This is a Sweeney Todd fic that started out a couple of months ago as a quickie little thing I wanted to write; it mutated into this. I don't own Mr. Todd or Mr. Hope or the Bountiful; they're all Mr. Sondheim's, with interpretations belonging to Mr. Burton and Mr. Depp and Mr. Bower. I'm not writing this for profit; heck, about half the time I'm not even writing it for fun . This is pre-movie/play, so there should be no spoilers, unless you have absolutely no knowledge of the basic story. Thanks to my once and future beta-reader, Evilmissbecky; she's the one who said I should share this, so thank/blame her. Warnings: Not much for now. It's me writing here, so you know there's going to be pain and remembered pain, right?

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Compensation

By Melody Wilde

One

He was dreaming again.

The sounds jerked Anthony out of his own fitful sleep. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand and reached out with the other to grasp a bony shoulder and shake it gently.

"Sir? Wake up, sir. You're safe now. It's only a dream." More like a nightmare, from the way the man cried out and fought. Whatever he was seeing, it was very bad. Anthony shook him again. "Please, sir."

This time, it took only a few moments for the terrified and terrifying noises to slide away to a silence that was almost worse, and for the feeble movements to still. Anthony thought that surely must be a good sign, a sign that the stranger was doing better, that he was going to live after all.

Or maybe it was a sign that he was growing weaker, and slipping away.

o-o-o-o-o

"Mr. Cooper, Mr. Hope, take him down to the room behind the back stairs. Mr. Hope, I'm going to put him in your care."

Anthony stared at the man sprawled on the deck like a dead thing, the man they had just pulled from an ocean half a world away from home. He was thin, almost ghostly pale, closed eyes sunken into great dark hollows that hinted at unspeakable suffering.

"Sir, I believe this man needs far more help than I can give."

"I'll send the ship's doctor down to look in on him, not that I think it'll do any good. I wouldn't be surprised if he's dead before the day is out, poor bugger."

"But sir..."

"I know, lad," Captain Evans said kindly. "I, too, hope he survives, but..." He looked down and shook his head. "Just stay with him and give him what comfort you can in his final hours."

o-o-o-o-o

As they carried him down to the small room, Cooper muttered, "Wouldn't really have taken the two of us, would it. He don't weigh no more than a wet cat."

Anthony made a non-committal sound, taking more of the weight as Cooper shifted to free a hand and open the door. It was a small room, with an even smaller bunk, a stool, and a lantern hanging on the wall. They eased the limp body onto the bed, then Cooper struck a match to the lantern to light it.

"You be all right, then? I mean, if he passes?"

"I'm not a child, Samuel. I've seen death before."

"One of your ma's chickens or some such, I'll wager."

Anthony turned his head to hide his blush. "I'll be all right."

"Not afraid of ghosts, then?"

"There are no such things."

"Are so. My granddad said he once saw—"

"Mr. Cooper. Mr. Hope." Dr. McGuire paused just outside, nodding to them both. Cooper wiggled his eyebrows at Anthony as he slid out the door. "So young Mr. Hope, what have we here?" He pulled the door shut behind him and leaned in to have a look. "Found adrift on the ocean, the Captain said."

"Yes sir. I spotted him and gave the alarm. We managed to grab him just as he let go. Another few seconds and we would've lost him.."

"Lucky man. And there was other wreckage?"

"Yes sir, but he was the only survivor we found."

"He's a very lucky man then. Or will be, if he lives."

"Yes sir."

"Let's have a look, shall we." He leaned forward to press his ear to the man's chest, went still to listen to the labored breathing, then ran careful fingers down each of the limbs and across the chest. "There doesn't seem to be anything broken or—hold on." He had turned the pale face toward the light. "There's the reason he's unconscious."

Anthony peered over his shoulder. There was a wide gash, still oozing blood, across the side of the man's head. He looked away.

"This is going to need stitches."

"What can I do to help, sir?"

"Hold the lantern for me, so I can see better."

"Yes sir." He freed the lantern and held it over the top of the bed. "Like this?"

"Perfect. Now just keep it steady. This won't take long."

The man didn't move—didn't make a sound—as Dr. McGuire cleaned the wound and set five neat stitches carefully in place. "There. That should hold it." He nodded. "You can put that back now. And then why don't you go fetch some blankets and dry clothing while I finish up here."

"Yes sir."

"I hope he pulls through," the doctor was muttering as Anthony quit the room. "I'd like to hear the story he has to tell."

"Me too, sir," he whispered as he hurried down the hallway.

o-o-o-o-o

By the time he returned, with blankets, a spare set of his own clothing, a jug of water, and a chamber pot, there was a narrow white cloth wrapped around the patient's head and the doctor was preparing to leave. "All right. I've done all I can here. Get him dry and keep him as warm as you can." He nodded to the bundle in Anthony's arms. "Do you need help with those?"

