30 Kisses #15: perfect blue; fanfic50 #33: communication.
Title: Smiles in the Light
Author: hlfbldprincess
Pairing: Sweeney Todd/Nellie Lovett
Rating: T
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Prompt: 30 Kisses #15: perfect blue; fanfic50 #33: communication.
Word Count: 1,499
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
"Mr. T, for God's sake," Nellie wheezes as she stumbles up beside him and comes to a halt, bending over with her hands pressed against her knees, chest surging as she sucks at the air. "You've got to stop sneaking out in the goddamned middle of the night to do this!"
Sweeney does not so much as spare her a glance: his attention is riveted, as always, to the window two stories above where he stands. His posture is as straight and perfect as a soldier, all sharp lines and angles save for the curve of his neck, craned upward so as to allow his eyes better access to the window.
Not that there is anything to see within the window at the moment. Not that he cares if there is or not; he will keep vigil until his reason for waiting does appear, or even if the reason does not appear.
She finds his desperate hope that something will appear at the window frustrating. She finds his insistence to wait for what will never be pathetic.
(She finds it beautiful that he is so loyal, so loving, even through his armor forged of ice. Even if his love is not for her.)
She finds this same frustrating, pathetic, loyal quality in herself. Perhaps that's why his makes her so furious.
She touches his arm and tries to tug him away, but he jerks from her grasp. Swearing under her breath, she sidles closer to where he stands in the alleyway, concealed behind nothing: were anyone to peer down through the windows that his gaze is currently cemented to, they would see the pair with ease.
"Mr. Todd - look - I understand that you're hurting, love - but you've got to come to your senses about this eventually . . ."
Still no reaction from her companion. Nellie grits her teeth and fights against a flood of anger, heart banging like a fist against her rib cage: what more can she say to the man that she has not already said for the past month? How many more times does he need to hear the words before they sink in? Or are her words as useless as a child's Knurr ball, smacking against a stick and then bouncing away, never to return or even make the slightest impact upon the bat?
Again she grasps his arm; again he pulls away.
"This is spying, Mr. Todd," Nellie hisses, standing on her tiptoes to lean as close as she can to his ear, "and if we're caught - and if you're recognized - "
"I want to be recognized," whispers Sweeney. The first words he's spoken to her all night.
Nellie gapes at him for a moment before recovering the ability of speech. "Have you lost your marbles? You do realize that you were sent off to bloody Australia for life, yeah? And that if anyone realizes you escaped, you'd be sent back there without a backwards glance, or maybe even executed for breaking your 'rightful' sentence - but if you keep on standing outside Turpin's house like this night after night, love, I'm not seeing any other futures for you - you're practically asking to be sent back if you keep this up - "
"I want her to recognize me," says Sweeney, turning his eyes downward and sideways to meet hers. The first time he's looked at her all night.
Her heart lodges in her throat.
His eyes are wide, darkly earnest, so black they are the same color as the starless night sky above them, so black it is only because she can see the white peripheries gleaming at her does she know he is looking into her eyes.
Nellie swallows her heart, forcing it back down to its rightful home in her chest. "And what'll that accomplish, love?"
The whites of his eyes disappear for the span of an instance. A blink.
"She didn't recognize you last week at the market. She didn't recognize you when Turpin came for a shave last month. And even if she did recognize you . . ." Nellie swallows again even though her heart remains in her chest, even though there is so much saliva in her mouth she thinks she is on the verge of being sick, terrified of his reaction but knowing she must speak while he is actually listening: "Even if she did recognize you . . . what do you expect to happen?"
"She'll come back," says Sweeney, but it is more a growl of accusation than a statement of certainty, more the prayer of an atheist than the proclamation of a king. "We'll be together again."
"Really? You expect the woman what left a mere barber for a hoity toity judge to leave that judge for an escaped convict?"
Something lashes through his body like a whip, tearing through his muscles in a convulsion and ripping a cry from his throat; she winces, bracing herself for the brunt of his violence, but he does not strike her, merely snarls, "Lucy didn't leave me. I was taken away."
"And she wed the man what took you away."
"He must've - forced her to marry him . . . or lied about why I was sent away . . . or - "
"Or she saw that she had better prospects waiting for her," said Nellie, "and went ahead and took 'em."
That mysterious force lashes through his body again, but it is more the shudder of a dying animal than the lash of a strong, defiant man this time.
"It wasn't by choice," he mutters feverishly. "Lucy never would have married him by choice, without he forcing her - "
"You can't force that, love," she says, nodding up at the window two stories above them.
Sweeney whips his head back around, neck arcing backwards to again study the window, the whites of his eyes shining in earnest attention - where, at last, his reason stands.
