Drinking

Dinner seemed to last forever; though he practically inhaled the food off of his plate, Mrs. Todd ate with a slow but steady apathy. It was neither neat nor messy eating, nothing was slurped, but neither was she holding her fork daintily or using her napkin to catch some of the crumbs that tumbled from her mouth and onto her…oh my. Sweeny didn't want to watch the crumbs that had slid onto the tops of her breasts, but he did, stopping only when he realized that he was practically ogling his wife's cleavage.

As soon as he realized what he was doing, he averted his eyes quickly, reminding himself of Lucy. But the thought of her golden hair didn't seem to block the thoughts. It was such a wispy memory, her hair. It was yellow, but was it curly? Straight? It was long, but did she like him to brush it for her? Did she perfume the ends? He could not remember. It wasn't right. He concentrated on not thinking at all about Mrs. Lovett, for his true wife was Lucy.

No, a nasty little voice in his head said. Lucy was the wife of Benjamin Barker. You, Sweeny Todd, have no hold on her.

He tried to rid himself of the voice, imagined Johanna, his daughter. He could only recall the smell of a baby, a gurgling coo. No visual memories. What did Lucy smell like? Was she slender or curvy? Was her laugh a tinkle or a chuckle? Did he make her laugh? What about at night? Did she like to be held? Did she move a lot in her sleep? He could not remember, could not remember. And there was the clinking of a fork onto a plate as his wife lifted her glass, drinking the last of the water in it. The noise brought him back to reality. And for the first time in his life, not even realizing it was occurring, Sweeny Todd pushed thoughts of Lucy aside, in favor of Mrs. Lovett—Mrs. Todd…his wife.

"Drink?" He asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch above his usual monotone. She didn't seem to notice, but she didn't move either, so he pulled out the gin and filled her glass halfway with gin, then did the same with his glass, taking the dishes and stacking them in the sink. She looked at her glass only for a moment, studying it expressionlessly, before she took a swig, closing her eyes as the gin burned down her throat. He followed suit, taking a smaller sip. He didn't want to get too drunk before he could ask any questions.

He knew that she drank; the gin bottle's contents were too inconsistent for her to be only having a little each night. He only hoped that it wasn't so bad that she could stay sober for the whole bottle. He didn't think he could last that long.

When her first glass was empty, he re-filled it with clear, burning gin. And she took another swallow, her face beginning to lose the tight, expressionless look. Considering it had probably been four or five shots-worth in the glass so far, Sweeny estimated that the second glass would loosen her up…hopefully. He took another sip as she tossed back her head and drained the gin glass. That was…holy razors that was ten shots-worth of gin and she was still looking sober, though her face had dropped into a miserable expression. Sweeny sloshed a bit more gin into her glass and she gulped a swallow, quickly, hungrily. It was like she wanted to get drunk.

Thanking God, he took another sip of gin and looked up at his wife, who was beginning to look tipsy. Good. If it took around ten shots to get her tipsy, maybe five more would get her tongue good and loose. She took another gulping swallow.

Sweeny tried to remember how Benjamin Barker spoke to his wife. It was gentle, right? Women liked gentle tones. And so he would use one.

"Nellie," he began, and her head shot up, scowling as her eyes welled up with tears. She took another swig of gin.

"What right 'ave you to call me that, 'ay?" She shook her gin glass at him menacingly, letting the gin slosh about inside of it.

"We're married."

"Yeah? And what sort of 'usband 'ave you been, then?" The cockney accent was prominent and broad, she sounded like she ought to. And no matter how dreadfully annoying he had found it in the past, it was welcome now. He embraced the accent, her bold tone, she glass of gin she was practically threatening him with.

Tell her what she wants to hear, the voice of the demon barber, the one he thought had faded with Turpin, whispered into his ear. He had grown from a vengeful, rage-driven man to an apathetic, quiet one. The demon barber whispered advice into his ear again.

"I haven't been what you needed, Nellie." Her name felt strange on his lips after nearly a year and a half of 'Mrs. Lovett'. Making his voice smooth, the voice of the barber as he ushered clients into his chair, he continued. "You needed a man to look after you and I didn't do what I ought to. I'm sorry, Nell. I really am." That was good. Don't let her be blamed, take it all on yourself. Let her hear what she wishes to.

Now slit her throat, the demon barber hissed into his ear. Slit it and spill her rubies. Spill them…

Todd shook his head, ridding himself of the voice. Maybe he had laid it on too thick. But another swig of gin and she was nodded along with him.

"You 'aven't been there fo' me, Sweeny Todd. 'Aven't been a propa' 'usband or a propa' man for me, you 'aven't."

He shook his head, agreeing with her.

"Nellie, you've changed so much." His voice was back to its normal monotone, but he let the smooth words slip from between his lips. "What changed you?"

She took another swallow of gin, and was silent, studying her glass. He could tell she was at least a little drunk; her tone indicated that. But he didn't know what else.

Wait, the demon barber whispered, Give her the time she needs to answer.

Her eyes, already full of tears, spilled over as she blinked her dark lashes. Her lower lip trembled and her chin tightened up, trying to hold back the tears and failing.

