A/N: Ladies and gentlemen… My first Sweeny Todd-fic! TA-DAAH! Anyway, if you review I will love you forever, but please go easy on me! No flames, just constructive criticism… Be nice to the ST-newbies!

He Leaves, She Watches

He never stays with her.

Every night after she's fallen asleep, he sneaks out of her arms and goes up to his barbershop. He never feels remorse afterwards, he feels nothing for the woman he leaves behind with flushed cheeks and entangled hair.

Something that Sweeny Todd doesn't know is that every time he carefully removes Nellie Lovett's arms, that she's circled around his waist in a vein attempt, or maybe hope, of closure, and he sits up as slowly as possible to make sure that the mattress doesn't creek, and stands up, walks up the stairs, holding his shoes in his hands and without looking back, is that Mrs. Lovett always opens her eyes, gently and hazily, and watches him leave.

She won't understand that he doesn't want to spend the night in her bed.

She keeps telling herself that he needs to get some sleep. On some level she knows that his sunken features, his pale face is a sure sign he never sleeps, but she pretends not to.

One some level she knows that the ghosts from his past come back at night, that as soon as he tries to sleep, he wakes up after a mere half hour by Lucy sitting on the edge of his bed.

He needs to get some sleep. Maybe he's not the type that falls asleep with someone else right next to him. Maybe he'll stay if she stops putting her arms around his waist.

But how could she do that? How could she keep away from him? How could she bare seeing him on top of her, seeing pearls of sweat forming on his pale face when her lips meet his skin, without wanting more from it?


That's all she wants.

Closure. Not just sex.

She always watches him leave. She never say anything, and at morning, she hardly remembers it herself. She usually have a vague memory of slow, dull footsteps, of the moist feeling of sheets against her naked skin, still warm from where they've laid, of a feeling that he's cut her heart out of her chest with that damn razor.

She always sees him leave. He never sees her seeing.

Neither one of them would be able to say how it happened. Why it began.

Or, Sweeny might be able to tell. Maybe. He was probably the one who started it, after all.

It was just… A feeling he got.

It was an ordinary costumer, any costumer. A costumer that sat down in the chair, and Sweeny felt that lightheadedness, the strange, insane joy that he always felt when the knife rested against the stubbed throat and he hadn't cut yet but he still knew that soon he'll cut, soon the blood will spray over the walls, dye his white sleeves crimson, soon he'll make that gargling noise, soon…

And then, it was just been over. All the things he'd longed for, the climax in his perverted happiness had took place, and the blood made the clothes sticking to his skin, just like it usually did, and then he pressed the pedal and the chair was tipped back and he heard that slam from downstairs that told him that the body had hit the floor and.

And Sweeny Todd felt something.

For the first time in fifteen years, he actually felt something.

He felt… Emptiness.

He felt the wish to feel… Someone else. He felt the wish to feel a body, not Lucy's, but… Anyone's, really, against his own.

And then, it just happened. Mrs. Lovett probably didn't hear the signal that told her to go downstairs and make another pie, so she stood in the kitchen with a glass of gin. She leaned against the counter, sipped on the drink and stared at the wall in front of her.

If you asked Sweeny, he would be able to tell you every little thing he saw when he got down from the stairs.

He would be able to tell that Mrs. Lovett wore her usual corsets.

Her pale pearl breasts swelled, half-exposed themselves in the tight material.

Her face when she saw him.

Her upper lip that was wetted by the gin. It made it glitter in the glow from the streetlight outside.

But this is just things he remembers afterwards. At the moment, his entire vision, his entire brain, had been muddled with a mind-numbing lust, insane and god how strong, like the joy he's just felt when he'd seen his costumer's throat lay bare under his knife, and he didn't even bother to bring her to the bed, to put the razor back on his belt, just dropped it to the floor when he was up at her to have his hands free to the lines of her corsets, her neck, hips, breasts, face, to keep her still when she tried to take him to the bed, for god's sake, he couldn't, wouldn't go to the bed, he had to have her, had to have someone now, not in the bed, it was too far away, so endlessly far away…

Right then, Sweeny Todd had been an adult, an adult man with the impatient desire of a teenager and a little boy's don't-want-to-wait-want-what-I-want-now.

And so, it had proceeded. They never do it on the counter anymore, they usually are in the bed. When a costumer goes up to Sweeny at night, Mrs. Lovett knows what will happen. Something that's more important then her pies. Than the fact that Toby can walk in any second. So she sits down on the bed and waits.

And then –

A thump.

And then a click when the door is opened, and harsh footsteps as he almost runs down the stairs.

And the he storms into the room. He's always drenched in blood, his teeth are always gritted, like on a dog, and his black eyes are on fire, fire of anger and longing.

And then he's with her in a roughness that always scares her. His lips are upon hers, his hands are on her body, ravish her and she loves it. Neither one of them cares about the fact that he's covered in blood, that his fingers leave red, grotesque prints when they dance across her pale skin.

In that way, he's almost kept being like he was the first time. They can't wait, not even he can wait to wash away this obscurity. Sweeny has to, and Nellie wants to, and neither of this can wait until later.

Their lovemaking is so despaired, so lustful, so short. Sweeny never does anything for her, never tries to make it pleasurable for her in any way, but her back always arches and her nails get buried in his back. Always. And that's before he does the same.

And then he leaves. Always. As soon as she makes her breath calm and deep and her eyelashes cast a shadow over her cheekbones. He never falls asleep beside her, never puts his arm around her like she does on him, because he doesn't want her. Nellie knows that, even though she'll never, ever admit it.

He wants someone. He knows that no matter how many times he gets to feel his sick joy, no matter how many times he stands in his barbershop with a stranger's blood splattered over him, Lucy and Joanna will never come back. And not even killing people can mend the pain that lies in that realization.

And Mrs. Lovett is there. She's the closest one. She's the next best thing, so he takes her. He takes her and gives her nothing of himself back, because he doesn't love her.

And tonight, when Nellie sees him walk up the stairs with his jaw clenched and his shoes in his one hand, she still doesn't allow herself to think about it.

As long as he keeps coming back to her, as long as he keeps slamming the door open with blood on is hair, his clothes, his face, she will keep pretending.

Was it good? Can I actually pull these things off? (Hopeful) Review and let me know!