Lucy Turpin's yellow locks splay down her shoulders as she combs out her nonexistent snarls. Her face is pressed to the panes, porcelain skin squished prettily against the glass; her eyes sparkle up at the night sky; her body is cloaked in a nightgown of perfect blue silk, a far more luxurious color and material than her husband of fifteen years ago could ever have afforded. Her mouth smiles as though she does not notice there are no stars in the sky tonight, as though she does not need to search the sky for a reason to smile.
Beside Nellie, Sweeney's physique is taut as a wire, his body heat hot as hell.
A hand snakes into view and brushes across Lucy's cheek, causing her smile to brighten and her body to pivot. Nellie catches only a glimpse of a scarlet waistcoat and a satisfied smirk before the smirk disappears against her smile - then both figures are obscured by Lucy's hair, flooding down her shoulders and back like a golden waterfall.
Turpin and his wife pull apart. Then, the smiles reappearing, they vanish from view, leaving the barber and the baker with nothing to watch but the empty glass panes.
Nellie risks a glance at Sweeney: the whites of his eyes shine with tears, but they remain upon the window above, still desperately hoping, still loyal to a purpose that abandoned him, still waiting for what will never be.
Rather than a flood of fury surging through her veins, the flood this time is of sorrow - of irrational guilt at being unable to alleviate his pain - of a wish to cure them both of this incurable disease that both destroys and gives the will to live.
Before she knows what she's done, Nellie grasps Sweeney's face between her palms and bruises his mouth with a kiss.
She starts to draw away the instant her conscious mind catches hold of her body and realizes what she's done, what she never should have done, the hate and the anger he will feel for her, asking the love he can never give her -
His hands close in her hair and around her waist, cementing her to him.
His fingers yank at her curls and force her head back to deepen the kiss, nails digging into her side, clutching at her so firmly it's as though he fears her escape if he loosens his hold - or perhaps he fears his own escape, fears that he'll disappear entirely if he does not allow himself to cling to what still can be - to what still is . . .
"Thank you," he whispers against her lips when they part.
Confusedly, dizzily, lovingly, she nuzzles her nose against his neck.
"For what?" she whispers in return, but he does not reply, and she does not need him to.
Without a word, through silent understanding even without the use of speech or being able to see anything but the whites of eyes, they twine their arms and stride away, the glass panes and the night sky shining emptily above them.
Author: hlfbldprincess
Pairing: Sweeney Todd/Nellie Lovett
Rating: T
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Prompt: 30 Kisses #15: perfect blue; fanfic50 #33: communication.
Word Count: 1,499
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
"Mr. T, for God's sake," Nellie wheezes as she stumbles up beside him and comes to a halt, bending over with her hands pressed against her knees, chest surging as she sucks at the air. "You've got to stop sneaking out in the goddamned middle of the night to do this!"
Sweeney does not so much as spare her a glance: his attention is riveted, as always, to the window two stories above where he stands. His posture is as straight and perfect as a soldier, all sharp lines and angles save for the curve of his neck, craned upward so as to allow his eyes better access to the window.
Not that there is anything to see within the window at the moment. Not that he cares if there is or not; he will keep vigil until his reason for waiting does appear, or even if the reason does not appear.
She finds his desperate hope that something will appear at the window frustrating. She finds his insistence to wait for what will never be pathetic.
(She finds it beautiful that he is so loyal, so loving, even through his armor forged of ice. Even if his love is not for her.)
She finds this same frustrating, pathetic, loyal quality in herself. Perhaps that's why his makes her so furious.
She touches his arm and tries to tug him away, but he jerks from her grasp. Swearing under her breath, she sidles closer to where he stands in the alleyway, concealed behind nothing: were anyone to peer down through the windows that his gaze is currently cemented to, they would see the pair with ease.
"Mr. Todd - look - I understand that you're hurting, love - but you've got to come to your senses about this eventually . . ."
Still no reaction from her companion. Nellie grits her teeth and fights against a flood of anger, heart banging like a fist against her rib cage: what more can she say to the man that she has not already said for the past month? How many more times does he need to hear the words before they sink in? Or are her words as useless as a child's Knurr ball, smacking against a stick and then bouncing away, never to return or even make the slightest impact upon the bat?
Again she grasps his arm; again he pulls away.
"This is spying, Mr. Todd," Nellie hisses, standing on her tiptoes to lean as close as she can to his ear, "and if we're caught - and if you're recognized - "
"I want to be recognized," whispers Sweeney. The first words he's spoken to her all night.
