A/N: Well, I saw the Sweeney Broadway revival a few weeks ago in Portland.  Absolutely adored the play . . . but I was rather surprised at how much Todd was flirting with Lovett throughout, particularly during A Little Priest.  So, this little fic was inspired by that.  Hope you enjoy.


She could sense that she was on the verge of losing him again.  He was teetering on that edge between his vengeful, all-consuming thoughts, and the real world that was around him.

It had only been this afternoon that, for the first time, he'd really seemed to recognize she was there, that she was here, right in front of him – and that she might be appealing to a man, in her own way.  She'd been surprised, but certainly not displeased in any manner, when he'd suddenly shown an interest in her, grabbing for her buttocks and the like.  It'd eventually led them here, up to her bed . . . but his interest in anything aside from his revenge was waning again. 

She wanted, needed, him to remain with her, and not to go back to his stupid, half-dead Lucy.

"You know, Mr. T," she said, shifting her head slightly on his torso to look up at his face, "I've been thinking . . ."

"Hmm," he replied vaguely, staring up at the ceiling.

 "Well, with these new pies, I'm in need of a new slogan," Mrs. Lovett purred.  "Y'know, something to draw in the customers." She re-angled her body so she was pressed closer to him, her chin propped on his bare chest.  "D'you have any ideas?"

"We'll serve anyone," he suggested idly, his eyes not leaving the ceiling.

"Ah, that's not catchy enough, love," she said.  "It's got to bring in the business.  To really catch their eye.  Maybe something like . . . from our kitchen to your stomach."

His eyes glimmered at that.  "And then back around again," he added wittily.

"Mr. T!" she pretended to scold, but was giggling.

"Mrs. Lovett's Pies: Pure Lust," he mused sardonically, casting his eyes towards her.

"Mrs. Lovett's Pies: Pure Taste," she replied, altering his idea slightly.

He gave her a savage grin.  "You'll wonder how you lived without them."

"You'll ache for more," she returned promptly.  "Or perhaps it should rhyme: You'll fight for the last bite."

"To hell with those other pies," he expanded.  With a feral growl he grabbed her around the waist.  She squealed as he easily rolled them both over, he half on top of her.  "None can compare with Mrs. Lovett's."

She laughed as he nipped at her neck.  "She put her flesh into making them.  Or, at least, the flesh that was in front of her."

"Your tongue won't be ready for it." He kissed her lips, then removed his body from on top of her, and laid his head down on the mattress.  She snuggled up to his side again, squeezing an arm around his waist.

"Simple, natural goodness," she murmured.

He threaded his hand through her hair, weaving his fingers in and out of the tangled strands.  She suddenly found herself wishing she paid a little more attention to her scraggly mane of hair once in a while, and brushed it out on occasion.  "Meat pies like never before." 

He placed his other hand against her waist, and began tracing light patterns against her skin with his deft fingers.  Shivers rippled across her skin at the places he touched.  She could stay here forever, she really could.  Everything else seemed so insignificant, so inconsequential, compared with this, compared with being next to him, the man she loved beyond anything.

"My pet?" Todd muttered, questioningly, breaking the silence.

Oh, right.  It was her turn to say a clever catchphrase for the pies.  Her usually quick-witted tongue was limp in her mouth; her normally agile mind was hazy and numb.  She had no idea what to say, not with his hand lacing through her hair, his fingers traveling along her skin, his breath gliding against her cheek, his heartbeat thudding against her ear . . . all words, all manners of speaking, seemed very far away at that moment.

After several more belated seconds, she opened her mouth and somehow managed to mumble distractedly, "One bite, and you'll see the light."

"The light of what?" He sounded amused.

"I don't know," she grumbled.  "It rhymes."

"Indeed it does.  That doesn't mean it makes any more sense."

"Well, maybe it's the light from the window," she blathered, "or perhaps light in a more, y'know, figurative sense, how it makes everything seem clear, and – "

"Mrs. Lovett, please be quiet."

"But I – "

"Hush." He trailed a series of kisses from her forehead, along the side of her face, down to her lips.  "The conversation is now over."

She closed her eyes, not even realizing that there was a smile on her lips.  "Of course, Mr. Todd.  As you wish."

If this wasn't bliss, if this wasn't perfection, she didn't know what was.