KIDNEY PIE

Chapter 21

Sweeney could have gone down the back stairs directly into Mrs. Lovett's shop, and never stepped outside at all. It was cold enough to make it worthwhile. He'd decided instead to take an extra moment, to keep the smudged widows between them for a second longer. Now he stood outside her door, at the foot of the rickety stairs, peering through the glass.

Inside, a teakettle wailed, and Mrs. Lovett herself came hurrying from her parlor. Todd let himself watch her as she reached ran to the stove and set the whistling kettle off the fire. His breath began to cloud the glass as she reached for her teacups. Todd nodded to himself as he wiped his hands on his trousers. Tea was a good thing, he supposed. If she was making tea, she would no doubt make a cup for him, too. And if he stayed downstairs to drink it, she'd stay with him and he'd have time to tell her.

Tea seemed like a good opportunity, anyway. He wasn't sure how a man was supposed to tell a woman he loved her. Or where, or when. Tea seemed… One hand clutched the doorknob. Tea will do. He took a deep breath, almost cringing, and opened Mrs. Lovett's door.

The barber swore silently as the bells jingled overhead. She looked up, and he froze, half in and half out of her shop. He felt strangely cheated, as if he could have figured out what to say if he'd gotten the time to walk into the kitchen without being noticed.

Somehow he couldn't seem to think while she was looking at him.

"Come right in, Mr. Todd. Don't be shy, now. Come sit yourself down before the cold gets to you." She gave him time to take one or two steps in before she met him, took him by the shoulders, and lead him enthusiastically into the shop. "Hold on just a moment, love. I was about to pour a cup of tea.I was just thinking, 'Why don't I fix poor Mr. Todd a nice cup of tea, and make sure he's doing alright.'" She smiled at him as she filled the two cups with steaming water. "Ain't you got good timing? It's about time we had a drop of something and a little rest."

Sweeney shifted awkwardly from one foot to the seemed like he should say something. He started as she dropped in the tea bags.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie, looked up, surprised. Then she smiled again, a real, bright, honest smile. "You're quite welcome, Mr. T."

Something in her smile thrilled him. For a moment, he felt like he could do it. He tried to mentally compose his message. "Mrs. Lovett-" He blinked, waited. I'll think of the rest.

At her counter, Mrs. Lovett was pouring water into a third cup. "Those'll steep for a minute, dear. In the mean time, you go have a seat in the parlor, rest you poor bones, and we'll have a look at your arm, while we wait."

The barber froze. "What?"

"Your arm, love."

Sweeney glanced down at the limb. Should've known she'd have plans of her own.

"No."

"Don't be silly, love. Look at you, now. You been up all night, run from a madhouse, been shot… Don't you think you let me take care of you, Mr. T? " With the cup of hot water in one hand, Mrs, Lovett took him by the elbow and steered him for her sitting room. "These last two days been awful, love. Don't know how I'm even on my feet after all this. Anyway, now that you finally got him, maybe you can settle down a bit, eh? Take care of yourself. It'd be just your luck to get everything you wanted and then catch bloody gangrene and keel over dead."

Everything he wanted pushed him ahead of her through the doorway, and for a moment Todd thought he would rather drop dead than have her fussing at his arm. Not until after he told her –

And he would tell her, as soon as she gave him the chance.

Mrs. Lovett's fingers ran softly down his arm as she let go, only to spread her hand on his back instead as she led guided him toward her couch. "There, now. Johanna and the sailor are sound asleep in the other room, and er can take care of things nice and proper in here, without the whole of London peeping in the windows."

Sweeney paused to stare at the scene before them, a scene that included a young boy sprawled across his mother's coffee table, arms and legs dangling off either side. "What happened to Toby?"

"Oh, don't mind him. I gave him a bottle to help him sleep."

Of course. The bottle, still holding a good shot or two, dangled from his fingers.

"Lad's had a rough day, is all. The poor thing."

The boy had looked a little sick as he'd run up to the shop that day. Todd wondered whether, as the lad's mentor in crime and prospective father, he was obligated to say something. "Growing boy needs his rest."

"That's right, Mr. Todd." Carefully, Mrs. Lovett plucked the open bottle from his hand and set it aside. "Poor little thing." The boy didn't stir, snoring gently as he lay sprawling, and she quickly turned her attention back to her tenant.

"Well, sit you down." Nellie pushed him toward the couch, and he sat carefully as he watched her set down her rattling pan of supplies and drop herself just a little too close to him. Gently, she grasped his wounded arm. "Let's have a look at you."

