Sweeney blinked. How had he come about to be sitting in Lovett's filthy pie shop? How long had he been sitting there?

The evening outside seemed more chaotic and alive than it felt in the dingy shop. Snow was pouring down from the skies like it had never fallen before; thick, heavy and dense. The gold that sparkled the ice crystals from the motivated lamp posts gave enchantment to the dance of the winter's fiercest bite. Why was he down here again? Oh yes -

''S'awful cold up 'ere, love,'' She whispered in his ear; her bare chest pressed against his back; running her hands down his spine as he re-buckled his trousers. He grunted, ignoring the roads and avenues she craved into his wrinkled shirt. ''Why don't you come down stairs for a spell, hmm? I'm sure it's much warmer down there.'' -

...All in all, she ended up being right.

He knew he should have stopped her before she became too confident. He knew he shouldn't have let her have her way as easily as he did. He wouldn't want her getting ideas (though he was sure she already had ideas.) Well, sure, he supposed it was his fault, but that didn't mean that he should be obliged to sit by and watch her grow far too attached - watch her slip even further into her abysmal delusions of love.

But then again...Would it hurt to let her fall deeper into what she called love? Just to get what he needed, he could let her believe in her foolish ideas, couldn't he? It wouldn't be half as bad as the many other sins he has committed (debauchery - murder), could it?

Maybe he would, but he imagined it'd take more work than he's willing to do - and for what? So the whore would wash his shirts faster? Dispose of his bodies faster?Satisfy him faster? Well maybe...No, the work wasn't worth it.

Looking over at her now, with her foolish smile plastered on her face as she pounded dough in between her knuckles, Sweeney wondered if she was already as deep as one could get - her love was sickening. It churned his stomach and made him frown in incredulous astonishment.

How could she love so effortlessly? Why did she love so wholly? How could her love be so unconditional?Not that he cared that much about what goes on inside the venal woman's head, - it just didn't make any logical sense - it was just a wonder.

One that makes him hesitate when he wanted to hurt her. And he liked to hurt her. A lot.

As much as he hated it - the one and last will of Benjamin Barker that only sparked when Lovett was so entirely under his control - he had come to accept it. Well, maybe not accepted, but lived with it by simply ignoring the fact, and everything it could or couldn't mean. He shouldn't really over think such deep psychological notions - the conclusions he gets are never the ones he wants. But they're more than likely the ones he expects.

Anyways, he knew that what he and Mrs. Lovett had was purely business - a bit more sensual andpersonal than most 'businesses', but it was business none-the-less. And if Lovett decided that she wanted to stock up more on gin, or allow him so much more power over her(if that were even possible, really,) then so be it. Who was he to deny her?

She sighed contentedly, glancing up at him from behind a frizzy veil of rust that had fallen out of her poor bun since their - previous interactions. She snatched the rolling pin up - and thwacked the lump of dough – humming - in time - to her – admissioned - hits.

Sweeney didn't like to think that he was lonely. But mind and body were usually two desperate workers, and more often than not with the Barber, they tended to work separately. And his body had considered himself about roughly 15 years lonely.

And they were both adults - he knew what he was getting into - who he was getting into - and neither couldn't deny that they didn't enjoy their off-and-on, usually spontaneous couplings.

He enjoyedit; she enjoyed him. He needed it, so hetook it; she needed him, so shegave it. Share and share alike. A lucky balance amongst see-saws. -

''Are you seriously tryn'na tell me that you're still perfectly sexually satisfied even after 15 years? An' by what- the mere thoughtof Lucy?!" -

He couldn't say he regretted anything. He was certain he didn't. He just hoped that he was positively sure that he knew what he was getting himself into - who he was getting into.

She brushed the flour off her bodice and corset stomach, giving the dough one more – thwack - before setting her rolling pin down and kneading it into the shape of a pie crust. She shot him a wink when she caught him looking.

The dough -

"Pie to be,'' she clasped her hands together in front of her chest, as if she were holding flowers, her eyes fluttering in mock before she was taken into a spiralling dance -

was set aside for a moment. Glances were exchanged; slow, taunting steps were taken; and finally hands were ripping at clothing and bodies pressed together. To say the least, the counter space was used for something a tad bit more exciting - a tad bit warmer.