Burn With Me
It wasn't the fire, or it's heat. It was the presence of tears, and how they seemed to soak through his shirt and sear his skin. How he saw her accept it, but not loosen her grip one bit, knowing that if she was going to die, she might as well cling to him for her last moments.
Sweeney deserved to die just as much as the traitorous bitch in his arms.
So why did he drag each and every moment out? What was there to live for, yet more grief and despair?
There was no repairing business, or forgiving Mrs. Lovett. His wife was dead because of her, and that was an unforgivable act. Hell was the only place he would be content with seeing her off to.
Lucy was dead, but it wasn't his Lucy. Nor was he the Benjamin who could have held his once-Lucy.
Could he accept death, just like the woman in his arms?
An eternity passed through his mind but they were only one step closer to the mouth of Hell. Perhaps both their sentences could be shortened, in one final act.
"Burn with me." He murmured into her hair, possibly holding her just a little closer.
Sweeney didn't know if she heard him, but the silence surrounding their charring bodies seemed to say she had.