Archive of Our Own ^beta

A great, glorious groan came from the figure lying prone on the ground. The mass, with its tangled limbs and faintest of whispers, glanced around the room in a daze. The bakehouse was dark, darker than it’d ever been. Even with no candles and the door shut, she’d never been in such emptiness. It was cold, too. Freezing - actually. Her teeth chattered inside her closed mouth. She ran her tongue over the hard surface, wincing as she felt the layer of grime that had accumulated on her molars. She needed a wash, soon. Wouldn’t want Mr. Todd sees her like this, not when she’s so close to breaking through that harsh exterior of his. 

Why, only a week ago they’d shared a trip to the countryside. He’d protested, of course, though not more than she’d expected him to. He’d listened, too, patiently and calmly. Not bothering to interrupt her with a protest or a grunt, as he often did. He heard what she had to say, which was far more than Albert ever did. It was not the only department he bested her late husband in, either. 

They were practically married already; they were in her mind. They would be, legally and religiously, soon enough. It was only a matter of time, and the pesky judge would fall - 

Her door opened suddenly, with such aggression she first believed her tenant had come inside. 

“Where is she?” asked the man. He wore an elegant scarf over his face, but she knew who he was. 

A wicked grin snuck itself into her almost-perfect facade. She was a better liar, but the glee was overwhelming. They were so close. “Who, sir?” She feigned ignorance, eyes widening to match her apparent innocence. “‘Tis only me an’ me son, yer honour. Perhaps me tenant might-” 

The judge, frazzled and impatient, retreated with a huff. Slamming the door shut as he ran up the stairs. The last time she would ever see the man alive, good riddance.

She ran her bare hand over her hair, where her head pulsed in faint discomfort. She remembered the Judge vividly. The Beadle, too. He’d failed to come down the stairs, as many others had. She could’ve sworn she’d at least heard Anthony, or seen him running down the street as she searched for Toby. Everything else, however, was a bit of a fuss. He had dispatched the judge, hadn’t he? 

Wet, red lines littered his skin. Unlike the small, precise wounds she was used to finding on his other victims. His skin had been pulled apart by the metal, broken past all comprehension. Bare remains of the monster stared into her eyes, pleading for forgiveness from a soul as damned as his own. 

There was no forgetting that. Even for a woman who’d seen her fair share of gore, the sight disturbed her to no end. He had gotten the Judge, the Beadle, and every other bearded man in London. 

And Toby.

 Not yet a man - he’d only started to grow out of his breeches a week prior. His voice hadn’t deepened, despite his efforts  (he tried to sound older every time Mrs. Mooney’s pretty niece walked by their shop. He thought others didn’t notice, Nellie didn’t have the heart to tell him they did). Why, he hadn’t grown a whisker! He never would, now. She’d made sure of that. 

She shook her head. It would be hypocritical to dwell on the past while urging Mr. Todd to move past his. Past her. 

Mud covered every inch and strand, the filth making it impossible to decipher the true colours underneath. The small cracks in the layers of dirt and London betrayed a hint of what lay underneath. Age and struggle had stolen most of its shine, the hair once touched by the sun as dark as the night. Nellie, though, could recognise that faded hue everywhere, so unmistakably yellow. 

She gasped and sprung up, quickly. Far too quickly, it seemed; her brain spun and pounded against her cranium. Lucy was dead, by Sweeney Todd’s blade, no less! She’d dreamt about the same situation, more often than she’d like to admit. Though, in her mind, the scenario culminated in a wedding, a babe in her arms, a house by the sea…

The world spun, again, no longer only her brain. The entire room tilted drastically to the side, enough for her to slide had she not had the right mind to sink her nails onto the wood below her. It lasted for two seconds, give or take, but her heart wouldn’t stop pounding to leave her chest cavity long after it was over. 

“Mr. Todd?” She tried, no one answered. Was she alone? It was too dark to tell. “Mr. Todd!” She repeated, louder. Then again, Mr. Todd likely wouldn’t have spoken up even 3 feet away from her, some lover.

Were they lovers? Still? 

They had been, once, on a rainy day. He had only one customer that day; a boy, no older than 14, looking for his first shave. He had a squeaky voice and about four hairs on her mustache (Nellie was sure she could grow more herself if she set her mind to it), and was plumper than most boys his age. He seemed like the perfect victim, though he was skinny - plump victims made for a juicier filling. So she found it odd when she saw him walking down the stairs, impeccably shaven and with a bounce in his step. 

“Wot’s the matter witchu?” Was her greeting as she burst into the room, unannounced, as always. “The Lord sends you a client on your slowest day and you let ‘im walk? Wot am I supposed to put in me pies tomorrow, ey? Rat? Pussy-cat? I swear, sometimes I -” 

“He’s meetin’ a girl,” Sweeney rudely interrupted, speaking solemnly and seemingly lost in a memory. “They’re goin’ to a tea room. They have a… peach tea…it’s her favourite.” 

