Setting: After Lucy's death, but Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney are still living. Late in the night.

Summary: Sweeney breaks down, Nellie's always there to soothe. Drabblish.

Part I: Broken

Sweeney Todd stood, shaking, covering his face, eyes stinging. He stood so broken, so separate from the world, and absolutely alone. He fell to his knees, hardly hearing the wooden floors creak at his touch, hardly feeling the sharp pain of wood scratching against flesh. He hardly felt. And yet, he felt too much. Shaking, always shaking now, seething.

He killed her. He killed her. He killed her. Oh god, how those words wouldn't leave his head. A strangled noise escaped his throat and he stood, hunched, kneeling, crying. So much he did for his beautiful Lucy. How much he would of given away for just one last brush of her lips, one touch of her hand. Sweeney could see himself, already, holding Lucy's face in his hands, and seeing her smile, that smile that brought the dimples into her cheeks, that smile that made him soar.

He killed her. He killed her. He killed her smile. But Sweeney would hardly accept any of the violent obvious.

He shot up from his kneeling position, opened his eyes, and stalked loudly to the cracked mirror placed mockingly at the side of the room. He gripped it, sobbing, and threw it across the room, seeing it shatter even more on the dirtied floor of his tonsorial parlor.

"Lucy, Lucy, Lucy..." he grabbed the vase of gilly flowers and threw this even farther than the mirror. Sweeney grabbed at his hair, black eyes wild, and turned, jerking in every other direction. He stopped abruptly in the center of the room.

And he yelled. It was a slaughtering yell, deep, and he drowned in it. It lasted centuries, this yell, and it wakened the heavens. No, not the heavens. It wakened Hell.

He fell to his knees again in the pile of shattered glass, many pieces pricking his legs and soon his arms as he slowly placed his forehead onto the floor. His shoulders shook with the moaning cries of anguish and grief that had taken over every bit of him.

Sweeney Todd blinked.

He sat, now, on an armchair, upright, and warm. He was warm. Ironically, he almost shivered at the thought of warmth, but he took it eagerly. The broken demon clung to this warmth, emotionally, perhaps, and yet, something was too real beside him.

His eyes flicked downward and he saw curls of crimson, he smelt lilacs, fresh lilacs. He felt warmth. Incoherent and aching, he hugged this now physical warmth. The warmth hugged back.

Nellie could hardly suppress a sob of her own as she buried her face deeper into her Sweeney's chest, never wanting to let go. She was strong, she supposed, having watched the barber's tantrum with idle determination, only faltering once as the man passed out on the ruined floor.

She had helped him, lifted him, pampered him, hardly even breathing as she stripped him of his clothes to tend to bleeding gashes from glass. Her heart pounded something like a hummingbird in her chest, wanting to pass out herself.

Sweeney smelt of cinnamon, and it was dashing. And he was chilly. Nellie could melt him, would melt him, was melting him in this unrequited embrace. Please melt. Please.

The barber held her tightly, ever so suddenly, grasping at her as if she weren't there at all. As if Nellie were the wind and would slip between his fingers. Nellie nodded into his chest, and she felt the man relax slowly.

Sweeney wasn't with himself, nor never would be with himself, oddly. The rage from the man's chest had vanished, maybe momentarily, but one fact remained: Sweeney was rage, and now the rage was no more.

This man, now, whoever, felt tears come to his eyes again, and he clung to this unidentified warmth, breathing in, breathing out. His eyes were shut tight, he realized, seeing nothing but maybe a faint wisp of dignity.

He finally felt exhausted and yet so awake, and the warmth was being to move in his grasp. He whimpered, pulling it closer, but he only felt the sensation rise.

Nellie slowly pressed her lips to his collar bone, her eyes closed, not breathing. Her kisses trailed slowly toward his neck, unwillingly, gently, tenderly. In her hands she tightly gripped his shirt in her small fists, tilting her head back to kiss the edge of his jaw bone, the space below his ear. Please melt, please melt.

Sweeney definitely drifted off somewhere, definitely, and this man let out a shaky breath, nodding, accepting. Nellie felt her throat tighten with hope and she wanted so badly to cry, to sniff, to thank. Instead, the man beside him lightly placed his hands onto her face, his fingers grazing her lips, her cheeks, her nose. So lightly, Nellie could feel his breath more than his delicate fingers.

This man opened his eyes now and Nellie's were shut. The woman let out a small sigh, calmly, so in love.

They kissed. They touched lips to lips, lips to fingers, lips to hair. Fluttering brushes of their mouths against each other, living in the moment, neither one of them knowing if dreaming was possible when bliss had enveloped them with gentle arms.

Nellie knew to use this moment, these precious little moments, to the fullest. These aching moments when her barber would melt, and they were united, seeing only eyelashes, dimples, curves. Only smelling lilacs and cinnamon. Only hearing whispers, heartbeats, intakes of breath. Only having each other.

On account of all the lovely feedback I received, I've decided to make this into a series of one shots. That being said, I invite you to read onward, and I do hope you enjoy the ride.