Disclaimer: I do not own Stephen Sondheim, Christopher Bond, Tim Burton, Friedrich Nietzsche, Elvis, or any of the others that Sweeney and Nellie have taken a few liberties with in this chapter.

We all die. The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will. – Chuck Palahniuk

xxx

-1846-

"It's happened."

Sweeney rushed to her. Nellie stood to one side of the market, peering over the shoulder of a ragged boy of perhaps twelve years who had his nose stuck in a penny dreadful.

"See," she said, pointing. "The story's already traveling, just nine months after Toby told those guards. Look – that's your name."

Sweeney glared at the printed pages. "'The barber himself was a long, low-jointed, ill-put-together sort of fellow'? With an 'immense mouth,' 'huge hands and feet,' and a 'hyena-like laugh'?" He gave her a look of disgust. "This is how I'm to be remembered?"

Nellie waved him away with an airy hand. "Oh, love, it's not your physical appearance that matters – so long as they got the actual story right."

"Really?" he sneered. "Well, let's see how they've described you, shall we?"

"I'm not in this first chapter," Nellie returned snidely, but Sweeney had already refocused upon the penny dreadful, eyebrows drawing nearer and nearer together as he read, resulting in a nearly continuous line.

"It's all wrong," he murmured.

"Love, it doesn't matter what they think you look like, we didn't tell our story to be immortalized as beauties – "

"Nellie," he said, shaking his head. "They've butchered it. It's no longer a warning to not live as we did. It's a story of a man starved for money."

"Well, it's only the first chapter," Nellie tried to reason with him, even as her own stomach plummeted. "It might get better."

It didn't. It got progressively worse as more chapters were released.

"At least they describe me as 'young and good-looking,'" said Nellie with a little grin as her eyes scanned over the latest installment.

"Yes, and that in your eye there sat a 'lurking devil,'" said Sweeney, who was a faster reader than she.

Nellie shrugged, elbowing her lover in the ribcage. "That's not exactly untrue, dear."

He shifted his gaze from the penny dreadful and met her eyes. "Nellie, I know you're trying to remain optimistic, but there's nothing to be optimistic about. The story journeyed through too many mouths – the truth's become muddled in fabrications and misheard phrases."

Her forehead creased. "I didn't intend for it to be like this. I didn't want it to turn into a silly little story, I wanted it to be real, teach a lesson . . ."

"I know. I'm sorry, pet."

She sighed and leaned into him, sheltering her face against his shoulder.

"Should we declare this a failure, then?" he murmured into her hair. "Return to Is – no more trips to Earth for either of us – and forget this ever happened?"

"What?" Nellie cried, pulling away from him. "Absolutely not."

He frowned. "But – "

"We're not done," Nellie announced. "Our story isn't done. Look at this, Sweeney – we've made it into a penny dreadful. No, the story itself isn't even close to accurate. But we originally told this story to Toby and some Bedlam guards. Think how far our story traveled before being heard by the eventual writer of this horrid tale. And if our story already has that much momentum, who knows where it'll go next?"

She smiled at him. "And who knows how accurate the next one'll be?"

-1847-

"This damn string of pearls . . . it had nothing to do with anything in reality. But in this fabled version of our story, it's treated like the bloody holy grail."

"It's alright, dear."

"Just one garbled phrase – just one neglected trinket beneath a floorboard – and suddenly a piece of jewelry is of utmost importance . . ."

"I know, love. It's alright. Why don't you just hush and enjoy the play, hmm?"

He turned to face her, raising a single eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe enjoy was the wrong word – I'll admit it's far from spectacular. . . . At least they made your trapdoor barber chair pretty impressive, eh?"

He eyed the stage. "Mine was better."

-1875-

"Did this version get anything right?"

Sweeney's eyes scanned the page. "So far, it's the same as the others in terms of accuracy." He tapped his foot, glaring at the man who held in his lap an anthology of plays. "This actor reads too slow. This is one of the worst parts of having no corporeal body: being unable to turn the pages of a book on Earth."

"It's probably a good thing you can't, love. You'd frighten the poor man to death if his book started turning pages of its own accord."

