Does what it says on the tin. :)
For AutumnDynasty, who coerced me into me into writing it.
Five Things That Never Happened to Sweeney Todd
Johanna is as beautiful as her mother – the same eyes, the same yellow-gold hair hanging in gold-touched tresses down her slender back.
She's thirteen, maybe. He can't quite remember. She's grown so fast.
She sits at the windowsill, humming to herself as she stitches – a happy little tune, with the sunlight on her back.
He is able to make the comparison of her against her mother because Lucy sits not four feet from her, mending his shirt. She looks up, catches his eye across the room just as he reaches for the door to go to work.
They share a smile; and he leaves, Johanna's birdsong lingering in his heart.
He can't quite describe the feeling that wells in him as the ship sails past, heaving through the grey icy water; is it despair, or relief?
It's okay, he tells himself. It's alright. It doesn't matter.
There's nothing for him in London anymore anyway.
He didn't want to be rescued.
She has her arms around him, tight bodice pressed against his back, wild tendrils of hair trailing over the back of his neck, and he doesn't want her touching him.
Mrs Lovett… She's not a bad sort. A kindly heart, it seems. But she seems too attached already, too friendly, too…
He doesn't want her touching him, because she isn't Lucy.
He orders her away and she goes, perhaps resentful. He doesn't care. Resentful? He'll give her something to resent…
He lovingly puts the razors back into their box and places it back under the floorboards; searches instead for rope, meticulous and mechanical in his actions—
She'll resent this; oh yes, this won't please her at all, he knows this as he sets up the chair, stands on it to secure the rope from the rafters—
She isn't Lucy, and he'll make her resent that fact more than he does.
He glances dully up at her; her eyes glint with a wicked spark, thoroughly thrilled with her own idea.
A way to lift business, you see; a little brand quirk, something to give them an edge.
"You want to put the corpses of humans into pies?" he says blandly, his expression betraying little about his feelings on the matter.
Mrs Lovett nods earnestly, smile poisonous.
He goes no paler than he already is; but stands nonetheless, averting his dead gaze from her.
"That's disgusting," he says flatly, and walks out of the shop.
He doesn't know why he agreed to this; but it hardly matters now.
He feels that he has betrayed Lucy – but apparently Mrs Lovett doesn't feel that she has betrayed Albert.
Not that she's Mrs Lovett anymore. Mrs Todd would be more accurate.
She talked him into it, somehow. The seaside wedding, the seaside life, the lot. He agreed just to shut her up, and Toby seemed eager enough.
Is he their son now? Has he replaced Johanna with this coarse workhouse boy?
He slides out of bed, leaving the new Mrs Todd sleeping, nakedly tangled in the sheets with her hair as wild as the glint in her eye whilst awake; pulls on his clothes and leaves the room, creeps past Toby, asleep on the sofa under a blanket, and goes out of the tiny house, hit immediately by the stinging of salty air.
The beach isn't much of a walk; and when he's there, he runs his thumb one more time over the blade he promised the throat of the Judge to (the one he broke his promise to), and then holds it up to the breaking light of dawn before tossing it – and all the vows he's ever made – into the sea.