![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fanfic 100 - 006, Hours
Title: Not a Day Goes By
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Benjamin Barker, Anthony Hope, Tobias Ragg, Beadle Bamford, Johanna Barker, Nellie Lovett, Beggar Woman, Jonas Fogg
Prompt: 006, Hours
Word Count: 1593
Rating: PG
Summary: As the title and prompt might suggest.
Author's Notes: I promise you, I've not given up, and I'm not dead. And I figured I should squeeze out one last fic before the movie comes out, hm? Sorry I've been so MIA.
6 am
Hot, sweltering already. The dust gets everywhere. It’s in eyes and mouths before they’re even open. Benjamin gets up, as if he had a choice, and resolutely ignores how every inch of him aches. Muscles he didn’t know he had before Australia are, perversely, the ones that plague him most.
The guards never seem to need sleep. They never look groggy, never seem to miss the sleep they must not have had when they run the morning shift. It is only the prisoners who share the worn, brown look of working longer than the sun is in the sky. It would be winter, at home, he thinks. Christmas? A bit past? Impossible to say without asking. And he will not ask anything of them. Not now, not after fourteen years.
The sun is only now rising as the line of convicts shuffles out to do the day’s work. What a strange land this will be, he sometimes thinks, carved out of the sweat of convicts. He can’t help wondering, now and then, what Lucy would think of the strange creatures, the way the stars look on the other side of the world. But now he doesn’t think of anything. Nothing but the heavy handle in his hand and the sweat already starting to soak through his shirt. The day has only just begun, and he will need his strength. He’s learned.
8 am
The day has only just begun, and Anthony Hope is leaning far out of the crow’s nest. He’s been on watch for hours, ready for sleep, and he doesn’t yet see his replacement. So for now, he watches the horizon. Anthony varies his distance, trying to keep his eyes focused. If they should miss something important, fatigue would be no excuse at all.
It isn’t, however, as if there’s anything to be looking for in particular. Too far south for icebergs, and they were far off the heavy trade routes. Choppy water, maybe, or the occasional reef, but when he can’t bite back the yawns, Anthony asks himself what it is he’s actually looking for.
His mind drifts. He thinks of home, his mother waiting patiently, and his sister Abigail and her husband with their steady little life. Solid as his smithy, and just as immobile. He could never have chosen such a life, he knows, but just now, the idea of a bed, deep and soft and sitting on solid ground is deeply inviting. Still, he clings to the wet hemp of the ropes and breathes the salted air deeply, looking for nothing in particular. It’s what he chose, and he can’t say he regrets it. He just wants to sleep.
10 am
Toby bites his lip, not sure what to do. The gov’ner is not awake, and they’re usually set up for business by eleven. On the other hand, Pirelli is always sure to be in a horrible fury whenever Toby wakes him. He might still be furious if Toby doesn’t wake him, of course, but it isn’t as sure a thing.
Pirelli never mentioned money, but Toby could tell when things were good, and when things were bad. He could tell from the gov’ner’s mood, and from how many treats he got. He could tell from how new the food looked. Things are bad, at present. They need the money. But how he hates it when he gets yelled at. It makes his stomach twist and knot in funny ways, makes it hard to start the show like he should, to smile wide and big like the signore likes so much.
The gov’ner is snoring, deep and loud, as if he’d never wake. Toby shifts from foot to foot. If he woke him, he’d get a scolding, but maybe more food. If he didn’t, the scolding may or may not come, but he’d likely go to bed hungry. It was a harder decision than it sounded.
12 pm
Beatle Bamford carefully cuts his kidney pie, his motions slow and deliberate. He found that dinner was the time when he did his best consideration; the judge was in court, and he himself was engaged with his own tasks. He was in public, yet could remain aloof. It was ideal.
His current consideration is what to do about the gangs of child thieves that had begun springing up like toadstools. Clearly, he could have the children arrested one by one. But there would always be a new child to replace the old one, and juries were notoriously lenient to children. It was a problem that required care, to be sure.