Her fingers touched him gently, staying clear of the bandage hidden under his sleeve. He froze, staring at her, trying to decide whether he wanted her to stop.

"Mr. T?"

She was staring back, looking half-amused.

"What?"

"Might help to take your shirt off, love." She smiled. Somehow, he thought she seemed bolder than usual. Perhaps it was because of their adventure the night before.

Did I really kiss her?

"Go on, love. Jack ain't around, and don't count on me to tear up perfectly good clothes."

Sweeney's hand flew to his collar and froze there. He knew she was right, knew if there was anyone he could trust with the task, it was his partner in crime. He also knew that the prospect was nothing short of horrifying.

And he was pretty sure that he did not want to confess his love to Nellie while sitting shirtless in her parlor with Toby passed out drunk three feet away.

"Come now, love. How are we going to take care of that arm if you don't cooperate with me?"

He clutched his arm close to his side. "It's fine."

"No harm in having a little peek, is there?" She was still too close, her knee touching his thigh through the layers of skirt and petticoat and trouser. Todd tried to shift away, just a little bit away. He tried to ignore the voice of reason, too, that reminded him that the wound was serious, and that it had been taken care of in considerably less-than-ideal circumstances. "Sides, you need that bandage changed. I asked Jack about it this morning."

Sweeney couldn't quite help sneering. Nellie laughed, and then reached over and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"He said – Well, never mind. He's a cheerful blighter, but not always helpful to have around. But it seemed like a good idea, so I sent Toby out for fresh bandages after the rush." The baker sat back as his vest fell open. "Rest is up to you my dear."

The barber stared straight ahead, fixing his eyes on Toby's unconscious form. He refused to touch the buttons. The idea of baring any more of his body to her horrified him. Even if it was for an entirely innocent and practical purpose. Especially if it was.

Nellie followed his eyes, and then reached impatiently to undo his shirt herself. "Honestly, Mr. T. You could dance a jig in here and he wouldn't wake up."

He nearly cringed at the image. This was not what he bargained for when he came downstairs.

"Come on, then."

Reluctantly, Sweeney began to pull his arm free from its sleeve. He could feel his heart pounding. Moving as slowly as possible, leaving as much skin covered as he could manage, he hoped it looked like it was just the pain that slowed him down. Mrs. Lovett, he hoped, would work quickly.

Quickly, and it'd be over. They'd drink tea, and he would tell her.

Except that she didn't seem to be moving at all. Clenching his jaw, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus of the image of what would happen – of him setting beside his accomplice, fully clothed and drinking tea, explaining to her in plain terms what he felt for her. What precisely those terms were, he didn't know. He'd think of something.

As soon as Mrs. Lovett would stop staring.

"Mrs. Lovett."

"Oh!" The baker startled. And Todd watched as the roll of bandages leapt from her hand and bounced from his knee to the floor, where it came to a halt beside the toe of his shoe. "Well. Don't mind me, love. Hardly in my right mind after a day like this."

She reached forward to take the runaway roll – by its tail of trailing gauze. Todd watched as the bandages unrolled and propelled the bundle farther out of her reach. "Oh, bugger."

As soon as Nellie so much as shifted to reach for it again, he saw the scene play out in his mind. And he watched it end with his landlady leaning over his knees while he sat there, his shirt hanging uselessly over his shoulder. Sweeney cringed. "I'll get it."

Quickly, Todd leaned forward, desperately hoping his shirt covered the worst of his scarred back, and snatched the rebellious bandages. As soon as this was over, he promised himself he'd –

He hadn't realized that she'd darted forward at the same time until they bumped into each other. Something about the way the lace at her elbow brushed his bare skin startled him.

It startled him enough to send him good arm flailing directly at Nellie's cluttered side table. Sweeney cursed aloud as the knickknacks formerly at his elbow clattered to the ground.

Mut Mrs. Lovett, sitting back up with the bandages in hand, laughed. "Good heavens! What's got into you tonight, love?

He gritted his teeth as she stood up, and, pulling his hurt arm protectively close to his ribs, stooped to help clean up what he could. Throwing her things across the floor, Todd decided, ranked among removing his shirt and sitting beside her dead-drunk son on his list of things that were not helpfully for making confessions of love.

Can anything else make this harder?

Scowling, he tried to focus on the things themselves – photographs of her and Albert, a chipped ceramic songbird, a spool of thread – rather than his plight.