"Nothing's gonna harm you…not while I'm around," she whisper-sang, and then she was standing, slamming her gin glass onto the table.

"And you killed him, Mr. T!" She screamed, "You killed him! Killed him! Killed him! Killed him!" She punctuated each heartbroken shriek with a blow to his shoulder, hitting him as hard as she could. Tears had drenched her face and she was sobbing as she hit him again and again.

"Killed him! Killed him! Killed him! …killed him! …killed him. …killed him...killed…him…Mr. T…" she was sobbing too hard to continue, her hands moving up to cover her face as she bent over, still standing, trying to dissappear. He stood there, having stood when she did, and watched her cry, unsure of what to do. She was shaking with each sob, tears were dripping from her chin and onto the floor.

There was a queer tightness in his chest, almost a pain. He felt…he felt. Moreover, he felt sorry for her. Sorry that she was in pain. And he…he wanted to stop it. To stop her pain.

Hold her.

This time it wasn't the demon barber, just a little knowledge. A memory, perhaps. He did not know. But if it made her better, put things back the way they ought to be, then it would be worth it. So Sweeny Todd pulled his wife into his arms and let her sob against his chest.

At first she struggled, hitting him as she sobbed, calling him horrible names. He stood there like a stone, taking the strikes to his chest without fighting back.

She needs this, he thought. And it seemed she did. After a while, her blows grew softer and softer and she stopped trying to fight him off.

When his legs grew tired and sore from holding her weight against him, he sat, pulling her into his lap as she snuffled quietly against his shirt, like a child who had just finished a tantrum. Eying the gin, Todd tossed it back, figuring it was the best way to alleviate the discomfort he felt, having another person so close to him. His mind flickered to Lucy, but Nellie gave a choked sort of sob and he absentmindedly ran a hand over her hair. He did not think of Lucy again.

"S'alright, darlin'," he murmured. "S'gonna be alright."

He could feel the gin burning his throat, warming his stomach, making his blood hum pleasantly. He did not drink like Nellie did. A few shots of gin was all it took these days. She sloshed more gin into her glass and drained it. She was beginning to sway a little, back and forth. Tears left her face soaked and more seemed to keep leaking from her eyes. She poured the last of the gin bottle into the glass and emptied it.

"I'm so tired…I just wan' I' all t' stop. Would you end it for me, Mista' T? With one o' them shinin' friends o' yours?"

She wanted him to…she wanted him to kill her. It was a stunning realization. She was asking him to end her life. He knew that she was not herself, but he hadn't thought that she was to this point, to being ready to die.

"Shhhh, Nell." He was not about to kill his wife, no matter how many times he had considered it when they lived in London. She was drunk; the empty gin bottle on the table was evidence of that. His own head was feeling a little swimmy. Well none of that, he decided. She wasn't about to spend the night alone if she was contemplating death. Who knows what she might do? He scooped her into his arms and walked back to his bedroom.

"Wha' are you doing, Mr. T?"

"Letting you rest, love."

His eyes were already drooping their lids low. He rarely slept as it was. Didn't feel the need, he supposed. But he set his wife on the bed; she swayed there like a ship out at sea.

"I don' wanna sleep, Mr. T."

"Shhh, Nell. You don't have to sleep. Just lay here with me, all right?" He slid off his shoes and set her on his bed, pulling the covers from under her. She didn't seem to mind; she removed her shoes and threw them over the bed and onto the floor.

"I need to fit too, love." He couldn't remember ever being a gentle drunk, but maybe the demon barber had taken all his fire. She moved over to give him room, pressing up away from him, against the wall.

He slid under the blankets and pulled them up over the pair of them. He could feel her heat from where he was lying, not far from her, but not close either. She was crying again and he moved closer, hugged her from behind, resting his chin on her head of auburn curls. Rolling over, she buried her face in his chest once more, sobbing 'Mr. T how could you?' over and over again. He didn't understand how she could both be furious with him and seeking comfort from him at the same time. Who knew? Women were complex little creatures.

'S the gin talkin', the drunk barber in his head advised, 'S not yer fault. But through the alcohol, he knew that it was his fault. And the guilt was heavy as her tears soaked his shirtfront. When her tears were spent once more, he held her close, wanting her body's heat to warm him.

"Mr. Todd, I love you," she murmured, half-asleep and quite drunk. With slow and fumbling fingers, she pulled his tie off, undid the first button of his shirt, kissed his pale chest. Her lips were hot against his skin, her breath warm and moist, like the jungles of South America.

"Not now, Nell." Oddly enough, he didn't seem to notice that this didn't mean not ever, just that it meant not at this moment.

But her warm lips had already halted as her head grew heavier and heavier, finally dropping against his chest as she lost consciousness.

"That's a girl," he murmured. And he slowly drifted off, her heartbeat steadily thumping against his chest.

He did not dream of Lucy.

Maybe not what you expected, but as I don't encounter many sad drunks, just the obnoxious sort, I did my best. There will be more chapters, as we've got to get Mrs. Lovett sorted, haven't we? She has to get to normal, right? And what about the budding Sweenett? More to come in the following chapters!

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