He can see them, out the serving house’s sooty front window; children dressed like vagabonds were playing and laughing in the street. Who knew how many pockets they picked while he sat here, enjoying his mid-day refreshment. It was a miscarriage of justice, and if there was one thing the Beadle had no stomach for, it was a miscarriage of justice.
He finishes his meal, calmly pays, and leaves.
2 pm
Johanna sings to herself absently, as she arranged flowers in her father’s parlor. The house is otherwise silent. The servants knew better than to chatter among themselves, and after enough years, had ceased to do it even when their master was abroad. In the empty house, her voice echoes, a little twisted, as if she has a sister who’s slightly tone-deaf.
It was still better than silence, morning, noon and night. The flowers were beginning to wilt a bit already, but she has decided they are better than nothing in these dark, heavy rooms. They are the same as they have always been, she knows, and yet… and yet. She doesn’t know why she’s been so discontented lately. Her father is as attentive as ever, her possessions are just as nice, she goes to just as many (or perhaps as few) parties. The same doors are locked as always were.
But something has changed, in her or the house, that much is clear. Her singing is almost a challenge, to the big brooding townhouse. The clear, crystalline notes of her voice are flung out before her like a banner. Try and stop me if you dare, she seems to say, I will make this a home yet.
She tries.
4 pm
“Heaven knows I try,” she murmurs, as she rolls the dough out thinner. Nellie Lovett often talks to herself these days. Since her husband’s death, she’s missed having a person about to absorb her steady stream of chatter, so she’s taken to addressing herself instead, to get around the problem.
Well, that problem anyway. Mrs Lovett has bigger problems. “Mum!” bellows a large, beef-faced customer who can’t be bothered with her name. He’s glaring at the pie before him as if it had had taken a bite of him, rather than the other way around.
“Yes, sir?” she says, coming around the counter to see.
“There’s no meat in this pie! It’s all crust and sauce. What do you take us for?”
She smiles, bright and false. “Whatever do you mean, sir? No meat in a meat pie? Let me see.”
He was right, of course, or practically right. But she says, “Well, it seems this one’s a little short. Let me get you another that’s made proper-like.”
“I don’t want another,” he bellows. “I want my coins and to be on my way.”
“But sir, ye’ve half eaten it. How can I – ”
“GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK BEFORE I CALL FOR THE BEADLE.”
She returns his coins, and watches him go. And watches half the waiting customers leave with him. Some days, she decided, times were simply hard.
6 pm
It is already dark, and the London streets are full of a chilling fog. The beggar woman picked through the piles of rubbish in the alley, looking half-absently for anything useful or edible. As she does, she murmurs to herself a little song, a lullaby. She may cry, from time to time, but neither she nor anyone else notices.
Someone throws a pail of liquid from above. The beggar woman doesn’t know what it is, but knows she would rather not have been covered in it. She shivers harder against the chill. She knows, absently, that she should have started looking for a place to spend the night long before now.
It begins, lightly, to snow.
8 pm
The lamplight only pierces dimly through the curling snow that was so fine it was almost an extension of the fog. The asylum keeper peers out his window into the gloom. Another long night, and an unpleasant prospect for the journey home. He sometimes wondered why he bothered. It wasn’t as if the inmates would notice, if he went home early.
Not that there was much waiting for him, but it will be warm, and dry, and snug enough. He didn’t require much of anything else. And quiet. It will certainly be quiet.
A nurse hurries up behind him. “Excuse me, Mr Fogg, sir,” she says in a rush. “But it’s number nine, sir. He’s biting his own arm again, and we need help restraining him, sir.”
Fogg sighs. Why they wanted him, slender as he was, would never become obvious to him. However, he nods. “Alright, Thorton, I’ll be there in just a moment. Thank you.” At the clear dismissal, the nurse bobs into a curtsey and hurries off. Fogg sighs. What he wouldn’t give, he absently thought, to once in a great while be done in time to watch the sun go down.
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Characters: Benjamin Barker, Anthony Hope, Tobias Ragg, Beadle Bamford, Johanna Barker, Nellie Lovett, Beggar Woman, Jonas Fogg
Prompt: 006, Hours
Word Count: 1593
Rating: PG
Summary: As the title and prompt might suggest.