Until his hands turned over a folded page, and its loosely closed leaves flapped open.

Sweeney paused, staring at a column of red ink.

Sweeney knew who used red ink. He knew whose letters filled up whole pages of newsprint, facsimiles from desperate officials hoping someone would recognize the handwriting. Now that he saw that scrawl, he had no doubt that it was the Ripper's.

Jack the Ripper had written to his Nellie. Anger came over him, and then doubt. And then, with the roll of gauze still in his hand, he reached for the note, too.

"Thanks, love." Mrs. Lovett, when he sat back down again, still pressed a little too close. Todd ignored it. His eyes fixed on the note, as she took up the bandages again. "What's that you got there, now?"

Sweeney turned to meet her look. He tried not to glare. He tried telling himself that the letter could be to someone else. It could be a list of his victims. Of errands to run. Anything. It didn't have to be a love note. Willing himself to believe that, he meant to throw the thing aside. Instead, he started reading.

"Your hair is red like blood at night

Your skin is like the fog so white

And like a dash from Scotland yard,

You make my heart beat fast and hard…"

Shit. She reached for the page, bent its top edge down for a glimpse of that blood red waited, trying not to be angry, to see if she would deny it, try to hide it. Instead, she gave a dismissive sigh.

"Oh, that. I forgot about that. He must've left it for me when he spent the night." She plucked the bandages from his other hand, acting irritatingly untroubled by her lover's note. Todd flashed a glare her way, in spite of himself. She ignored that, too. "That, or he forgot it altogether. Man's a little scatterbrained sometimes."

Sweeney scowled and turned back to the red script.

"…I think of you while I'm at work,

And while in alleyways I lurk,

And even when I kill a whore,

It only makes me want you more…"

Mrs. Lovett smoothed her skirts across her lap before carefully winding the trailing gauze back onto the roll. "Charming devil, ain't he? At least for a knife-wielding lunatic. But then, I guess that's my type, from the way things are going."

Sweeney only grunted in response. He wouldn't have wanted to hear her try to lie, or to say the letter meant nothing. He knew he wouldn't have believed it. But he wished she sounded a little less at ease with this token of Jack's affection. He glanced at her, trying not to be irritated.

It didn't seem right to be irritated with a woman right before telling her he loved her.

Then again, neither did saying so immediately after reading a private declaration of another man's love. For a moment, Todd considered crushing the letter and throwing it aside. The moment passed.

"I love your eyes' dark, cunning gleam.

I love your body soft and lean.

I love your dainty hand so small.

I love your lips…

Sweeney cast Nellie an accusing glance, but she only gave him back that too familiar look, resigned and cheerfull.

"Not exactly the romantic type, is he? Not conventionally, anyway. Takes all kinds, I suppose."

Sweeney ground his teeth. It's not even a good poem.

"…but most of all,

I love your throat, with pulsing life,

I long to stroke it with my…"

The poem ended in a scribble, the last word obscured by a snarl of red lines. Sweeney frowned.

"That's 'hand,' love."

"What?"

"That last word." With a longsuffering look on her face, Nellie plucked the bandages from his hand. "I've been assured it says 'hand.' And if you believe that one, I'm sure he'll tell you another."

Todd grunted and set the letter aside, as if it didn't matter. For all he knew, it didn't matter. Just because Jack fancied himself a poet didn't mean his rubbish made any impression on Nellie.

He forced himself to consider that as she began to pick at the bandage. Her fingers brushed his skin, and now again prodded gently as she pried apart the bloodied linen strips. Gently, but it hurt him. The wound still throbbed and stung. Bearing it as best he could, the barber tried to occupy his mind with listing all the reasons the blasted poem didn't matter.

It didn't matter that Jack could spout off doggerel about her looks. It didn't matter that he said he thought about her while he ran around his work. What kind of dog tells a woman he thinks about her while he's with whores?

Should I tell her I'm thinking of her every time I send somebody down the –

The bandage peeled away from his skin, tugging at the edges of the bullet hole, and he winced. But his eyes keep drifting toward the note.

It didn't matter that he claimed to love her. It didn't mean that she loved him. It didn't mean anything.

But it didn't mean she didn't, either…

Gently, a bit of rag soaked in hot water from the teakettle, dabbed at his arm. She was talking – she was always talking – but he wasn't listening. He couldn't hear her over his rising sense of despair.

Mrs. Lovett must have noticed his dismay, because she patted him gently on the shoulder. "Sorry, love. I'm trying to be nice and easy with you."