“Half the men you send off are married,” argued Eleanor. “Every bloody man in London has a skirt they’re chasin’ after! What happened to ‘death will be a relief, eh? Convenient that you’ve chosen now to forget all about that, now that money is finally comin’ in regular-like -.” 

“Her name is Lucy.” 

Nellie wisely left the room before she could break something. She closed her shop early (no point in opening with all the rain), sent Toby to catch up on the reading assignment she’d given him, and headed straight to the liquor cabinet. Pulling out the only bottle untouched by Toby, the only one with enough gin to help her forget about bloody fucking Lucinda Evelyn Baker. 

He would come down eventually, unknowingly sharing his landlady’s eagerness to escape the thoughts of his wife. He barged into the parlour, unannounced, wild eyes instantly set upon the woman drinking on the couch. His hands trembled despite the stiffness of his limbs, and she could swear she heard the faintest growl emanating from his throat. When her gaze traveled past his handsome face, down his firm chest, and eventually to the remarkable tent in his pants, the situation became clearer. 

He didn’t talk - wouldn’t talk - but it was all the same to her. She could do enough talking for the both of them. Enough of anything, for him alone. 

“‘Is all-right, dear,” she cooed as seductively as she could muster in spite of her nerves, “nothin’ to worry about. Come to me, luv.” 

The following day, despite waking up alone, Nellie would ask him to spend the rest of their life together. Her cheeks burned bright red from the memory of it all. 

“SWEENEY TODD!” She screamed. He hadn’t answered her then, due to Anthony’s intrusion. Now was hardly the time to think about their relationship. Yet, despite her confusion and fear, Nellie wanted nothing more than to finish their fated conversation. Lucy be damned, she knew she could make him understand. After all, he hadn’t killed her after discovering his wife’s corpse (she ran her hand over her throat multiple times as confirmation), surely it meant he cared for her. 

The door - it was the first time she noticed there even was a door, it’d been too dark to tell - burst open with a loud creak. Its corners violently hit the wall with enough force to make the entire object shutter. Mr. Todd had picked up Anthony’s tendency for loud, unannounced entrances, it seemed. 

“Mr. T -” 

“Shut it, wench,” spat the man. His voice was higher than she’d expected, and shaky despite the venom in his intonation. He couldn’t be Mr. Todd. So, then, who the bloody hell was he? 

“...Toby?” she tried hesitantly. She couldn’t imagine her dear, sweet, devoted Toby calling her such a word. Though after what he’d seen… what she’d put him through… 

Nothing’s gonna harm you… not while I’m around. 

Nellie winced at the memory. She couldn’t blame him for despising her.

The man scoffed, “who?” 

Nellie’s open hand travelled the ground, feeling the wood, looking for a weapon. She didn’t know who this man was, and didn’t particularly care to find out. 

The male huffed, seemingly impatient and frustrated at her lack of communication. “Keep screamin’ like that, an’ we’ll throw you with the other ‘uns.” 

“Where am I?” she asked desperately. 

“Y’know where you are,” scoffed the boy. “Hope said you’d try sumthin’ funny. Well, you ain’t gettin’ me, no m’am, don’t even try.” 

Her palm reached out for an object. A wooden bucket, with nothing inside of it. She pulled it towards her body, intending to use it as a weapon, when something struck her. “Hope? As in - Anthony Hope? D’you know Anthony Hope?” 

She felt a dull sting in her cheek; he’d slapped her - a familiar, yet almost forgotten, feeling. “Shut yer filthy mouth, she-devil, or I’ll sew it shut for ya.”

That silenced her good, for the time being. Every fibre in her body urged her to scream, or to lunge out and tear at his throat with her teeth. The lad was only another volatile man compensating for his own insecurities, such men were common in London, and they always failed to impress. She knew, however, that the odds were against her. It would be foolish to strike now, when she knew so little about her situation. Better to plan, she figured, all good things come to those who can wait. 

Her assailant mistook her silence for submission, as Nellie hoped he would. “That’s what I thought, good girl. See? It don’t have to be so difficult - well, not until we reach port, I mean.” 

The swaying room, the freezing breeze, the wooden floors, they were starting to make sense. Nellie’s heartbeat doubled in speed. From the boy’s demeanor, she had a sinking suspicion as to where they were headed. For the first time in fifteen years, she found herself praying to be wrong. “P-port, sir?” She struggled to ask, knowing the answer before he even opened his mouth. “And where would that port be?” 

The man paused, and she could feel his gaze burning into her figure. “Ye really don’ know?” He asked, dumbfounded. "Blimey, we ought to lower your dosage, then. Doc said it'd keep ya calm, but no point in transportin' a vegetable, is there?" 

Eleanor gulped, and wished harder for Sweeney Todd to be by her side. "Transportin'...where, sir?" 

