sinks into the chair and into her touch. "No," he admits.

She laughs, a low little purr in the back of her throat. "You're hopeless, Mr. Todd. Absolutely hopeless. Now, see there – couldn't you tell I was teasing that time?"

"But I am hopeless," Sweeney says in a strained voice, because he's trying to mimic her playful tone and failing miserably – because it's also the truth. What sort of man falls for a woman who will never look at him with anything but cold calculation in her gaze? It's rare enough that she actually looks at him and not beyond – or, worse, right through. As though he is of as little consequence as the oxygen she breathes: required, but never considered.

"Mr. Todd!" Nellie scolds. She stomps around to the front of his chair to glare down at him. "I'll not have you talking like that, y'hear? Any man what'd willing take the law into his own hands – what'd tries to restore justice to the world – love, that man is far from useless."

Her eyes pierce him like a sword straight into an artery, leaving him almost gasping in pain. He immediately lowers his eyes. All he ever wants is for her to look right at him – and yet, now that she actually is, he can't bear to meet her gaze.

"Look at me, Mr. Todd," Nellie demands.

He does not.

Fingers, callused and warm, close around his chin and lift his face upward. She bends her knees and leans towards him until she is on his eye-level. Her face is close enough for him to count the faint lines at the corners of her mouth, or her eyelashes, or the stars siphoned up in the black holes of her eyes. There is no hint of jest in her features anymore.

Her breath slips warmly over his lips as she speaks – and perhaps he must reconsider his non-belief in God, because it could be nothing other than a miracle that he can hear her over the thunder of his heart:

"You, Mr. Todd," whispers Nellie, "are not useless."

Then it's not her breath on his lips but her lips on his lips, thin and a little chaffed, and soft despite being a little chaffed, and very warm, beautifully warm –

He has not even had time to react before her lips are gone.

She reels backwards, a fish trapped on the end of a line, stumbling backwards away from the familiar waters, swaying side to side from her string, eyes caught unblinking and wide.

"Mr. Todd – I'm so – sorry," she chokes out, clutching at the air with great heaving gasps, trying frantically to breathe in the unfamiliar atmosphere. "I didn't mean to but – and then – but your wife, I could never – so sorry – "

Sweeney vaults to his feet. She shrinks from him as he nears, back slamming against the doorframe, but her internal agony seems to trump her physical ache: she does not even wince.

He seizes her by the shoulders, pulling her firmly from the doorframe, supporting her against his palms. She stares up at him; she has not looked away since she ended the kiss they never truly began; he does not think she has blinked once the entire time. Her hair is mused from reclining upon the sofa and smacking against the doorframe; her face is white, impoverished of all blood save for her lips, reposing like defiant rose petals on a blanket of snow.

God, she's beautiful.

Nellie's mouth continues to move but the syllables are soundless. Sweeney Todd, the near mute, has driven chatterbox Nellie Lovett to utter silence. The thought might make him laugh if he could remember what humor is.

"Shhh," he murmurs, stroking her shoulders, "shhh. Hush, love – "

Obstinate as ever even in her distress, these words prompt her to again make noise:

"Mr. Todd, I'm sorry, really so sorry, I don't know what came over me – but it'll never happen again, Lucy's your wife and I never – never ever – intended to try and take her place – "

Sweeney lays two fingers over her lips. They still at once under his touch.

"Mrs. Lovett," he says, swallowing hard, "Lucy is gone. I – I can clutch at my memories or stare at her pictures as long as I want – but it won't bring her back. I have to keep living . . . or else life will just pass me right by . . ."

She is still as stone beneath his hands, beneath the palm at her shoulder and the two fingertips over her mouth, unblinking and unyielding. He traces his fingers along her lips, then her cheek, then his whole hand cups her face.

His heart salvos in his head. If he could comprehend his motions, he would not dare be so rash and bold. As it is, he can scarcely comprehend the softness of her cheek – such a contrast to her roughened hands – or how much heat emits from her entire form, she who tries so hard to pretend she is cold. . . . But he knows the truth now and she can no longer pretend for him.