Todd didn't answer. He half meant to tell her it was alright, she hadn't hurt him. But it wasn't alright.

Because the note bothered him. It bothered him that Jack the Ripper had gone so far as to write love poems to his accomplice. It bothered him that Jack felt he had any business writing about Nellie's "body, soft and lean" or her lips or her hair or anything. It bothered him that the bastard had ever set foot on Fleet Street where he didn't belong.

He forced himself not too look at the note, but the words still babbled through his mind. Because what it really meant was that the Ripper had beaten him. He'd already had her. He'd already bled her.

And it wasn't even that she'd had him, as sick as the thought made him. She'd been married before. And, honestly, Todd suspected it had been a long time since his Nellie had made a living selling pies. He had no illusions about Mrs. Lovett.

The worst part of it was the letter itself, sprawled out beside him. He'd known they were lovers. He'd seen him come back and stay the night more than once. He'd seen her kiss him. But he hadn't known the Ripper had told her he loved her.

The red scribbly cursive wouldn't let go of his eye. It kept mocking him. Kept forcing him to wonder how much else he didn't know. What else they'd done together. What he'd said to her. What he'd promised her.

Sweeney tried to hold still as she began to rebind the wound.

"Shouldn't meddle with him."

"What, now?"

"Jack the Ripper." The barber stared ahead, forcing himself not too look at either the poem or its recipient. "Ought to get rid of him."

The roll of gauze stopped short on its orbit around his arm – he knew she was staring at him – and then continued again. "Oh, you don't have to worry about him. He's alright, love, all things considered."

"He's dangerous."

"If you're a whore, maybe." The bandages wound slowly, smoothed down from time to time with the touch of Nellie's fingers. She laughed. "It ain't nothing to worry about, Mr. T. I have had a bit of experience with the type."

Sweeney almost smiled. "Really. Do tell."

"Oh, it's a very long story, love." A final turn, and she came to the end of the roll of gauze. He could tell by her voice she was smiling. In another moment, she'd be finished, and just maybe he could find a way to – "Anyway, we have a little understanding, me and Jack. It'll be alright."

Or maybe not. He scowled. "I see."

"You don't have to take it like that, now." Her hands paused, close against his skin, for another moment before she set about securing the loose end. "Sides, he's really more daft than anything else, the poor bugger. So long as you watch out for that knife." She gave her handiwork one final tug. "There you are, love. All done."

Sweeney almost sighed with relief, and immediately began to sort out his shirt sleeve – or tried, to. He winced as he tried a little too eagerly to jam his arm into the empty sleeve. Of course, Mrs. Lovett noticed.

"Careful now. Easy does it." Although his cheeks felt awful warm, he couldn't resist as Mrs. Lovett helped him guide his sleeve back over his bandaged arm. He tried his best not to look at her as she reached over to smooth the rumpled fabric over his chest. "You gave me quite a scare last night, love. Thought you were going to die on me. So I'm not taking any chances. I ain't going to have you hurting that arm again." Gingerly, she slid one side of his waistcoat up along his arm, and left him to pull on the other side. "Now, you just sit back, and I'll go get you that tea."

As she stood up and bustled away, the demon barber of Fleet Street finally cast her a sidelong look. She always mothered him. He couldn't quite decide whether he loved or hated it.

Or what to do about it.

Whatever he did, though, he resolved to do it now. Over tea, as he hoped before.

Todd glared at the Ripper's note and reached carefully forward to snatch the bottle Nellie had pried from Toby's finger. With a glance over his shoulder, he managed to take a stiff pull and replace the bottle before he heard her footsteps in the doorway.

"Here we are now, dearie. Nice and strong, but not too hot to drink." She handed him the warm cup, smiling. Sweeney couldn't quite help glancing, as she leaned over him, over the brim of the teacup at the top of her frightfully low-cut bodice. That, too, he couldn't decide whether to love or hate.

Perhaps both.

"Mrs. Lovett…" Sweeney focused all his mental powers on the right words. "I want to tell you something… Have to tell you something…"?

"Nothing like a good cup of tea, that's what I say. Should've thought to send Toby up with a little bit for you." Mrs. Lovett sat beside him again, sliding as close to him as she could get without pressing his injured arm. He closed his eyes against her presence. "Could've done up a nice little something to go with it. I used to make a tea cake like nobody else, you know. You remember, Mr. T? I ain't had no time, though. Not today."

