Oblivious

Summary: Sweeney Todd does not notice anything about Mrs. Lovett. Or does he? Sad one-shot. Sweenett of course! What else would you expect from me?

There were many things Sweeney Todd did not notice about Mrs. Lovett.

To be sure, he was not completely ignorant of her existence or her presence (though many times he wished to be). And there were things he did notice. He noticed that she often chattered obsessively, so one couldn't get a word in edgewise. He noticed that her pies were indeed the worst pies in London, until they came up with their little scheme, and then the pies improved considerably. He noticed that she doted on Toby, and he noticed she could be infuriatingly cheerful at the most inappropriate times. He noticed, above all, that she was eminently practical. He grudgingly admired her for this.

There were many things, however, that he did not notice. He did not notice how the dark circles under her eyes were like bruises, and how they denoted the same lack of sleep he was suffering from. He did not notice, so he did bother to question why she might lose sleep.

He did not notice that every Sunday she went to the graveyard with a bouquet of roses for her husband's grave, or how she placed one to the side, a symbol of the little boy they had lost before he saw his first birthday. He did not notice that behind all her chatter and her silly dreams and her foolish smiles, she bore the weight of a grief at least as great as his own. He did not notice these things. He did not want to.

However, there were particular things that he especially did not notice. For instance, he did not notice her high cheekbones, her long, dark lashes, or how her pale skin seemed to emphasize the pouting rosy blush of her lips, or the way her brown eyes were so deep and dark and warm. He did not notice how her vivid curls were like tendrils of flame, and so did not wonder what it would be like to touch those curls. He did not speculate if her hair was as soft as he had not imagined it to be.

He did not notice the curves of her body, the way her dresses seemed to cling to her and reveal far too much of her tempting figure, the way a man's eyes could devour her smooth, flawless expanses of skin. He did not notice how her breath quickened when he frightened her, so that her enticing breasts heaved in her corset. He did not notice theses things, so he did not bother picturing what she would look like naked. Such infuriating visions did not keep him awake at night.

He did not notice what it felt like to touch her, dancing wildly around the pie shop, the feel of her hand in his own, his other hand securely on the small of her back, their faces close, their breaths mingling, finishing each other's words as they hatched their dark plan. He did not notice this, so his hands to not itch to move about, to stop the dancing so they could freely roam the entirety of her body, and listen to the breathy moans of her responses. He did not need to escape her in an attempt to avoid the thoughts that her presence did not inspire.

He did not notice her love, her deep and desperate adoration of him, despite all the abuses he heaped upon her. He did not notice it, so he did not question her reasons, did not try to understand what she could possibly see in him, a hard man, a broken man, twisted with grief and driven by revenge.

He did not notice any reciprocal feelings in himself, feelings that seemed to surface no matter how hard he tried to deny or destroy them. He did not think to himself that sometimes, this annoying, maddening woman made him feel something other than bitterness, and he did not alarm himself by dwelling on his increasing reliance on her, because he did not notice it, much less acknowledge it as fact. He did not notice, did not have these feelings, so he did not have to struggle with any distractions from his plans for revenge. He did not hear her when she told him to put it all behind himself, did not listen to her words: "Life is for the alive, my dear. We could have a life, us two. Maybe not like I dreamed. Maybe not like you remember. But we could get by."

When he turned to her, his eyes did not spark with the faintest glimmer of hope, of possibility. He did not let himself see the warmth and light in her eyes, did not contemplate drawing her close in an embrace, so there was nothing to be interrupted when Anthony came bursting in and renewed his chance for revenge. He did not notice the hurt in her expression when he snapped at her to send for Toby.

His heart did not skip a beat, as he was preparing to dispose of the oddly familiar lad who had witnessed his murder of Judge Turpin, when he heard the unmistakable sound of her scream. He did not grow sick with worry, imagining all sorts of nightmarish scenarios as he hastened down the bake house to her aid.

He did not feel almost weak with relief when he saw she was quite alright, that the dying judge had grabbed a hold of her skirt and frightened her, nothing more. His relief was non-existent, so it did not make him harsh, as he grabbed her arm (not as if to reassure himself she was in one piece), and commanded her to open the oven door.

And when he saw Lucy, his Lucy, killed by own hand, the insane grief and regret he felt was not mingled with the deep wound of Mrs. Lovett's betrayal, because he did not care enough about her to feel that. He felt only rage. He did not think in disbelief about how he could have ever contemplated desiring her, having a life with her, loving her, because had never contemplated those things.

He did not hear her desperate protestations of love, did not see that she lied because she loved him, that she lied to spare him the grief of seeing his wife in such a state, without her wits, or her memory of their wonderful family together. He did not notice or care that she was sorry, so very sorry.

And as he danced with her, for the last time, the false reassurances of forgiveness and affection dripping from his lips like a sickly sweet poison, he did not feel how well her lithe body still seem to fit in his hands, did not feel a moment's trepidation for what he was about to do. As he threw her into the fire, watching her scream and writhe in pain, he did not feel the briefest hint of regret, did feel the urge to cry out in loss and frustration as he closed the door.

As he cradled his poor, lost Lucy in his arms and crooned to her, Mrs. Lovett, his accomplice, his partner, his would-be lover, did not enter into his thoughts. He did not wonder at her motives or think on what might have been. Most importantly of all though, as he sensed young Toby's presence behind him and lifted his head obligingly, waiting for the lad to slice through his neck, he did not feel himself haunted by those wide, pleading, beautiful brown eyes of hers. As his life poured out of him in a river of red rubies, his last thoughts were of his Lucy, and not of Nellie Lovett. Not of her. Never of her.

Because he hadn't noticed anything particularly important about Mrs. Lovett. Never. At all.