16. Plead
Sometimes, the need to feel himself drowning in precious rubies is too strong to ignore. He tries his best, pacing the tonsorial parlour like a wild thing, hands gripping his razor so tightly the etchings brand his skin, desperately attempting to disregard the insatiable desire growing within him like poison.
Most nights he can overlook the images which blossom in his head. Pictures of the baker naked beneath his blade, blood steaming to the surface and burning him, soft skin yielding to his hand as she cries out in fear and pain. Images of him slicing her until she stops whimpering, until she can bleed no more, of his tongue lapping those precious rubies up, making her his in the most erotic way.
Tonight he cannot dispel those images.
His footsteps are silent on the wooden stairs and he descends them swiftly, barely sparing a glance for the rest of the street. With a wild determination flashing in his eyes, he wrenches open the door to the pie shop and steps inside. A faint light beckons him through the darkness, coaxing him to its source. It would seem Mrs. Lovett is still up.
She is, but she isn't awake. She is stretched out in her little armchair, arms draped over the sides, a half-finished book sliding haphazardly from her lap. Her feet are propped up on a stool, an aura of contentment radiating from her entire being.
Todd stops short upon the sight, his resolve wavering for the first time that evening. Nevertheless, those steamy images return full-force when her head tilts back in her sleep, exposing her beautiful, white neck. He imagines he can see the pulse pounding there even from this distance.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he edges himself into the room, dark eyes never leaving the baker's prone form. His razor burns his skin as it tingles with the anticipation of the kill. He can almost hear her voice, quivering and high, begging him to leave her, pleading with him to have mercy…
His eyes cloud with bloodlust, the insanity so close to the surface of his tortured mind threatening to take the reins, to make him lose all control. The boy is sprawled out on the floor, bottle of gin in hand. Todd knows he will not awaken now.
Stepping over him, he comes to a rest in front of his landlady. She does not awaken when he looms over her, and he takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of her pale skin bathed in gilded gold from the firelight. Without even being aware of it, he removes the razor from its holster, flicks it open with a shink. He wonders how it will look against her skin, gold and silver whisked intricately with red.
Mrs. Lovett shifts in her sleep, the book on her knee sliding off completely to hit the floor with a soft thump. Todd jerks out of his mesmerised state at the sound of it, and shakes his head. Carefully, he sinks to his knees beside the baker, lowering the keen blade of the razor to her perfect white throat.
Soon it will be red.
Gently—too gently to draw blood—he traces the blade across that snowy expanse, eyes darkening with want for her rubies. Mrs. Lovett stirs at the contact, her eyes blinking open to regard him drowsily. In her sleep-induced state, she hasn't realised he has his friend pinned to her throat. Todd's smirk is predatory.
"What's wrong, love?" she asks through a yawn, bringing a gloved hand up to rub at her eyes. "You 'ere for some gin?"
"No, I'm not," Todd growls in reply, and he is surprised by how calm he sounds when his insides are in turmoil.
"What then?" she prompts, and he takes great delight in digging the razor just slightly into the yielding flesh of her neck. Mrs. Lovett's eyes widen as she realises just what is there.
The fear—that split-second of terror that shadows her face—is enough to have his heart beating wildly in anticipation.
"Come now, Mr. Todd," she says in a business-like fashion, reaching with oh-so-slightly trembling hands for the razor's handle, which he is grasping steadily. "Put that thing away. Don't want Toby wakin' up an' runnin' to the law now, do you?"
"He won't wake up," Todd answers feverishly, digging the blade into her skin just slightly so a trickle of blood blossoms like a flower in summer. "He's had too much gin. You really ought to ration him."
She casts her gaze to the floor where the workhouse boy is curled, deep in a gin-soaked stupor. "Yes, I s'pose I ought. But 'e's always been given it in the work'ouse, I'd feel rotten takin' it away from 'im."
She's talking to him as though he is not holding a blade to her neck, acting as though it will disappear if she does not acknowledge its presence. This only infuriates him further, heightens the sense of his bloodlust. He presses the blade more securely against her windpipe, eliciting a wheezy gasp from her throat. Her hand over his becomes slightly more urgent.
"We both know you ain't gonna do it, Mr. T," she says in what would be a coaxing manner if not for the wavering of her voice. "So just put the bloody thing away."
"Don't flatter yourself," he growls. "You're dispensable, pet."
"Y'ain't gonna find no one else what'll bake them pies an' keep yer secrets," Mrs. Lovett points out. Then she sighs in defeat, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Please, love."
He makes the mistake of glancing into her eyes. They dance in the dying firelight. He knows that she'd want them to be seen as pools of melting chocolate, desperate to warm his heart. But, at the moment, that is not what he is focused on.
No, not this time.
This time it's the soft pleading swimming in those eyes. Those damned eyes.
That look says more than her words ever could. It's a look he has so often tortured himself with: the expression he imagines was in Lucy's eyes as she begged the judge to stop. If he continues now, he'll be no better than that piece of scum.
Todd lowers his razor.
Mrs. Lovett heaves a visible sigh of relief, her throaty voice murmuring, "Thank you, my love," against his mouth as her hot breath hits his face, and he jerks back.
She stares up at him for a moment as he flounders,
(those eyes)
one hand held uncertainly in front of her as though she is contemplating enticing him to stay for a gin—or worse…
Without another word or backwards glance, Todd leaves the room.
At night, Sweeney Todd is accustomed to seeing images of his baker naked beneath his blade, blood steaming to the surface and burning him, soft skin yielding to his hand as she cries out in fear and pain. Images of him slicing her until she stops whimpering, until she can bleed no more; of his tongue lapping those precious rubies up, making her his in the most erotic way.
Tonight—and every night from now on—he sees only those eyes, pleading with him to have mercy.
Tonight, for the first time, Sweeney Todd has seen Nellie Lovett as a woman.