A/n: Hiya folks! Another chappy up, as promised. This one is all Sweeney, since we haven't heard from him in a while! Plus, I think we all need a break from the Judge. I know I am. Ignore any shoddy spelling! =)
Wherever Sweeney Todd lingered, the streets were severed. It didn't matter whether it was an alleyway, a crowded square, a bursting avenue – the world parted for Sweeney.
The demon barber didn't venture out much into the world of wives, children and families.
His wanted poster was all over London.
Wearing a disguise didn't help him much either. His disguise, a thick cape, and a wide hat that hid his face wasn't exactly subtle. He might as well have run down the streets shouting his name and brandishing his razors.
Consequently, Sweeney made it his business to stay off the streets. It suited him. He shouldn't have to see the happy couples striding through the marketplace, telling so and so they'd just had their third child. Sweeney cursed himself. Every time he saw a squawking, giggling babe in its mother's arms, brimming with the beginnings of life, Sweeney could only think of his razors.
Perhaps if he spilled a child's blood, he would feel satisfied. His revenge would be satiated. He wouldn't need to have the dripping rubies run through his hands anymore. He'd killed Lucy so cruelly, so thoroughly. Perhaps if he slaughtered one of those smiling cherubs – she would not be so lonely, wherever it was his poor wife had gone. She would at least have a child to play with. She might even forget all the horrors Sweeney had committed. He could not give her Joanna back – and he was not ready to die himself – not yet. Perhaps if Lucy had one of those babes, it would be enough. For now.
Yet he had hadn't done it. Sweeney had lingered in the shadows of the market place all day, watching mothers and children. But he hadn't done it.
And now he was in his filthy home. It hadn't taken much to find. He'd stolen an expensive ring and sold it for rent money.
From his foul little hovel in his run-down London apartment, Sweeney could peer down into the streets below. From the tiny, high window, he could still hear happiness. It floated up to him, like stray grass seeds blown in the wind. The woman stopping in the street below had red hair, and her child was at least five – not a babe, but still. Sweeney was reminded of Lucy and Joanna. He always would be.
The red-haired woman was laughing, chatting with a shorter woman. Sweeney could hear their voices, as well as their laughter.
"Joseph can wait for his lunch. I told 'im I'd be 'ome by three. Now did you 'ear the news?"
"Ah, you mean poor old Nellie Lovett? They say it was no fire. They say 'e threw 'er in!"
"Yes! Terrible business, that. Still, I always says that man Todd wos no good – "
"It ain't all bad news, they say – "
"Can any o' it be good, wot's the question, Jenny?"
"They say Nellie Lovett still – "
Sweeney left the window. He didn't want to hear anymore.
Yet if he had stayed, he would have heard the words "still alive."
But just the name "Nellie Lovett" set the demons marching up and down in his blood. He couldn't forget.
All the times she had smiled, prodded him, poked her head in to announce his breakfast was hot, and would he like a tot of gin with that?
And all the while she had known. Had known – and yet still had no trouble smiling. She did not care one jot that Lucy had been stumbling alone along those hard streets, clinging to anyone who would spare a second of their time. Who knew what horrible acts his wife had been forced to go through to earn a penny?
All the while, Mrs Lovett could have spoken up. But she did not. In the end, Sweeney knew that there was no other person in the world who thought like Sweeney Todd – except Mrs Lovett. They were the same demon breed.
When Sweeney had tossed the baker into the oven, he had been throwing himself in as well. His only regret was that he hadn't been able to stay and savour it.
To watch her burn.
If he closed his eyes, Sweeney could nearly imagine the smell.
Mrs Lovett, spinning like a broken chandelier toward the open furnace. He'd seen her hair catch fire, and her dress go up like one of those straw dolls that children made on Halloween. He could remember the vivid echo of her shrieks as the flames ate her up – but he hadn't stayed. Sweeney imagined it would have smelt like that burnt leg of lamb Mrs Lovett had cooked the night before he'd killed her.
"What is this?" Sweeney had complained, spitting the meat onto his plate. He could feel the dull crunch of ash and cinder between his teeth.
