[2nd February][Sweeney Todd] The Bloodsuckers

[athousandwinds.livejournal.com]

Title: The Bloodsuckers
Day: 2nd February 2008: "What feeds me destroys me".
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Character/Pairing: Mrs Lovett, Sweeney Todd
Rating: PG13



He's looking better, Mrs Lovett thinks. Healthier, nowadays, a little more good food inside him, a little more blood in his cheeks. She remembers her first sight of him, that first shock of recognition. All his old colour leeched away – though he'd never had much, she would say that – and as sickly-looking as a corpse.

"All this activity's good for you," she concludes, and pats his shoulder. He looks at her, that strange half-distracted, half-bewildered look. He's rather like a puppy, one that's been kicked in the side too many times. It's learnt to bite – though, she prides herself, he still knows one who's kind to him – but it has that hurt look, the puppy that doesn't understand its master's moods.

"Activity?"

"This hobby of yours," she reminds him. Silly man. "It's not a bad idea. Gets you out in the fresh air a bit, when you're looking for customers. Gets those arms of yours working."

To emphasise her point, she squeezes his bicep. He's stronger than he looks under that shirt. There must've been some work needed doing in Australia. Mrs Lovett smiles and rubs her thumb over the cheap cotton.

"It's not a hobby," he says. Almost peevish, really, like Toby when he doesn't want to go to bed.

"Of course not, Mr Todd," she says, and ooh, if that isn't a customer at the door now. "Have fun, dear."

She goes to pour herself a cup of tea and, on reflection, adds a tot of gin. The slap of Toby's feet on the shop floor and he's peering round her shoulder, through the window, watching Mr Todd and the gentleman (older, and seems to have fallen on hard times by the state of his coat).

"What is it, love?" she asks.

"Don't know," he says. His face is closed-off, wary like a guard-dog's. Mrs Lovett puts her cup down and stands up.

"I'll get you something to eat, darling." He likes her pies more than anything, the sweetheart, and it's not as if they don't have the meat to spare. She waits until he's halfway through, until she's heard the three soft thumps that mean all's done and dusted, and then she goes upstairs herself.

He's smiling, that beautiful man. He's got the loveliest smile, even now it's tempered with life's little hardships, and doesn't that just make it sweeter? Everything about him is bright this moment, dyed a gorgeous royal scarlet. If they ever get the money, she'd like to go to a big fancy ball. She'll wear a dress that colour, just for him. It's his favourite. And they'll dance together until dawn and then they'll go home and he'll kiss it off her, and call her Nellie.

"Mrs Lovett," he says, not in the least surprised to see her up here. And should he be, then, she always is. It's the only time he smiles so wide. She fishes her hanky out of her bodice and holds it up to his mouth.

"Spit," she tells him. He blinks at her, then obeys. She begins to clean the blood off his face; not as easy as you might think. There's a lot of it, and she'll have to give that shirt a good scrubbing.

"So practical, my love," he says, with his half-laugh like a breath on her skin.

"Well, Lord knows someone has to be." She's about to put his other shirt through the mangle in the yard, so either he'll put that coat of his back on or he'll close up shop for the day. There's nothing else to be done. She's thought of making him more shirts and she will, but now they have the money, it's hard to think of him in anything but the best linen. He'd ruin it, the daft beggar.

"He had m'lud's nose," he says. He does this, sometimes, when he's less sure about the customer's misdeeds; enumerates his reasons for doing them in.

"No good ever came of a nose like that," she agrees. Perhaps she could get him fine linen for Sundays and make sure he only wears the cotton for the shop.

"And his mouth," he adds.

"A nasty, lying mouth," she says. "You do all right, Mr T."

Even under the blood his cheek still has a hectic flush. His breath is coming quickly, with short, eager pants. "He didn't even have a moment to cry out."

"Just as well, really," she says. "Have you heard from Anthony?"

He gets queer, after these times, and it's Mrs Lovett's job to head him off at the pass. He shakes his head, as if clearing it of some fuzz, and then says, "Yes."

"Anything good?"

"Nothing as yet. I – had forgotten, for a moment."