Sweeney frowned. "And there's still absolutely no mention of the judge. How did Turpin become excluded?"

Nellie's mouth creased downward to match his. "That's been bothering me too. I guess since now you and me're just slaughtering people to get wealthy, he wasn't needed."

Sweeney, disgusted, shook his head. "One day," he vowed, looking at her, "it's going to be told right."

She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't believe in this whole shenanigan?"

"I don't," said Sweeney flatly. "But if the story has to be out in the world, then it should be true."

"But how could we pass it on? I don't think there's anyone still on Earth who'd be willing to listen to us."

Toby had passed away three Earth years back. She had hurried back to Is at once after she'd seen his limp body in Bedlam, hating herself for feeling so joyous about a death yet simultaneously already shaking with excitement . . .

Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, she thinks again and again and again as she steps towards the wall. Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg . . .

She tries to tell herself not to get her hopes high. She knows the pain will be worse if her anticipation is raised. There's no guarantee that Toby hasn't gone to some other afterlife.

Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg, Tobias Ragg –

"Mum?"

It's a good thing he's dead, otherwise the hug she yanks him into would crush the life from him. She grins and sobs and laughs all at once at having the twelve-year-old boy she never forgot, but sometimes strained to remember, in her arms again.

"It's okay, mum," he says, gripping her in return, and she marvels at how she can again hold him without sliding right through his body, how real his touch is. "I'm right here."

"It doesn't need to be someone we know, does it?" Sweeney questioned.

Nellie shook herself, clearly away the tendrils of the memory. "I – I don't know, love. Angie made it seem like it had to be a person you'd had a relationship of some sort with . . . but it might not have to be. Maybe we could poke around some desperate, starving writers and try to tell them the missing bits?"

Sweeney shrugged and straightened himself. "It couldn't hurt." He held out his hand to her. She linked their fingers, and together they left the house and began to stroll the streets of London.

She couldn't help but stare at their entwined grips as they walked. Sweeney, noticing this, said, "You might walk through less people if you kept your gaze forward."

Nellie grinned. "I'm just admiring our rings. I never – I just can't believe we're actually married."

"I figured I'd kept your rumpled bedding unlegitimized long enough."

She beamed at him. "You remembered my song."

"How could I not?"

She was smiling so hard her face hurt.

"After all, you shouted the whole thing in my ear," he continued, smirking. The smile on her face dropped into a scowl. "I think I lost a bit of hearing that day."

-1928-

"The silent film's certainly an interesting medium, don't you think? Frankly, I'm still amazed at how much technology's improved in less than a hundred years. Just think – we didn't even know what a film was when we were alive – "

"It's still not right," Sweeney muttered. "Eighty years since the penny dreadful and these damn humans still can't get the story right."

"I tried to fix it, love," Nellie sighed. "Believe me, I tried."

"I know you did, Nellie. I'm not blaming either of us."

"I've talked to at least a hundred writers," she went on. "I've even tried talking to some non-writers, actors and theater owners and the like, in the hopes that they'd pass on the ideas to friends who were writers. No such luck. They can't hear us."

"We'll keep trying," he promised her.

-1936-

"Tod Slaughter," Sweeney sneered as he gazed at the film poster. "What a fitting name. They must have cast him solely for that reason."

"Slaughter happens to be a fine actor," Nellie said defensively. At Sweeney's lifted eyebrow, she snapped, "Well, have you even seen this version?"

"No," said Sweeney. "When did you?"

"I snuck down during my lunch break a few circles ago," she confessed. "Slaughter does a fine job. He acts nothing like you, of course, but that's to be expected, considering you've been written like the usual macabre villain."

"Why are you going to such lengths to defend and praise this actor?" He paused. "Don't tell me you fancy him."

"Hardly," Nellie sniffed. "I've just got a deeper appreciation for the arts than you do, I s'pose."

-1970-

"I've found our writer," Nellie hissed excitedly.

"What?" said Sweeney, baffled, glancing around: she had brought him to a middle-class, one-story home that he normally would not have looked at twice. "Nellie, where are we?"