"Burnt meat, Mr Todd," Mrs Lovett had replied, dead pan.
She'd gotten up from the table, and dumped the charred remains in the kitchen. "I tried me best," she sighed, coming back in with her hands on her hips, her great eyes staring intently at him.
He had an idea what she was thinking, and it wasn't dinner.
"Your best clearly isn't good enough," Sweeney had said, frowning, crossing the room to get away from those eyes. He left Toby scowling at the table.
Her best was never good enough, Sweeney thought, except when it came to skinning dead people. At that, she had been a natural. On some strange impulse, Sweeney touched the surface of his lips.
"Hullo!" someone called, and there was a knock at his apartment door.
Sweeney felt for his razor, ready for action. He was almost glad they had knocked, before he could remember what else it was Mrs Lovett had been a natural at.
"How can I help you?" Sweeney said. He kept his voice low and level, but his skin was pulsing fire. The slightest danger and he would slit their throat.
"Please sir," a soft little voice stammered.
At first Sweeney was reminded of a sparrow or a robin, but the person under the wide-brim hat was clearly a woman. It, or she, was filthy, and stank more than the entire unwashed mass of bleeders in Sweeney's apartment building, but she was undoubtedly a woman.
"Please sir," she mumbled, holding up a basket filled with an assortment of useless junk, "would you buy one of me trifles?"
Her hands were smeared. The nails were ragged and stained.
"No," Sweeney snapped, certain she was no threat. She wouldn't even look at him.
"Be off with you," he cursed, and slammed the door.
Sweeny had thought that was the end of it, but apparently it wasn't. Ten minutes later, the woman was still shuffling outside his door.
"Dandy, dandy, dandylions!" the sparrow voice sang out.
"Leave!" Sweeney snarled, yanking the door.
"Please sir," the woman snivelled, "I got bumblebees buzzin' in me 'ead. Do you know the cure?"
Sweeney was tempted to slash her throat from ear to ear. The woman was addled.
But then she did something odd. And it saved her life.
The woman took off her hat, sat on the floor, and began to sift through the junk in her basket, just like a child. "You like bottle caps, sir?" She picked up a handful of the useless things, shaking them. "I got plenty."
"So I see," Sweeney grunted. She was a pitiful creature, half-smiling, half-drooling over her blue pinafore. She wasn't looking at him, but above him. She was some loose screw let out of Bedlam, Sweeney supposed.
He didn't kill her. He had meant to, but he didn't.
She removed her hat, and then Sweeney was certain. He couldn't kill her, for one very simple reason.
She was Lucy.
Of course, it wasn't really her. But it could have been. Beneath the dirt and grime, her hair was the colour of sunny wheat, and her eyes were the same mermaid ocean blue. "What's your name?" Sweeney asked, his voice choking up.
She was playing with the bottle caps now. She wasn't unlike Lucy the beggar woman, begging for alms. "Wot's a name? I dunno. I've forgotten. Are you a priest?"
"No," said Sweeney, smirking. So, Mrs Lovett had thought she could thwart him by pretending Lucy was dead? Lucy, it seems, had come back to haunt him.
"Come here, Lucy," Sweeney said, and the beggar woman followed obediently, taking her grubby hand in his.
"Sweetie?" she said.
"No," said Sweeney, grimacing at the pet name. "I am Sweeney Todd, and together my Lucy, we shall take revenge on the world. Starting with the Judge."
"Lucy" blinked stupidly, drooling from the corner of her mouth."Judge," she repeated, like an infant learning its first words.
She wasn't pretty. If she had been once, she wasn't now. But Sweeney was glad.
"You will stay with me," he commanded, locking the door behind them. Briefly, like a flash of lightning through the tiny window, he remembered the touch of lips on his own. Lips that were not his wife's. Lips, and the parting of mouths.
But he had Lucy now. She would help him forget.
"Come here Lucy," he barked, and Lucy obeyed.
He was glad Lucy wasn't pretty. He had no use for pretty women.
* * *
Awwww Sweeney's in lurrrve. Just kidding....but I couldn't help it. He needs someone to talk to, since Nellie is a bit tied up. =D