He did remember. She seemed to always be bringing plates up to him and Lucy, in the years before. It struck him as almost comical that poor, stupid, lovestruck Benjamin had never once imagined that his landlady adored him.

She always was taking care of him, even when he barely took notice of her. Even when he was mad for Lucy. Even when he came back to her pale and haunted and calling himself Sweeney Todd.

He scowled. He suddenly felt so hapless. Even then he wasn't waiting for her helplessly while blathered on about tea cakes.

"One of these days when things get quiet, I'll have to fix some up. We ought to have us a little celebration anyway, now that the old judge is dead. And no doubt your poor little thing could use a little something nice after all them months behind bars."

He wanted her care, her attention. Her other features (such as those peeking over the top of her dress). Maybe not quite as much the chatter. He wanted her. And he hated that she was almost his – almost, but not.

If Jack had only been killed in the madhouse like he was supposed to, she would be. Sweeney's eyes drifted again to the letter, sitting at his elbow, and wished the tea were gin as he took a lot sip.

"But I expect it'll be a few good days before I think of that, anyhow. I don't think I ever been so tired in my life. Not so sore, either."

He groaned inwardly, and wished for a minute of silence, just a minute or two to pull the words together. He had to say something.

"I know I'll sleep good tonight, that's for sure."

"Mrs. Lovett, I love you." Very simple. Just say it.

It's not what came out.

"I'm going away."

The silence he'd wished for could not have been more dreadful. Sweeney drew a deep, quiet breath.

"What?"

"Johanna and Anthony asked me to come away with them."

"But, Mr. Todd –"

The barber sat rigid, staring straight ahead, and listened ruefully to the hurt and confusion in her voice.

"You don't – Where – When are you leaving?"

"Don't know yet."

Sweeney could have kicked himself. Stupid thing to say. What a stupid way to start. He drew a breath. "Mrs. – "

"Right. Then I'm coming with you."

Of course. It was what he wanted, wasn't it? But hearing it somehow didn't help. Somehow, it only left him imagining spending every day with her, as man and wife, an entire lifetime of struggling to communicate the very simplest thing.

But then, maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe she'd be content anyway. And it had only been a year since he's arrived in London. Who's to say there was no hope? She'd waited for him fifteen years. What would be the harm in a few more. Maybe it would be different. Given timem maybe he'd become the man Mrs. Lovett dreamed of.

Unless, of course, she'd already found him in someone else.

All he had to say was, "Yes, please do." It would be enough. But he couldn't.

"What is this, Mr. T? Why…" She stood up and began to move restlessly around their seat, fussing over the dusty bric-a-bracs that swarmed her side-tables. Quickly, she plucked the note from its perch on the arm of the couch. She didn't seem to read it, only to finger the paper absently as she moved. "No need to be so hasty about it. There's no reason they can't stay here, love, long as we keep things quiet-like. Course they might bring the odd question, but they're not any more dangerous as turning your clients into meat pies."

She paused, standing beside Toby's dangling feet, to cover him with the blanket he'd knocked aside. "Besides, nobody said nothing to me about leaving. Such silly little things. They had it rough, love, and so ain't you. Better - " She stopped, glanced down at her lover's note like she didn't know what to do with it. "Better if you all stay put and let somebody take care of you for a while. It's not like -"

Faltering, she stopped to look at him, a forced smile flickering across her lips. "It's not like you was going to leave me behind."

In the heavy pause, the fire crackled in her hearth. Sweeney stared at her, tensing his shoulders in spite of the throbbing pain in his arm.

"Mr. Todd?"

The demon barber held his breath. He didn't want to leave her behind. But the words to say so wouldn't come.

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

No.It would take only that one word. He wouldn't even have to convince her. It was what she'd said she wanted, her seaside dream. All he'd have to do was not chain her down, if he gave her any hope at all.

If, that is, she wouldn't rather have Jack. The image that came to mind of his Nellie strolling along some beach with the Ripper made his blood boil. But the same picture with himself in Jack's place didn't seem to materialize. It wouldn't fit.

He didn't want to leave her behind.

But even if he didn't. how could he ever give her what she wanted if he could hardly choke out a single word?

"Mr. T, I…"

A sinking, crushing, hopeless feeling settled in the barber's chest. Fixing his eyes on Toby's foot, which dangled over the edge of the table, he stared and blinked helplessly.

Sweeney Todd braced himself, for rebuke, for her tears, for the heartache to follow tonight. For a life of loneliness.

But he wasn't prepared for the tattered book she snatched from Toby's table and flung at him.