"Life is for the alive, my dear," he whispers, and then he brings his lips to hers.

It's everything and nothing like their first kiss – everything because all the sensations and feelings are the same – nothing because this time he can appreciate it, perceive it, before having it yanked away from him. And this time, it – she – is not going anywhere.

Slowly, he draws her to him until their bodies touch. The fingertips of his left hand play over her shoulder, the fingertips of his right over her cheek. Her mouth opens against his in a soft sigh as her arms curl around his neck; she tastes of flour and gin and smoke. The salvo of his heartbeat turns to a thunder.

Their careful, tender touches can only last so long: very soon, they give way to clenches and bites and growls. Their raw need has burned too long without a wick for this to be anything but grasping and greedy.

He wonders if he is taking advantage of her in a vulnerable state. Then he feels the way her fingers clutch at his joints and scrabble at his clothes and knows he is not. This is not merely her knee-jerk response to his advances: this is an answer to something that has been stirring within her far longer than just this evening. It is all the consent that he requires to know that she needs this as much as he does. That she needs him as much as he needs her.

He feels giddily delirious, stupidly desirous, dizzy and awed and shaking with the fever brought about by unrequited love finally being reciprocated –

But no – it can't be – she must be tricking him as usual – it doesn't matter even if she is tricking him, of course, for he will take whatever he can, whatever she offers – but he must not allow himself to be deluded so, he must remain fully conscious that this is not real and never shall be –

But her lips are warm and her body contours perfectly to his and her fingers are needy and surely there is no way for her to fake the way her heartbeat throbs in tandem to his, surely she cannot force her heart to lie –

"Shall we go upstairs, love?" she breathes against his mouth, pulling back enough to gaze into his eyes.

"I . . ."

Surely the world is not actually swimming; surely she is not treading air, and he neither. He blinks at her once, twice, squinching his eyes, squeezing her tangible shoulder, the solidity of her waist.

"Love?" says Nellie, rubbing her fingers along the nape of his neck. "What d'you say? I mean – " the flush of her cheeks, formerly a sensuous pink, turns a mollified cerise " – we don't have to – I'd understand if you – if that was too much, what with Lu – "

In one decisive movement, he claps his mouth over hers. He will not allow her to say that name. Not here, not now. Not tonight. Tonight it is only them, only how much she means to him, only (he wishes, he hopes, he prays) what he is beginning to mean to her. What she feels isn't love yet – he will admit that, and he knows that – but it could be, for it is a need – and yes, love is love, and need is need, and they are distinct and parted things, able to walk hand-in-hand but also able to separate –

He knows all that.

He also knows how connected love and need are, like fire and wood – for how long can a log sit beneath a chimney without desiring to be burned? She needs him – she acknowledges him – she cares – she desires to be set aflame even if she has not yet realized . . . and he must kindle this desire while it fans before it flickers out forevermore.

Taking him by the hand, Nellie leads him up the stairs into his quarters. She conceals her smirk of victory stamped irrevocably across her face – conceals it in the cloak of discarded garments and sticky sweat and naked flesh and darkness – and he never notices.

The instant their coupling ends, she hurdles herself from the bed and yanks on her undergarments. The smirk is still a brand across her mouth.

He sits up on the mattress. The darkness conceals his expression as well as it conceals hers, but it cannot hide his eyes gleaming out at her, beacons of hope in the night, lighthouses that continue to shine even when no one requires help.

"You can sleep here tonight," he offers.

"No, thanks," she turns down courteously.

Silence. She fights with the laces of her corset and he sits on the mattress.

"I would like you to sleep here tonight," says Sweeney softly.