"No sir. I can manage."

"I'll check back later. If there's any change, send for me. He's most likely going to need something for the pain if he wakes."

"Yes sir."

He nodded, took one last look, and then departed, leaving Anthony alone with the stranger. Anthony set down his burden and took a deep breath.

"I will need to undress you, sir. I beg your pardon for not allowing you your modesty. I have lowered the light, and I will be as quick as I can." There was no reply, but Anthony continued to talk as he worked, as if the man could hear.

"I'll try to salvage your clothing and have it clean for you when you're well again." He undid the fastenings on the braces, then slid an arm beneath the man's knees, lifting so that he could pull the trousers down. He blushed at the realization that the man was wearing no underwear, looking away quickly.

"And now your shirt." This was harder to remove, as it involved shifting him from side to side, working the lifeless arms out of the sleeves and finally drawing it over his head. "There you are, sir. Naked as the day you were born, but have no worry. I will look at you no more than necessary." He smiled nervously. Pulling one of the blankets free, he began to scrub it across the bony chest, up and down the arms, moving rapidly and efficiently. "As soon as you're dry, I have fresh clothing that I can..."

The words died in his throat. He had rolled the man onto his side to dry his back. And that back was covered with scars—so many scars—some faded to faint white ghosts, some still dark, a few raw enough to have been made within the week. This man had been beaten—beaten often and beaten harshly, without mercy.

"No wonder you look so ill." He swallowed hard, stretching out a hand to run a fingertip across one of the deepest cuts. "Who did this to you, my friend?"

There was a ready answer, of course. These were the sorts of scars worn by prisoners. Convicts. Men who had done such evil that they had been sent to a world where treatment such as this was the norm.

Anthony very much did not want this man to be a convict.

"There are other reasons you might be so marked," he said, returning to his task, quickly drying the back so that he could turn the body and hide it from his sight. "You could be... Or..." He ran the blanket down the legs, one at a time, nodding to himself. "It doesn't matter. You don't look like a convict. You look like...like a man who has been ill used by life."

He knew that much was true. The stranger was so thin, so pale, the only color about him the long, night dark hair that curled loosely around and below the bandage, and even that was broken by a shocking streak of white at the front.

"There's no need to alarm Captain Evans with this just yet. Later, perhaps. Besides, we're easily as far from Botany Bay as we are from home. No convict would be here, floating upon the ocean."

Anthony tried to squeeze the worst of the water from his dripping hair, then put the blanket aside and reached for another. "Since you are unconscious, I think perhaps it would be easier on both of us if I waited to dress you again. Then if you have to... If your body has needs that must be attended to..."

There was, of course, no response. He slid blankets beneath the man, then wrapped them around him, cocooning him until only his white, lifeless face showed. Then he pulled the stool close by the bed and began to wait.

o-o-o-o-o

It was some hours later when the man first moved. He gave a cry, and his head began to jerk from side to side. "No. No! Please...oh god...please...don't..." He began to thrash, as if trying to escape from something, shaking the bunk with the force of his movements.

"Sir? Sir!"

Anthony pressed his hands against the man's shoulders, attempting to hold him still, but it made him fight even harder, his words of denial slurring into a low, unearthly whine in the back of his throat.

"Sir, you are safe, please, sir. No one will harm you here."

The man's eyes opened briefly, dark eyes, filled with a terror beyond anything Anthony could imagine. Then they rolled back in his head and he went limp in Anthony's grasp. His breathing was ragged, and an occasional whimper escaped him, but he was still again.

Anthony leaned back, shaken. "It's only that you didn't know where you were," he said, more to himself than his charge. "That's why you were so afraid. Or perhaps it was your head wound. Surely..." His voice faltered. "Surely you didn't believe that I would hurt you. Is that all you've known? Hurt?"

And with that thought came the realization that the man's words, few as they had been, had held an unmistakable British accent. Anthony bit his lip. "That's still no proof that you are...were... There are many reasons that an Englishman would be so far from home. Everyone on this ship is an Englishman. Oh god..."

Troubled, he tucked the covers around the man again, then leaned back against the wall to keep watch.

o-o-o-o-o

The hours fell into a sort of pattern. The stranger would sleep, then shudder to a kind of half-wakefulness, moaning, struggling against Anthony's gently restraining hands, sometimes retching until the tears slid from his eyes, then fall unconscious again. The doctor came by once, as did the Captain, both amazed to find the man still alive.

And finally, as day gave way to midnight, Anthony dozed himself.

o-o-o-o-o

Some sound woke him. He started, looking immediately toward the man on the bunk, astonished to find the dark eyes open and almost lucid and staring at him with more than a trace of fear.

