A/N: Here's another chapter. You guys are incredible. Thank you so much for following and for wanting more. *hugs* If this chapter sounds choppy or overly sappy, I apologize in advance. Some of it is pretty raw, and some of it was written on sleep deprivation. Please keep reviewing- it really is so wonderful to know what you're thinking. By the way, I'm upping the rating to M. Don't get excited, guys. xD This baby just got darker than I thought it would, that's all.
She did her best to remember that she'd made a promise to the boy. That didn't stop the guilt from dragging across her brains and intestines like filthy fingernails.
If it weren't for you, they'd be a family again.
He'll never love you like he does…did…does Lucy. All you are to him is a whore and a necessary cog in his great bloody machine.
And so Nellie Lovett abstained from her blades, but the storm inside her only gathered strength.
Sweeney Todd saw how his distance cut the baker. He didn't miss that the shadows under her eyes had grown. She barely ate and never allowed herself to be still. The impossible woman threw herself into her work the way his Lucy had sought solace in sleep and chocolates. His jaw tightened at the unbidden comparison; a vein throbbed in his temple, seeking escape. Thoughts of his Lucy reminded him that the damn baker had no place in his thoughts or his heart.
The moment that the judge was dead, Sweeney would dispatch the little liar and find a new home for himself. Yet something twisted in him at the thought, almost akin to physical queasiness. Why did that bloody liar keep worming her way behind his eyes and under his ribcage? Sweeney clawed at the bridge of his nose and hoped that the roof would cave in and crush his skull.
The flames roasted Mrs. Lovett's back. Sweat rolled into her eyes, running like tears and stinging every individual vein there. The knotted muscles in her arms groaned as she dragged what was left of a middle-aged Chinaman. She turned, braced herself, and hefted the gory bones into the oven's maw. As the blaze embraced what was left of the poor soul, sparks leapt into the stifling air like a breath straight from hell.
The curvy baker swept an arm across her forehead and felt more wet warmth trickle onto her skin. Lugging around and hacking up full-grown men had not been kind to the accumulated hurts on her arms. This was especially true for the cleaver wound. She gritted her teeth as her sweat etched acid into the points of stinging and increased their complaining tenfold.
It was times like these, when Mrs. Lovett was buried in the brick belly of the bakehouse and broiling in offal and the very air burned her lungs, that she felt most acutely alone.
Upstairs, she could pretend that she was acting out of pure-hearted love for her Mister Todd, and imagine that her maternal efforts were doing the boy some good even as she steeped him in half-truths and outright lies. In the bakehouse, she was made to stare into the underbelly of her respectable new life. Downstairs, Mrs. Lovett clung desperately to wisps of sweet daydreams to keep from going barking mad.
Blood ran down her elbow and got lost in the gore that made her work dress gleam dully. A shadow shifted across the weirdly flickering floor. The petite redhead's heart squeezed even tighter than her corset. She edged towards her cleaver, flicking a wild glance over one bloodied shoulder like a hunted animal. Dark eyes that were as deeply lined with shadows as her own made her breath catch in her white, perspiration-drenched throat.
Sweeney allowed the stench of ruin to lead him to his landlady. He found her bent nearly double beside her massive oven, a glimmering drop of sweat and the lifeblood of other men. Touched by flame in the spots where the shadows could not reach, Mrs. Lovett looked ethereal and small. As their eyes met, she stared back at him with such exquisite pain and naked yearning that his eyes shifted involuntarily to a spot on the wall just beside her head.
He could hear her short, ragged breaths over the snapping of the oven's flames. Rubies dripped from her fingers, weeping from a frame that had endured too much sorrow. Seeing her standing there, Sweeney felt a stab of emptiness that could not be sated by his familiar friends or by shedding clothing and bathing in mutual sweat. Withholding what little remained in his black heart from his only ally in the cold, insane world was proving to be harder than denying himself the pleasure of a very brief surprise visit to the judge's loathsome residence.
Mrs. Lovett meant security. Mrs. Lovett meant sanity. Mrs. Lovett meant home.
Facing a present where uncertainty was the only constant and a future that was inscrutable and murky, Sweeney wanted more than ever to go home.
He crossed over to his accomplice, closing the distance between them, and took her bloodied hand in his relatively clean one. The musically talented murderer felt her round eyes drilling against the back of his head, asking many silent questions as he led her upstairs. He led her to her bathroom without answering any.
After locking her door, Sweeney released his landlady's hand and took hold of her waist. He turned her so that she was facing the wall, then ducked behind her and began undoing her lung-squashing corset. She helped him with the lacing and obediently shrugged out of her dress and underthings. The demon barber appraised her as she stood before him and felt a frown etching its way across his lips. Mrs. Lovett was exhausted, nearly swaying against him. She reeked of sweat and freshly hacked meat. Her wounds had been opened once more, and she looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown or a collapse. This would not do.
Gently he led her to the bath and nodded towards it, wordlessly telling her to get in. She sat in the tub without a word. A pinkish cloud rose around her almost instantly as she sank into the water. Sweeney knelt down on the tile beside the tub. He swished a washcloth under the water and soaped it up. He washed his accomplice with the same care and thoroughness that he would have put into a shave. He rubbed her overtaxed muscles and felt her slowly melt beneath his dexterous fingers.
The demon barber unsnarled and washed her perspiration-drenched mane until it flowed shining and clean down her shoulders. He cleaned her hurts, scowling blackly over the deep, fairly fresh gash on her upper arm. Mrs. Lovett avoided his eyes, biting her lower lip. Guided by that same hunger, Sweeney leaned down and kissed her mistreated lip. The little redhead blushed and immediately ceased what she was doing in favor of returning his kiss.
He held her face for a few moments, then released her lips and guided her out of the tub. She came willingly. Sweeney wrapped her snugly in a towel and patted her arms dry with a dry washcloth, paying special attention to her hurts.
"Are you gonna 'ave to sew that big one up?" Mrs. Lovett ventured, sounding like she didn't really want an answer.
The introverted psychopath nodded.
"Oh." She looked down, sucked in a breath through her teeth, and huffed it out again softly in a particularly choice expletive.
Stitching the cleaver cut proved too much for Mrs. Lovett even though she made sure to get good and drunk beforehand. Sweeney held her when she could no longer hold back her tears. He rocked her, pushing past his anger at her just for the present. She was such a strong little creature that he sometimes forgot that she needed someone to lean on just like any other human being. The tiny baker settled down and slipped into a drunken sleep, drooling just a bit on his sleeve. Sweeney stared into the night as his home slept in his arms.
(Sorry, guys, I don't want to bore you with too many author's notes, but I updated this for my best friend, who got in a car accident. She's okay, but her neck hurts and the driver at fault cut up his legs. If you pray, please pray for them. I'd really appreciate it.)