Rating: PG-13 for thematic elements
Summary: Mrs. Lovett had been wrong—she did hate someone more than Lucy. The worst part? She'd kindly and stupidly handed the pretty lady to Mister Sweeney Todd herself, thinking it a good thing.
Author's Notes: I asked for prompts over on my LiveJournal when I had writer's block, and KayLJay and Rememberedenx3 were nice enough to comply. They gave me the prompts of "Sweeney shaving himself" and Mrs. Lovett being jealous that he loves the razors more than he loves her. This was written for her in response—thank you, you two, for helping me get my inspiration back.
Mrs. Lovett had thought that there would never be anyone she hated more than Lucy Carrington. Surely no one could fill Mrs. Lovett with such impotent fury, such burning jealousy. Pretty Lucy, precious Lucy, her hair soft and yellow instead of brittle and brown, her cheeks flushed and warm rather than pale and cold—Lucy who used her beauty to charm Benjamin Barker when she, Mrs. Lovett, was ten times more practical and talented than useless Miss Lucy could ever be.
Mrs. Lovett had been wrong—she did hate someone more than Lucy. The worst part? She'd kindly and stupidly handed the pretty lady to Mister Sweeney Todd herself, thinking it a good thing.
Those razors. Those razors, yes, and they were clearly female, the femme fatales that Sweeney Todd slept with, walked with, stared at, smiled at, and fondled incessantly.
She was currently watching him use them—she'd actually never seen them in use, as it was one thing to chop up a dead body and quite another to see how it got to be dead in the first place. However, he wasn't killing—he was shaving. Himself, to be exact.
She leaned against his doorframe, her arms crossed, watching the silver blade glide across his cheek. She watched how he took his time, and pursed her lips—she knew he could be fast; she'd seen him in the marketplace, just like everyone else had. She really wished he would be quick about it, as she knew why he was going so slow. He was enjoying it, and it made her angry and upset at the same time, knowing he preferred to feel a knife on his throat rather than her—what in God's name was wrong with him?
She hated how his fingers seemed to stroke the twisting curls of silver hair on the handle as he tilted his head to the side, dragging the same edge that slit throats across his jaw line, and she hated how he drew in a breath as he did it before sighing wistfully.
The blade kissed his neck, and she saw his eyes close briefly. She narrowed her eyes, watching the way his throat clicked, saw his chest rise and fall a little quicker with each stroke. The woman on the handle reflected the light briefly as he pulled the razor one last time, and Mrs. Lovett hated that dirty, smug little wink the razor had dropped at her. He stared at his reflection, his face expertly shaved and clean as he wiped off any excess lather.
"Looks nice, Mister T," she said, and he jumped, turning suddenly towards her, and she didn't miss how his hand tightened on his razor. He regarded her momentarily before immediately cinching his shirt and collar back up, blade still in hand.
"What is it?" he said in that flat, disinterested voice he usually had when speaking to her, tying his neck rag as he did.
"Jus' came up to say good mornin'," she sighed. "And to ask if'n you'd like some breakfast."
"You really should eat more, Mister T—you ain't nothin' but skin and bones."
Mr. Todd did not respond to that, nor did he look at her. She was about to protest more, insist that he eat something because heavens, being bone-thin was not a healthy way to be, but she saw his rag was back in hand, stroking the blade clean, him having eyes only for that expensive silver. It didn't take him long to clean it off, and he gently closed it before tucking it in back with the other dangling from the leather pouch on his belt.
"What?" he said sharply, turning to face her, and she jumped.
"Err—try not to be too enthusiastic today, Mister T—we've got a lot of extra meat downstairs."
Knowing she wouldn't get a more animated response, she turned and left, going back downstairs to prepare for the day's customers.