"Sir?"

"Where am I?" The voice was thick, rusty, as if unused for a long time.

Or made rough by screaming. Anthony pushed the unwanted thought away. "You're safe, sir. You're on the HMS Bountiful, out of Plymouth, bound for London."

"London?"

"Yes sir."

"How..." His voice cracked. Anthony lifted the jug of water from beside the bed, unstoppered it, and held it to the man's lips. "Ah." He drank deeply, eyes sliding closed as if he were drinking the finest wine. At last he turned his head away with a soft, "No more."

Anthony set the jug back in place. "We found you adrift on the ocean, clinging to a scrap of wood. I saw you and raised the alarm."

He nodded, then flinched as if the movement had pained him. "Fire... I'm going to..."

Anthony managed to turn him and thrust the chamber pot into place just in time. He heaved and retched, bringing up nothing but the water he had just drunk, then fell back, shivering and exhausted from the effort. Anthony wet a bit of the ruined shirt and wiped it across the man's face—lips, cheeks, eyes.

His lips barely moved. "Others?"

"Other survivors? No sir, only you. It would seem that the good Lord must have spared you for some purpose."

The man made a choked sound that could have been agreement or amusement or pain and turned his face toward the wall.

"Rest now, please. I'll stay with you. We'll talk when you feel more revived."

"Owe you...my life," he murmured indistinctly, and then his features went slack again.

o-o-o-o-o

When several hours had passed with no motion from his charge, Anthony surrendered to his own weariness. He leaned against the bulkhead, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep.

o-o-o-o-o

"And how's our patient this morning?" Dr. McGuire bent over the man on the bed, raising an eyebrow.

"He seems to be resting comfortably, sir. He's been like that since late last night."

"Has he awakened?"

"Only once, just for a moment. He drank some water, but vomited it up again."

"And was he able to give you any information about himself?" The doctor was digging through the layers of blanket to set his fingers upon the man's throat.

"He said the word 'fire'."

"I'm sure he'll tell us more when he's able." He nodded. "His color is still poor, but his pulse is stronger. Our guest may yet survive this ordeal."

"I hope so, sir."

"I'm sure Captain Evans will want you to keep watch a while longer, if that's agreeable with you."

"Of course, sir."

"Have you eaten anything at all?"

"I brought a bit of bread with me."

"I'll send someone with a meal and some broth for him to have when he wakes again."

"Thank you, sir."

He closed the door behind the doctor, and turned to find the man in the bed staring at him. He looked toward the door, ready to call the doctor back, but the man whispered, "No. Please."

Anthony looked from the door to the bed, then back. "All right."

The dark eyes turned away from him, their unblinking gaze skimming around the room before coming to rest on Anthony's face once more. "I'm naked."

"Yes sir. I'm sorry. I had to remove your wet clothing and thought it would be best to leave you like that for now."

"Are you going to send me back?"

"Sir?"

"I thought I heard a voice, telling me I was safe."

"That was me, sir."

"Am I dreaming?"

"Dreaming?"

"All of this. The explosion. Falling. Being pulled from the water. Is this all a dream?"

"I cannot speak for the first two, but it is no dream that we found you adrift and rescued you. But all that is behind you now."

"And I'm safe."

"Yes sir."

He closed his eyes, and his face went tight with some emotion Anthony could not identify. Then they snapped open again, and he struggled within the blankets, attempting to sit up. Anthony gently placed a hand on his chest to prevent him.

"Please, sir, rest a while longer, until you regain your strength. There's broth being sent for you."

He went boneless again, falling back onto the pillow. "Sweet Jesus, my head hurts." After a moment, he murmured, "What's your name, son?"

"Anthony Hope, sir."

"Hope. It has been a very long time since I've had hope."

"Sir?"

"You told me that you saw me. Gave the alarm."

"Yes sir."

"Then it would seem that I do have hope again. You saved my life."

"I suppose you could say that I had some part in it."

"And you've been here with me ever since."

He nodded. "The ship's doctor has looked in from time to time, to make sure you were still..." He broke off, shifting uneasily. "All right."

"But you're the one who's cared for me."

"I've done the best I could, sir, and glad to do it. It's no more than any good Christian would do for his fellow man."

The man's lips curved into what might almost have been a smile, if it hadn't been so painful. "There have been few good Christians in my life, Mr. Hope."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Why do you keep calling me 'sir'?"

"Out of respect. And because..." He ducked his head. "I don't know your name."

"It's Benj...Todd. Sweeney Todd."

"I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Todd."

"Likewise. I think I'll sleep now." And his eyes closed and he drifted away again.