Sweeney Todd slept like a corpse when he was truly tired. Mrs. Lovett couldn't help checking his pulse a couple of times. Each time she checked, to her relief, the tiny baker was met by a slow, steady beat just beneath the white skin of his flawless neck. Once her legs started falling asleep, Nellie eased herself out of Sweeney's lap. She held her breath as his open arms slipped empty to his sides, hoping that he wouldn't wake. He didn't. She heaved a sigh of relief and then frowned thoughtfully. It wouldn't do for him to sleep in that infamous chair. Suppose one of the gears went? Suppose Toby came in and accidentally bumped the lever? Besides, the man was sure to get an awful crick in his neck. Nellie decided to gently wake him and help him to bed. She leaned down and rubbed the demon barber's shoulder. He stirred, brow wrinkling. One eye slid open just a fraction and fixed her with the blackest look that a human eye was capable of.
"Mister T, you shouldn't-"
He growled at her, actually growled, and, still more asleep than awake, pulled himself into a ball. Mrs. Lovett considered hauling him over to the bed anyway, but thought that neither her back nor her knees were up for such punishment. In the end, she sat down half an arm's length away and kept watch over the lever. By the end of her vigil, her knees felt like they'd been through her grinder.
"What are you doing?"
The baker jumped; Sweeney hadn't shown the slightest indication of waking. "Just makin' sure you don't tip right down into the bakehouse, love." She replied, preening involuntarily over a section of curls that had been falling into her round brown eyes as of late.
The demon barber's upper lip twitched, reminiscent of an angry dog's. Nellie felt the minute gesture of contempt as clearly as a slap.
"I was just lookin' out for you, Mister T."
"So you've said."
This was how it was going to be? Nellie heaved herself to her feet, reeling slightly as her blood rushed to her feet. "I'm goin' downstairs," she muttered, unsure why he needed to know this. "Eat your dinner 'fore it rots."
And she left, narrowly resisting the urge to bang his door shut with enough force to make the bell beg for mercy. She wasn't a child, after all.
She was just hurt.
Sweeney Todd slept poorly that night. Thoughts clouded by blood and poisoned by betrayal hammered through his skull, making his hands itch to claw out his eyeballs and let off some of the internal pressure. The night was hot and stuck to his skin, making real relaxation impossible. The demon barber slept with furrowed brow and tightened shoulders.
When the moon was high, Sweeney found himself in the kitchen searching for a glass of liquid oblivion. His stomach was already churning from what he'd consumed earlier that day; he filled a tumbler just a touch over the brim anyway. He allowed the tumbler to actually touch his lips before setting it down, making a bit of gin slosh over onto the counter. The vengeful barber wasn't sure what had unsettled him, but the feeling, strong as a physical force, had come on suddenly enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. His guts twisting into an even tighter knot, Sweeney lunged from the kitchen and into his landlady's parlor.
Her bathroom door was open. Her hand dangled from the tub as if to invite him in. A gouge exposed veins and fat in her tiny wrist. Half of the tiled floor had been licked up by rubies. Her white body had nearly been swallowed up in a tubful of crimson. A spiderweb shred of gore had trailed partway down the porcelain; a few drops sat shining farther down. Sweeney's lips parted but shaped no syllables. He reached for his accomplice to lift her nose from the water and found that the back of her skull had caved in like an overripe melon.
His razor was stuck into the daisy-patterned wallpaper, propping up a scrap of paper that simply read, 'I'm sorry.'
Sweeney's dark eyes snapped open. He lurched to a half-sitting position and promptly vomited onto his shop's floor. The expulsion left him shaking and cold all over. Still, the introverted psychopath staggered to his feet and went for his shops' door without bothering to wipe his mouth. He took the stairs three at a time.
Mrs. Lovett jumped when her bedroom door crashed open. She scrambled up in bed, her enormous eyes shining in the darkness as Sweeney stormed in. He seized the baker's left arm and brought his face so close to it that she could feel his breath's ragged puffs against her skin. There were no fresh wounds. He grabbed her other arm and turned that one over too. Only when his hand felt the firmness of the back of her head did Sweeney let out a shaky sigh and release her.
Mrs. Lovett, coming down from her initial rush of fright, reached for his shoulder. "Love?"
"Don't." It was more a snarl than a word, and her hand instantly froze. "I- just had to be sure."
He left her staring after him, her confusion nearly tangible as a single streak stroked its way down her left cheek. Still entangled in the bloody vision, Sweeney curled up in the bathtub and fought the return of sleep for as long as he physically could.
A/N: Ahhhh, I'm sorry, guys. This was supposed to end with Sweeney bringing Mrs. Lovett upstairs with him or holding her tightly until she fell back asleep. Apparently, the plot bunnies had other ideas, and our favorite demon barber is still pretty bitter about being lied to. Stay tuned. Also, do you think this story should be upped to an M? Some of these descriptions are getting pretty grisly.