dolevalan | Fanfic 100

Title: Fracture, part one
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: To be revealed, Agatha (O.C.)
Prompt: 060, Drink
Word Count: 766
Rating: G
Summary: Part one of five
Author's Notes: All right, it's done. The lovely five parter. There is at least one, probably two other fics connected to this one that will be forthcoming, but these five are meant to be read as one story, so I'll be posting one a day. It has song lyrics and a crossover, two things I'm usually loathe to do, but I held my breath and did it anyway. So I hope that doesn't blow up in my face. I'm sure you smart people will figure out who the protagonist is, but if you don't, it's pretty apparent in part two, so you don't have too long to wait. The lyrics at the beginning of all five parts are from "Things Get Broken," part of Leonard Bernstein's mass, with additional lyrics by Stephen Schwartz.

Look...Isn't that --odd...
Red wine --isn't red -- at all...
It's sort of--brown...brown and blue...
I never noticed that.

He stared into his wine, lost in thought, not really seeing the liquid as he held it up to the light. So often, red wine was compared to blood, but it really was a rather poor comparison; the light caught it entirely differently, and the colors, while on the same palate, just didn’t match. There was something comforting, in that. There was no chance anyone familiar with blood could make the mistake of confusing the two.

But, as usual, his thoughts were elsewhere. Not too far afield; he was well aware that there was always the abyss, waiting with open arms to embrace him. He had gotten well; a miracle, it was said. They wouldn’t have even let him out, well or not, if it hadn’t been for his angel. He sometimes wondered how long his hold on himself would have lasted, had he remained locked in that place of screams and tears. So he was always careful of his thoughts. He didn’t let them go too far. But a man at his time of life was always bound to be reflective; he couldn’t help it.

Slowly, he took a long sip of the wine, the complex, bitter taste rolling over his tongue. It was a good vintage; when he was younger, he would never have been able to imagine affording such a thing. But he had the satisfaction of knowing that half of the fortune was his, earned with his own hands, though he hadn’t needed to work. There was something innately fulfilling in knowing that you turned your own labour into the wine flowing sweetly down your throat.

The door opened behind him; Mina had always wanted him to get it oiled, but he liked knowing whenever anyone entered a room. Any joy in surprise was always soured by the momentary rush of fear that came with being startled. He did not want to be scared, ever again. So he let the door creak. This time, the light step told him it was Agatha, and his ears didn’t deceive him; his youngest daughter came around and settled herself on the floor by his feet. Her pretty brown curls reminded him of her mother, but the blue eyes were his. It would almost have been like looking into a mirror, if her eyes hadn’t been blessedly free of that shadow lurking behind his own.

“Papa, it’s late. Aren’t you going to bed?”

He smiled, and put one hand to her cheek. “In a bit. Here, have a glass of wine with me, darling.”

She gave him a small, uncertain smile in return, but nodded. “All right. But then you should get some sleep.”

He chuckled softly as he poured a second glass of the red wine that wasn’t truly red. Not the red of blood, at any rate. “So should you, my dearest. The young need sleep too. Especially if they are going to keep company with difficult old men.”

He was rewarded with a soft, sparkling laugh. “Papa, you are neither difficult nor old.” She raised her glass to clink it affectionately against his. “And there is no one I would rather keep company with.”

The bitter taste seemed sweeter for her company. “No sweethearts yet, my Agatha? Surely there is someone you might wish to spend an evening with other than your poor old father.”

“Not yet, Papa.” She leaned her head against his knee. “And I am content to stay with you. You need looking after.”

“Hm.” He finished his wine, looking into the fire before him. He could often make out shapes, in the blaze. Faces, bodies…memories painted in the flames. But looking at it too long was asking for trouble. The light would only let the darkness rush in and that he would not allow. As fascinating as such shapes might be. Finally, he blinked, and leaned down to kiss his daughter’s hair. “Come, my Agatha, we should both go to bed.”

She nodded and stood, but had forgotten her wine glass. It caught on the hem of her dress, and upset itself over the carpet at his feet. “Oh! Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry.” She hurried over to the bell pull to summon a maid. “How very stupid of me.”

“Hush, my dearest, don’t give it another thought.” He stood slowly, his body beginning to show early signs of protests against such a change of position. “It will clean. And if it doesn’t, it is little matter.” He put an arm around her waist to lead her gently away. “It was an accident. And after all…it is only wine.”