"His name's Christopher. He's perfect. Just follow me." She led him through a series of hallways, eventually arriving in an office cluttered with scripts, pens, crumbled pieces of paper, open books, and glossy magazine cut-outs. In the midst of all this chaos sat a desk with a young man slumped over it.

Nellie gestured him closer to the desk, pointing triumphantly at a parted notebook. Sweeney leaned forward to read its contents:

There's no life to melodramas anymore. Once the medium affected people, twisted their minds and moved their souls. Now it's merely cheap entertainment. I want to breathe life back into it, but I have no script. I don't even have an idea. If I don't have a new script written by Wednesday

The thought ended there, as though the fate were too horrible to even pen.

"Nellie," said Sweeney, "we've already tried talking to writers – millions of them throughout the past century – and it's never – "

The man's head jerked up, eyes diving around the room.

Nellie grinned. "This one's willing to listen."

The man's head jolted again, ears twitching. "Who's there?" he called out, craning his neck around his doorway as though searching for intruders. Then he slumped over his desk again. "I'm going mad . . ."

"We're all mad, love," said Nellie; the man bolted upright in his chair again, sweat pooling on his forehead. "It's just the world we live in."

Sweeney took her by the arm and led her out into the hallway. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Nellie?" he asked quietly. "He's terrified – and this seems dangerous . . ."

She waved this away. "He'll think it was all a dream. Barsid told me that Nietzsche did."

"What?"

"'There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.' Remember that?"

"Of course." How could he not? Those were the words she'd said to him during their evening by the sea, an evening over an Earth century ago that still shone crystal clear in his memory.

"Well, Barsid said them to me first . . . and he later passed on the saying to Friedrich Nietzsche. He was panicked too at first, Barsid told me, but later he just believed it'd come in a dream. And even if they don't believe it was a dream – well, that's alright. People've been telling stories about dead people for years – millions of them."

"'Millions of them'?" he questioned dubiously. "Name one other."

She grinned. "You know Elvis, I'm sure?"

"What does he have to do with – oh. 'Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time – "

" – but it ain't going away.' Exactly. See? This happens all the time with people what're looking for inspiration. Sometimes they just need a little help from the other side."

She paused, searching his face for a reaction.

He smiled. "Well, then – go get 'em, tiger."

She grinned back and started towards the office, then stopped, whirling back around to face him with narrowed eyes. "'Tiger'? You've been reading those Spider-Man comics again over little boys' shoulders, haven't you?"

"Better them than those Harlequin romance novels you fawn over."

She scowled and stalked into the office. As he followed her inside, he could already hear her speaking to the writer:

"It's time to bring life back to melodrama. Tell the story of Sweeney Todd – but make the characters breathe for goddamned once."

Sweeney smirked. This was why she was the story teller and not he. He may have been the main character, as she was fond of saying . . . but she was the natural narrator.

"Give them a believable story," she continued. "Make the goal not wealth, but revenge . . ."

-1975-

"So – when you're not reading comic books designed for males less than half your own age, you spy on married couples while they sleep?"

"I don't regularly spy on married couples – nor do I read comics."

"Did you know that Peter Parker was sent to prison?"

"Eleanor, I haven't read that one yet!"

"Eleanor, hmm? It's been a few Earth years since you've used my full name. You must be very upset by me spoiling the latest issue of a comic book that you don't read . . ."

"Fine. I read Spider-Man. It's enjoyable and the quality of writing is surprisingly high. But I do not regularly spy on married couples while they sleep."

"Mmhmm. So what makes these two special?"

He gestured towards sheets of lyrics, spread out on the nightstand of the house they were currently in, and she scanned the pages.

"It's a song about me," he said. "Aptly named Sweeney Todd, The Barber."

"Hmm." She scanned the words. "You're not painted in a very flattering light."

"Oh, I'm used to it by now, my dear."

-1979-

"Didn't I tell you that Christopher Bond fellow was the perfect writer for us?"

"Yes, Nellie. You were right. You were right. You were absolutely right. How many times do I need to repeat this?"

"Just once more."

He sighed. "You were right."

"And now we're a musical, can you believe it?"

"It's shocking," he replied, mimicking her dramatic tone.