"Well, no wonder," she says amiably, taking his hand. He never notices, during these times. "All the excitement's going to your head."

"I forgot – Johanna – " He pulls away from her, goes to stand by the window, stares out at the encroaching fog swirling up and clouding the glass. She doesn't take it personally. Poor man.

"Anthony will find her, he's a nice young boy," she says, in her best reassuring tone. She uses it with Toby sometimes, when he has nightmares. "And then you can see her, and she'll be safe at last, the sweet child."

He is silent. She cranes her neck to see his face: the blood has not yet receded and the red in his complexion only adds to the ferocity of his scowl. She sighs. "What is it, love? You like Anthony, don't you?"

"Some days I only think of him and not her," he says. Ridiculous, and yet so dear to her.

"Well, that's only natural." She sits herself down on his spare chair and he turns to look at her. He seems so lost at this moment that she wants to kiss his lips, his eyes, his brow until the lines smooth away and they're both young again. "M'lud's a tricky prospect. All we have to do is find Johanna, and then she'll have a lovely happy ending. You could be a grandfather."

"There are no happy endings." She can't tell if his eyes darken with tragedy or at the idea of even a charming boy like Anthony marrying his little girl.

"There are some quite nice ones, though," she says. Like theirs, after all these years she's been waiting for him. It's not how she'd imagined it, but Benjamin Barker never was what you'd think him.

He strides over to her side suddenly, and she gasps as he yanks her to her feet and pulls her against him, so hard she clutches his arm. Her heart beats violently against her chest as he lowers his face to hers, a bird in a rib cage struggling frantically to fly. But he doesn't kiss her. Instead, he presses his cheek to hers and says hoarsely:

"Do you believe in that?"

"I do," she whispers, so softly that she can barely hear herself. It seems to satisfy him, though, and he releases her. Something in the pit of her stomach is disappointed.

"I wonder if she's beautiful," he says, gazing out of the window again. The fog is clearing outside; she can just see a peek of light through the gloom.

"I'm sure she is," she says when she can regain her voice. "It's in the blood, that sort of thing." Her fingers are smeared with it from his shirt, though it's drying now. She has to cross her eyes to get a good look, but she thinks there's a smudge of it across her breasts, too. Just above her heart. It's a good thing Mr T has that washbasin up here, else how she'd explain it to Toby, she doesn't know.

"The blood," he repeats as she wipes the gore off her hand. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"If we can just get Judge Turpin, that's all," she says, with every bit of decisiveness she can muster. "That's all the blood we'll need."

"And then what?"

The question hangs in the air, but only for a heartbeat. "And then you can have your own happy ending, Mr T," she says positively. "You deserve it, after all this time spent being sad."

"There are no happily ever afters for the damned, my love," he says. She swats his shoulder lightly.

"Don't you go swearing now, Mr Todd."

He turns his head to gaze at her. His eyes are bottomless; something she could fall in and never climb out. Never want to. And the rest of his face is confused, her darling man.

"And don't be thinking morbid thoughts," she adds. "Remember what I said about hobbies."

She can see him carving wooden toys for a baby – their baby, perhaps, she's not so old as all that – or a pretty gift for her to put on the mantelpiece. He's nodding slightly, obediently, perhaps he's thinking about it, too.

"Now come and have a bit of dinner," she tells him, taking his coat from over the dresser and pulling it round his shoulders. He slips into it and she threads her arm through his crooked elbow. Going down the stone steps, she thinks they must look just like a newly-wedded couple. It's a picture she likes.

"Why are you smiling?" he asks in tones of deep suspicion. She lets out a small laugh, a giggle, really. She hasn't had one of those in fifteen years, since they took him away.

"Nothing, really," she says. He frowns and looks away, out over Fleet Street. He's searching for Judge Turpin's carriage, she thinks, or the Beadle's fat head sticking out of a hack. It's a touch depressing, but she knows just what will distract him. A nice bloody steak, one she got from the butcher only this morning.

And with any luck, it would probably distract Toby from any stains seeping out from Mr T's shirt. These things were such a worry. Lord knows where he'd be without her.