"Only place in the world for the likes of ye, scum," he spat on the floor, the projectile missing her head by an inch. "Welcome aboard, Lovett. We'll be at Devil's Island ‘fore ya know it." 

—

“Sleep, Eleanor.” 

Her long finger stilted in its tracks, guilty as charged, only halfway through its journey down her lover’s back. He was so quiet, so stoic, she assumed he’d fallen asleep as soon as they’d come apart from their humid embrace. He sounded tired - she couldn’t blame him. Sleep was pawing at her eyelids, too, urging her to rest her weary head. Stubborn Eleanor, however, put up a valiant fight against nature. Only so she could bask in his company, memorise his features, a few hours longer. 

“Sorry, love,” she excused herself as her finger grazed the raised lines on his back. She trailed them as if they were directions on a map, in a futile attempt to find a semblance of order in his pain. “Didn’t mean ta wake you.” 

He scoffed in reply, “you didn’t.”

“Ah, sleep problems, ey?” She raised her torso and turned around, laying her back against the headboard. She didn’t bother covering her nude chest with the sheets; she wanted him to see. Not that he turned to look. “Is sumthin’ botherin’ ya? We can talk about it, it might help! It’s always helped me -”

“The Judge,” replied Sweeney with a grunt.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know, the Judge. What else? Don’t lie ta me an’ say that’s it, ‘cause I know it ain’t.” 

He was silent and unmoving, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of his scarred back. Nellie gently brought her hands to the lines marring his skin, wondering to herself if he could even feel her caresses. They weren’t hard to follow, despite how disorganized they were and how dark her (their? She’d have to ask him), bedroom was. Most of the skin on his back carried the long lines. A whip, she supposed, though they’d never spoken about it. “Poor dear,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “You’ve gone through so much, didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

“How do you know?” 

“Know what?” She’d been so focused with his muscles that the question barely registered in her mind. 

“That I didn’t deserve it.”

Nellie gasped, horrified. She slapped his shoulder, playfully, he grunted nonetheless. “Mr. T! Don’t say that. What could a person ever do to deserve such treatment?” 

“Cry,” spoke Todd casually, as if they were discussing the weather. If he felt anything about his time in prison, he was making a remarkable effort at hiding it. “Move too slowly, ask for food, beg for water… speak.” 

There had been nights, too many to count, that she’d spent sleepless with worry. Lying prone and wide awake, next to her ignorant husband, Nellie would bite her nails and cry into her pillow as she imagined what poor, innocent Benjamin was being subjected to. She, like most working-class Whitechappel girls, was no stranger to the whispers surrounding Botany Bay. The great boogeyman of the poor and desperate, a taunting threat dangled over those needy enough for a life of crime. She’d heard of boys, no older than Toby, with tongues ripped from their mouths, with severed hands and broken kneecaps. In all her years, she’d seen countless men (and some women) transported, both innocent and guilty. She’d only seen them come back in boxes, and they were considered the most fortunate. 

In a strange, shameful way, her thoughts often comforted her. Whenever she went to bed with an empty belly, she imagined Benjamin sharing her hunger all those miles away. Before Albert’s weight rendered him immobile and he had the energy to rectify his wife’s behaviour, she’d think of Benjamin with similar bruises from guards and inmates. He would survive, she was sure of it. He would need someone to lean on upon his return, someone who understood him the way only he could understand her. Lucy couldn’t do it, silly nit hardly even tried, so Nellie would, and it would keep her going. Hoping, waiting. 

It was the most he’d ever said about his imprisonment. Nellie had a million questions, naturally, though she held her tongue. Mr. T was a man who could be frightened by the simple horrors of small talk, she understood how valuable this silence was for him. Her hand moved from his back to the back of his hair, where she traced her fingers through his scalp, lightly massaging it. She hoped the motion would coax more words out of him, but her efforts were fruitless. He’d reached his limit, it seemed. All the same to her, she’d gotten in one night than she had in the months of their partnership. 

“They’d whip people for speakin’?” Nellie asked, softly and gently. She meant no offence by it, it was important that he knew that. His razor gleamed from its place in her nightstand, so close to his reach. The feeling of the cold blade pressed against her throat so vivid in her mind…

His reply was simple. “Yes, they did.” 

“Bloody hell, I wouldn’t last a day!” 

He turned to her, finally! His eyes grazed her chest, briefly, only to settle intensely on her eyes. There was a gleam there, a lightness she’d only seen once before, when they’d danced around her kitchen. He delighted in her mischief, and she in his appraisal of it. “No, pet,” Sweeney said with a smirk, and she felt her world melt away, “you wouldn’t.” 

When his gaze proved too much to bear, she averted her eyes. “Well, then…I best stay ‘ere, then. Out of trouble,” she looked at him, “with you.” 

His eyes were closed; he’d fallen asleep that quickly. Nellie shrugged, sinking into the pillows herself. No matter! She'd just tell him in the morning.