Setting: Before the death of Turpin, in Mrs. Lovett's parlor. Evening.
Summary: Still dripping from the bath, Sweeney rushes to Nellie, finally realizing.
Part II: Yours
It's like he's mesmerized by her skin, as if it wasn't there before, as if the paleness brushing his fingers are some sacred form of life, of being alive. So he continues to stand before her, in the corner of the parlor, watching as her frail body quivers under his pierce of a stare, under the tips of his rough fingers that are barely even touching her jawline.
Her breaths come out in broken sections of lust and attention, hardly even coming out at all, her skin almost hot against him. Her hands hang lightly at her sides, and she wants to bring herself to grasp the air or the wall behind her, so she wouldn't fall, despite being up against her wallpaper.
"Why now?" she whispers, daring herself to let her eyes fall upon the robed man in front of her, her gaze having been concentrating on her mahogany floor. Their faces are so close, the closest they've ever been in quite some time, and her face flushes. She could almost feel his mind cranking, knowing he's sorting something out, hot breath kissing her cheeks with each heavy sigh escaping his lips.
"I have never before," he begins, his voice merely a wisp of sound, so soft, and he trails away, reaching forward to place finger on her lips, hesitantly, afraid she might shatter from looking so cruelly fragile. His black locks of hair dripping from his previous bath, seeming more thin and sticking to the sides of his weary face, water forming on the tips of them and collecting into droplets, creating low thunking moans as they fall onto the wood.
Time has slowed down, they're both sure of it, and Nellie's head spins as he places a damp hand on her left cheek, nudging her nose with his, and she's able to count the number of remorseful speckles in his crudely dark eyes, how they're edging with concentration, shining in their trance-like state.
Trembling, she places her tiny hand on his muscular chest, their skin separated by the silk of the black robe that was clinging to his hardened form.
With an alarming force, the barber's lips crash onto hers, as if he would lose her being if he didn't touch her. She lets out the smallest of noises, rejoicing, the man melting her this time, wondering if this lusting passion was reality. Nellie's afraid to move under his grasp, lips never parting, two of his fingers landing atop her right shoulder before tracing her skin downward.
She's crying, only realizing as he tastes a tear between his pale lips. Something powerful hammers in his chest, those two fingers spreading into his full hand with contact, pressing his palm firmly on her lower back. The hand that still remains on her cheek moves in a caress, his thumb stretching to tenderly, gingerly wipe away the tears, but her face is not wet.
He pulls away, lips slowly pulling apart, she whimpers in protest, and he looks at her pale face closely. Her strong jaw, how it reflects how stable she can keep herself, how it shapes the passion in her face. Those brown eyes, they draw him further, swirling with want and devotion, golden sparks of life and light scattered around, how cheerful, how loyal. Her nose, how it curves elegantly, how very small, her high cheeks that have breaths of pink gracing her wistful features, contrasting with skin like snow.
It was he who was crying, out of wonder, out of his earlier ignorance, and he sees a twitch of the corner of her lips, her deep, entrancing lips, how it turns upward with the most delightful ease. Keeping one hand on the middle of his chest, Nellie reached out with the other, grazing her thumb over his lips and to the side, in small circles, soothing away the tears from his face.
They lock gazes, firm gazes, gazes full of history and finality, and the broken barber pulls her very close, their bodies touching, warmth filling the curves and crevices with their embrace, their face inches apart once more, tears coming to her eyes as well.
"Nellie," he murmured, the one word making her soar, tears falling freely from her face, down her cheeks, to her neck. She buried her hands in his hair and nodded faintly, needing him, words of emotion falling from her lips.
"I am yours."
Lips crashed again, passionately, hands moving freely now, hair askew, skin stinging with heat. And she was his.
A/N: This is dedicated to the lovely zenstereo, as I was inspired to write this after finishing her fic, The History of the World, an outstanding piece.