"I do love a good musical. And ours is quite good, if I might say so myself. Sondheim is a genius. Did I ever take you along with me to see Gypsy?"

"More than once, unfortunately."

"What on Earth d'you have against Gypsy?"

"Nothing. But there's only so many times a person can hear about how everything is coming up roses."

Nellie rolled her eyes. "This fellow playing you – what's his name again?"

Sweeney peered at a playbill lying on the lobby floor. "Cariou."

"Yes, him – he's the best you I've ever seen."

Sweeney was not sure whether or not to take this as a compliment.

"Actually, this is the best production of Sweeney Todd I've ever seen," she went on. "It all just – flows so nicely . . . and it's so damn accurate I'm astounded. That Bond fellow did well remembering everything I told him."

"Well, you were rather intimidating," Sweeney told her. "Sounded like he'd be made into a pie if he didn't get everything correct, from the way you were barking at him."

"It's almost too accurate, though . . . some of these words in the musical, unless my memory's gone fuzzy, are verbatim to what really – " She whirled on him. "You helped Sondheim write it, didn't you?"

"I may have passed through Earth a few times while he was working."

"And he heard you?"

"The man becomes quite desperate for inspiration sometimes. You know what these artists are like. Very moody."

"No, I wouldn't know anything about that," she drawled, poking his shoulder.

-1987-

"I told you – didn't I tell you?"

"Yes, Nellie. You did tell me."

"I told you one day he would be one of our writers – I told you he was going to tackle our story. I just knew it. I mean, I know it's not official yet, but speaking with Sondheim about creating a movie – well, that's the first step, hmm? And Tim'll make it happen, I know it will."

"Tim?" he echoed with disdain. "You're on a first name basis?"

She chose to ignore this. "He must've seen the musical every single night he was in London all those years ago . . . and he was there for less than a week, if I recall correctly. But the way he watched the show – how intense and focused he was – you could practically see his mind whirling with the possibilities . . ."

Sweeney narrowed his eyes at her. "I think you just find him attractive."

"Well," said Nellie matter-of-factly, "that certainly helps."

-2001-

"Y'know, as much as I love the Broadway stage, I'm also quite fond of this concert stage set-up. It really – I don't know – enhances things."

"Yes," he agreed, peering out from where they stood in one of the theater's elevated boxes. "It does."

"This is quite a nice place to have it, too. I generally prefer seeing the musical in London; hearing myself with an American accent is just plain odd. But this San Francisco Symphony's done a lovely job, and so've these American actors."

"Yes . . ."

The pair fell into quiet, watching the cast move about the stage, listening to the ending chords of the final Ballad of Sweeney Todd. The actor playing Sweeney offered his arm to the woman playing Nellie. Sharing a smile, they linked arms and began to stroll towards the back of the stage.

Nellie was stymied. In all the productions of this musical that she had seen – and she had seen a good many – the man playing Sweeney always exited the stage in solitude.

"Where are they going?" she whispered.

Sweeney looked at her. Gave a smile that only she could see.

From below, the thespian barber and baker halted and snapped their heads towards the audience, a silent threat that none should follow them.

The lights went out.

A/N: And so it ends. Happy Christmas to each and every one of you. I know it's a little late in the day, but it IS still Christmas where I live. So I am going to say that I met my goal, even if not perfectly. xD

I hope posting the epilogue is an appropriate gift to thank all of you for coming on this journey with me, whether you've been reading my fics since DIFTA was a mere seedling in my brain or whether you hopped on sometime in the middle of the story.

If any of you are interested, I am also posting the first chapter of a new ST fic tonight. I know, I know – I said I needed a break from this fandom. Well, apparently the ST crew thought differently. xD It's a completely different monster than this novel – it's a novella with Johanna as the main character, and it charts her marriage, her aspirations, and her sanity following the end of the musical – but I would nonetheless love it if you guys would let me know your thoughts on this latest fic of mine.

Before we conclude, I feel it necessary to once more thank everyone who helped make this fic – which, five years ago, was nothing more than a germ of an idea – grow into what it is today.

