A.N. It's been a week, I think I'm over my attention-phobia. If that's what it even is, I don't really care. Anyways i think this little...story will be two chapters, so yay. I wrote this a while ago and I lost all my energy about it, but I'm still going to finish it. It's a test, I think! I wish this was longer, but it isn't, XD And i don't know if it'll be M rated... Most-likely not, 'cuz im a wimp, but anyways I hope whoever cares enough to read this bastardly crap enjoys it!

Any and every review, compliment, and of course advice is appreciated greatly :3 -Gillies

Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd, movie or musical. All rights go to Tim Burton and Stephen Sondheim.


The night it had happened wouldn't have been looked at as anything extraordinarily different- the only actual exception was that he had taken the stairs from his parlor instead of the ones outside. It was cold out, and it looked like hell was freezing over with a roaring blizzard. To be simply said, he hadn't much of a choice, really.

And even with the snows and winds blowing her walls down, and even over the mighty fire she had set going to warm her toes, the baker who had been lounging half asleep on her settee had heard him descending his stairs loud and clear.

She reached the parlor doorway when he reached the flooring. He looked at her, surprised to see that someone else in the house was wake for a moment, but she was less fazed; she simply gave a knowing smile and walked into the dark shop without much hesitation.

She figured he wouldn't have wanted it anyway, so she didn't bother getting him a candle.

Shuffling across the floor to slip behind her counter, Mrs. Lovett listened for him to follow her into the black as pitch room. Eventually he did, taking his seat at the table by the window, sliding into the booth with a soft grunt. Lovett dropped to the floor- her knees popping and cracking with quick, sharp pains- fishing around in the shelves until her nails clinked against cool glass. She grabbed at the neck of the bottle, pulling it out with a scrapping noise that made both of the room's occupants wince.

Wouldn't want to wake anyone else up.

After she grabbed a clean glass she set it and the bottle down at his table. He glanced at her as a thanks, Mrs. Lovett, then blinked as she poured out his drink.

''Welcome, love.'' She said quietly; then when he didn't say anything else- didn't do anything besides grabbing his drink and dragging towards him- she left him to his peace.

The next night it happened again. The blizzard had been doing London in for days now- rendering the whole of Fleet street lifeless and white- and it seemed to say like it wasn't going to relent any time soon. ("Dogged weather it is, all we get aroun' 'ere- bloody dogged weather." )

And again, he hadn't a choice on choosing stairs, really.

And again, she paused at the parlor door to regard him with a small smirk and her hand on her hip, before they both went into the shop.

And again, she left him to drink alone.

''Your welcome, love.''

A near week went by, and a couple of days of that near week since the blinding blizzard calmed down to small down-falls that blanketed the old, muddy ice and snow.

He came down later than usual tonight; but he must have taken a custom to using his stairs because he descended them with no other thought, and they both met at the bottom. Not that he would've thought differently of their nightly routine.

She placed his glass down in front of him and he lifted it up without a single noise, taking a swig and grimacing lightly from the burn. She patted his shoulder and turned to leave the darkness, but he grabbed her wrist when it started to slip off his shirt.

And she froze.