She refuses to look at him. "Can't, love, sorry. I've still got to cut up that bloke you sent down to the bakehouse tonight before he rots – and we can't have any townsfolk see me leaving your shop in the wee hours of the morning and getting suspicious – a man and a woman living together, y'know, people're bound to talk as it is, we shouldn't encourage that – and I hardly sleep anyway, don't need to keep you up too with all my tossing and turning – and – "

And I can feign and lie and pretend until the cows come home when I've got daylight's bright, loud, blinding façade to hide behind . . . but in the silent, undisguised black hours of the late night and early morning, there's nothing to veil myself within.

Nellie clears her throat and jerks her dress on; it hangs like a whore's attire, slopping over one shoulder and dipping far down her breasts, along her emaciated form. She can't be bothered to fix herself for her descent downstairs. For one, no citizens will be walking Fleet Street this late at night. For two, she doesn't feel as though she deserves to fix herself.

"G'night, love," she says, and crosses to the door, shutting it behind her.

Sweeney falls back onto the bed, tensing all his limbs to prevent himself from shaking, clenching his jaw to prevent himself from screaming. Closing his eyes to prevent himself from crying.

It was a lie. It was a lie the whole time. And he had allowed himself to be deluded by her yet again. Didn't he understand that it only hurt himself worse in the end to permit himself to be deceived by her falsities? Why did he not have the strength to draw back now before her claws sunk any deeper?

She did not need him. She does not need him and never will. She is not the pile of logs desirous of being kindled by his flames. She is the tree in the forest, standing tall, never cut down, the fully formed bit of foliage that laughs from the very tops of its branches when a fledging flame thinks itself mighty enough to conquer the tower of timber.

Outside, Nellie creeps down the stairs. The night air nips her skin and makes her shiver; summer is slowly beginning to fade. Absurdly she flashes to Toby sitting beside her on the harmonium, how she had noticed the change in temperature then too – but not until he had leapt away.

In her memory, Toby sits on the harmonium bench and turns his face up to look at her. Then, even more absurdly, his face molds into Sweeney Todd's, turned down from his tall height to meet her gaze rather than craned upward from Toby's slight frame, expression rigid and unsmiling, devoid of all of the warmth in Toby's youthful features – but when his lips softly nudge hers –

"Witch! Witch!"

Her feet freeze, one pressed into a stair, the other half-raised in descent. The smirking brand across her mouth falls into nothingness.

"Witch!"

Her eyes skim over the banisters and down into the streets. Sure enough, Lucy Barker is there, mouth foaming and eyes roving in all directions – but her face is tipped upward in Nellie's direction, her pose purposeful, defiant. Her calls continue, shrieking and reverberating throughout the dead night:

"Witch! Witch! Witch!"

"Shuddup!" someone hollers from several roads down.

"Witch!" Lucy screams in return. "She's the Devil's wife, she is, it's true – just smell it, sir, smell that air – smells that only can be smelt in hell!"

Nellie forces herself back to animation with a rattling inhale. She hurtles her feet down the stairs and dashes into her shop and bends over her sink, gasping, choking, clutching its edges until her knuckles turn white. All that comes up from her mouth is empty air, but her stomach juices continue to slosh and whisk about within her.

Finally, trembling, she wipes her mouth and drags herself from the counter. There is nothing to be done. Nothing more than she is doing at present.

I may be a witch, Lucy, but I've only become one for you.

Her lips twist in a wry smile. How ironic that only the mad suspect what the rational do not; how fitting that only the insane are sane enough to recognize evil when they see it.

Her lips remained in their wry smile – but this time, when her stomach leaps upward and her neck cranes over the sink, more than empty air comes heaving from her throat.

A/N: "I have to keep living . . . or else life will just pass me right by . . ." Paraphrased from the original movie script of Sweeney Todd, during the lovely extended 'window scene' that was later greatly cut. Thus, sadly, I do not own that wonderful phrase.

Reviews are love, now and forever. Especially now more than ever, in fact. As those of you who've read my past works know, writing smexy times makes me a total Nervous Nellie (. . . sorry, I had to xD) and makes me crave feedback more than ever. So please let me know what you thought of the chapter, good or bad.