"How could you even think that?"

Sweeney jumped, too startled to do anything more than wince at the twinge in his arm as the ragged book bounced into his lap. He didn't think Mrs. Lovett had ever raised her voice to him. Always fawning, always cool, always chattering on.

Now she swooped down on him like a fury, eyes blazing. He stared in horror.

"I know I'm not your precious Lucy…" She paused, those "dainty hands so small" balled up into fists. Sweeney thought she might hit him. "But after fifteen years of waiting – after all I done for you, and you just -"

The barber stared, taken by surprise. Lucy had nothing to do with it. Her name stung him. "Mrs. Lovett-"

"You just take off with the girl and your bloody sailor friend and set up house, is that it? Where the hell do I fit into your little happily ever after?"

Her eyes fixed on his; he couldn't look away. If you would just shut up -

"How could you even think of dropping me like…" She paused again, and took an unsteady half-step backwards.

"Mrs. Lovett!"

They both flinched as Toby stirred, grumbling, on the table, then settled back into his drunken slumber. As soon as he was still again, the pair faced each other again. Sweeney saw fury in his partner's eyes. And he could feel his own anger rising.

He'd come to tell her he loves her. Leave it her not to give him the chance. Leave it to her not to understand.

She glared at him. "How could you!"

"Because I can't do this!" At that point even Mrs. Lovett staggered back as he exploded to his feet. "Don't you understand that, woman!? I can't do – "Casting about him, he snatched the red-printed letter from her hand and crushed it into a ball. "Do this." Glaring, he flung the note at the fireplace. "I just can't. I -"

Silence again. Sweeney looked away.

"I'm not the man I was."

All the tension left him. He supposed she, for once, was as lost for words as he was. The thought didn't please him. Some part of him wished that Nellie – his cunning, soothing, practical Nellie – would know how to fix this, just like she'd known what to do with Pirelli's corpse, but no answer came.

Feeling drained, he sank back into his seat. "I can't give you what you want."

"I don't care." Nellie shook her head. "You think I care? About… silly things?" She edged closer, hovering like she wasn't sure what to do. "Mr. T, I love you."

Silly things, like hearing "I love you"? Todd managed a desperate half-smile. Only her.

Silly things. A rush of feelings swept through the barber. Love, and joy because she did love him. And grief, because they weren't silly things.

Lucy smiled gently in his memory, on some bright day before their weddings. She'd said that, too. Something like it. The silly things she'd meant were being able to afford a better ring, or open up his own shop. He'd offered to pawn one of his razors.

"No, Ben," she'd told him. "That's much too important to throw away for silly things."

Sorrow struck him hard.

Because he could have Mrs. Lovett. Watching her staring back at him with tears in her eyes, he saw it very plainly. He could have had her at any point, if he only could have said anything.

And then, too, he could have spoken. Just like he could charm his customers, he could have charmed her. He should have been able to turn on the smile, the easy tone, the flattery. Even like he had at the madhouse, when he'd bought her silence with a kiss.

But he couldn't. Like the day he'd watched her, or the night he'd brought home Johanna. When it mattered, the words wouldn't come. When something was boiling up inside him, writhing to get out, he could only smother it.

And some things were too important to be wasted on silly things, broken things.

Mrs. Lovett was too important.

"Mr. Todd, you – " Nellie made herself smile, even as she wiped her eyes and wiped her hands on her skirts, " You ain't – After everything we done -"

Sweeney stared at her, at the broken smile.

"Ask me. Ask me to come." Her eyes were already bright with tears again. His unshakeable Mrs. Lovett, trying not to cry. "Mr. T?"

Sweeney didn't move as she dropped onto the couch beside him. He didn't even as she reached up to touch her arm.

"Ask me to come! Mr. T? I'll do everything you'll have need of. You and Johanna, too. You'd never want for care. Don't I take care of you?" Her fingers wound themselves into the loose cloth of his sleeve. "You know I do. I'll do what you say. I'll even learn to keep quiet. You can't leave me here without you?"

Todd longed to obey her. He loved her. All he had to saw was "I love you" But the words died on his tongue.

Sweeney sat stiff and silent as Nellie's tears soaked into his shirt.

XXXXXXXXXX

I CANNOT BEGIN TO EXPLAIN HOW MUCH THIS CHAPTER HURT TO WRITE.

I've been working on just this scene for literally six months. Because it is just that painful.

Reviews being the other "balm of hurt minds," hit the button, pretty pretty please?