Nellie gapes at him for a moment before recovering the ability of speech. "Have you lost your marbles? You do realize that you were sent off to bloody Australia for life, yeah? And that if anyone realizes you escaped, you'd be sent back there without a backwards glance, or maybe even executed for breaking your 'rightful' sentence - but if you keep on standing outside Turpin's house like this night after night, love, I'm not seeing any other futures for you - you're practically asking to be sent back if you keep this up - "
"I want her to recognize me," says Sweeney, turning his eyes downward and sideways to meet hers. The first time he's looked at her all night.
Her heart lodges in her throat.
His eyes are wide, darkly earnest, so black they are the same color as the starless night sky above them, so black it is only because she can see the white peripheries gleaming at her does she know he is looking into her eyes.
Nellie swallows her heart, forcing it back down to its rightful home in her chest. "And what'll that accomplish, love?"
The whites of his eyes disappear for the span of an instance. A blink.
"She didn't recognize you last week at the market. She didn't recognize you when Turpin came for a shave last month. And even if she did recognize you . . ." Nellie swallows again even though her heart remains in her chest, even though there is so much saliva in her mouth she thinks she is on the verge of being sick, terrified of his reaction but knowing she must speak while he is actually listening: "Even if she did recognize you . . . what do you expect to happen?"
"She'll come back," says Sweeney, but it is more a growl of accusation than a statement of certainty, more the prayer of an atheist than the proclamation of a king. "We'll be together again."
"Really? You expect the woman what left a mere barber for a hoity toity judge to leave that judge for an escaped convict?"
Something lashes through his body like a whip, tearing through his muscles in a convulsion and ripping a cry from his throat; she winces, bracing herself for the brunt of his violence, but he does not strike her, merely snarls, "Lucy didn't leave me. I was taken away."
"And she wed the man what took you away."
"He must've - forced her to marry him . . . or lied about why I was sent away . . . or - "
"Or she saw that she had better prospects waiting for her," said Nellie, "and went ahead and took 'em."
That mysterious force lashes through his body again, but it is more the shudder of a dying animal than the lash of a strong, defiant man this time.
"It wasn't by choice," he mutters feverishly. "Lucy never would have married him by choice, without he forcing her - "
"You can't force that, love," she says, nodding up at the window two stories above them.
Sweeney whips his head back around, neck arcing backwards to again study the window, the whites of his eyes shining in earnest attention - where, at last, his reason stands.
Lucy Turpin's yellow locks splay down her shoulders as she combs out her nonexistent snarls. Her face is pressed to the panes, porcelain skin squished prettily against the glass; her eyes sparkle up at the night sky; her body is cloaked in a nightgown of perfect blue silk, a far more luxurious color and material than her husband of fifteen years ago could ever have afforded. Her mouth smiles as though she does not notice there are no stars in the sky tonight, as though she does not need to search the sky for a reason to smile.
Beside Nellie, Sweeney's physique is taut as a wire, his body heat hot as hell.
A hand snakes into view and brushes across Lucy's cheek, causing her smile to brighten and her body to pivot. Nellie catches only a glimpse of a scarlet waistcoat and a satisfied smirk before the smirk disappears against her smile - then both figures are obscured by Lucy's hair, flooding down her shoulders and back like a golden waterfall.
Turpin and his wife pull apart. Then, the smiles reappearing, they vanish from view, leaving the barber and the baker with nothing to watch but the empty glass panes.
Nellie risks a glance at Sweeney: the whites of his eyes shine with tears, but they remain upon the window above, still desperately hoping, still loyal to a purpose that abandoned him, still waiting for what will never be.
Rather than a flood of fury surging through her veins, the flood this time is of sorrow - of irrational guilt at being unable to alleviate his pain - of a wish to cure them both of this incurable disease that both destroys and gives the will to live.
Before she knows what she's done, Nellie grasps Sweeney's face between her palms and bruises his mouth with a kiss.
She starts to draw away the instant her conscious mind catches hold of her body and realizes what she's done, what she never should have done, the hate and the anger he will feel for her, asking the love he can never give her -
His hands close in her hair and around her waist, cementing her to him.
His fingers yank at her curls and force her head back to deepen the kiss, nails digging into her side, clutching at her so firmly it's as though he fears her escape if he loosens his hold - or perhaps he fears his own escape, fears that he'll disappear entirely if he does not allow himself to cling to what still can be - to what still is . . .
"Thank you," he whispers against her lips when they part.
Confusedly, dizzily, lovingly, she nuzzles her nose against his neck.
"For what?" she whispers in return, but he does not reply, and she does not need him to.
Without a word, through silent understanding even without the use of speech or being able to see anything but the whites of eyes, they twine their arms and stride away, the glass panes and the night sky shining emptily above them.