The first shout-out is to the fantabulous MrsRuebeusHagridDursley. I really don't know what I would do without this girl. I no longer remember who was the very first person to read snippets of DIFTA, but Morgan was certainly among the first and has been nothing but supportive from the start. Whether exchanging novel-length e-mails about something as minute as the interior of Sweeney's razor case or talking me down from fits of writerly despair, Morgan has been with me through it all – and has never once turned me aside. Morgan, hopefully you're not reading this – because goodness knows you've read this fic enough! – but you really ought to hear once more what an awesome beta and friend you are.

My dear readers, if you have even a passing interest in Avengers or Star Trek fic, you should definitely check out Morgan's writings because she is just as fantabulous a writer as she is a beta. These days, she is going by MRHD on the web and tends to post more on AO3 and Livejournal than FF-Net – but I promise the online trek will be worth your while.

Second, a thank you to the also fantabulous roberre (who went by Saime Joxxers when I first posted this fic). I was incredibly humbled and flattered when, three or so years ago, the brilliant Robynne – who wrote superfreakingawesome ST fics and was basically legendary in this fandom – started reviewing MY li'l collection of ST fics. I was even more humbled and flattered (and, yes, giddy with fangirliness) when she offered to beta my novel. Robynne is one of the most thorough, critical, and complimentary betas I've ever had – and, if that weren't enough, she's also an amazing friend. Robynne, you'll never fully understand how invaluable your feedback on this story was, but I'm nonetheless not ever going to stop trying to convey how invaluable it was. Thank you, my coochy coochy cooer.

If, for some absurd reason, you have not yet read any of Robynne's ST fics, go do so immediately because they are virtually canonical fanon works. She's also writing prolifically for Once Upon A Time nowadays, so go peek at those fabulous fics, too.

A few other quick thank yous: to Phia Phoenix for encouraging this baby to grow before I'd even permitted myself to write an outline; to AngelofDarkness1605, NellieLovett, and CaptainSparrow-luv for never ceasing to politely nag me about neglecting my writing/editing; to Scarlett Burns for helping out with the first two chapters; to the awesome kids in my writing workshop three summers for giving me such honest (and blush-worthy) feedback on a chapter that, at the time, had never seen the light of day.

And, of course, to Christopher Bond, Stephen Sondheim, Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter, Tim Burton, George Hearn, Patti LuPone, Neil Patrick Harris, Michael Cerveris, the kids in the awesometastic local college production of ST I saw a few years back, etc, etc. None of this would exist without them.

Last, but hardly least, to each and every one of you who has exchanged many PMs with me, who has left several reviews, or even who has just read along silently. It truly has been a joy to share my little baby with you. As the lovely Paperclip-Assassin so rightly pointed out, to be able to bring joy to people through writing is a wonderful thing. Sometimes I beat myself up for spending so much of my life writing fan-fiction and not working very much on my "real," aka publishable, writings. But that is not the point of writing. The point of writing is to make people happy – both myself and others – and if this fic has succeeded in that (which, if I may praise myself for a moment, I believe that it has), then I can ask nothing greater.

And on that note, reviews are love.

Anonymous review replies:

Lady Musket: Aw, shucks. You're too kind, love. But what, might I ask, did you know? Because I truly don't know what you knew. xD

And yes, I pity Toby, too. But I've always been struck by the stage version of ST and how his character goes mad at the end due to all that Sweeney and Nellie have done to him. Emotionally, his madness is awful, but poetically, it is beautiful.

Anyway, thank you so much for reviewing, love. I've enjoyed hearing your responses to my fic!

Emma: Ha. Well, I do try to be one, love. ^^;; As I've said before, I don't like to say never when it comes to fan-fic because I simply never know when a plot bunny will bite. That said, however, I really don't see myself writing a sequel to this fic; Sweeney and Nellie have said what they have to. =) Thanks for reviewing, m'dear, and for sticking around so long with this fic!

Guest: Let's hope the Google translate of your review gave me semi-accurate results . . . xD Anyway, thank you so very much! I hope you come back for this chapter, because chapter thirty-four is NOT the end! This epilogue, however, is. In either case, I'm thrilled that you enjoyed the fic so much, and thank you for leaving your thoughts!