Author's Notes: I promise you, I've not given up, and I'm not dead. And I figured I should squeeze out one last fic before the movie comes out, hm? Sorry I've been so MIA.
6 am
Hot, sweltering already. The dust gets everywhere. It’s in eyes and mouths before they’re even open. Benjamin gets up, as if he had a choice, and resolutely ignores how every inch of him aches. Muscles he didn’t know he had before Australia are, perversely, the ones that plague him most.
The guards never seem to need sleep. They never look groggy, never seem to miss the sleep they must not have had when they run the morning shift. It is only the prisoners who share the worn, brown look of working longer than the sun is in the sky. It would be winter, at home, he thinks. Christmas? A bit past? Impossible to say without asking. And he will not ask anything of them. Not now, not after fourteen years.
The sun is only now rising as the line of convicts shuffles out to do the day’s work. What a strange land this will be, he sometimes thinks, carved out of the sweat of convicts. He can’t help wondering, now and then, what Lucy would think of the strange creatures, the way the stars look on the other side of the world. But now he doesn’t think of anything. Nothing but the heavy handle in his hand and the sweat already starting to soak through his shirt. The day has only just begun, and he will need his strength. He’s learned.
8 am
The day has only just begun, and Anthony Hope is leaning far out of the crow’s nest. He’s been on watch for hours, ready for sleep, and he doesn’t yet see his replacement. So for now, he watches the horizon. Anthony varies his distance, trying to keep his eyes focused. If they should miss something important, fatigue would be no excuse at all.
It isn’t, however, as if there’s anything to be looking for in particular. Too far south for icebergs, and they were far off the heavy trade routes. Choppy water, maybe, or the occasional reef, but when he can’t bite back the yawns, Anthony asks himself what it is he’s actually looking for.
His mind drifts. He thinks of home, his mother waiting patiently, and his sister Abigail and her husband with their steady little life. Solid as his smithy, and just as immobile. He could never have chosen such a life, he knows, but just now, the idea of a bed, deep and soft and sitting on solid ground is deeply inviting. Still, he clings to the wet hemp of the ropes and breathes the salted air deeply, looking for nothing in particular. It’s what he chose, and he can’t say he regrets it. He just wants to sleep.
10 am
Toby bites his lip, not sure what to do. The gov’ner is not awake, and they’re usually set up for business by eleven. On the other hand, Pirelli is always sure to be in a horrible fury whenever Toby wakes him. He might still be furious if Toby doesn’t wake him, of course, but it isn’t as sure a thing.
Pirelli never mentioned money, but Toby could tell when things were good, and when things were bad. He could tell from the gov’ner’s mood, and from how many treats he got. He could tell from how new the food looked. Things are bad, at present. They need the money. But how he hates it when he gets yelled at. It makes his stomach twist and knot in funny ways, makes it hard to start the show like he should, to smile wide and big like the signore likes so much.
The gov’ner is snoring, deep and loud, as if he’d never wake. Toby shifts from foot to foot. If he woke him, he’d get a scolding, but maybe more food. If he didn’t, the scolding may or may not come, but he’d likely go to bed hungry. It was a harder decision than it sounded.
12 pm
Beatle Bamford carefully cuts his kidney pie, his motions slow and deliberate. He found that dinner was the time when he did his best consideration; the judge was in court, and he himself was engaged with his own tasks. He was in public, yet could remain aloof. It was ideal.
His current consideration is what to do about the gangs of child thieves that had begun springing up like toadstools. Clearly, he could have the children arrested one by one. But there would always be a new child to replace the old one, and juries were notoriously lenient to children. It was a problem that required care, to be sure.
He can see them, out the serving house’s sooty front window; children dressed like vagabonds were playing and laughing in the street. Who knew how many pockets they picked while he sat here, enjoying his mid-day refreshment. It was a miscarriage of justice, and if there was one thing the Beadle had no stomach for, it was a miscarriage of justice.
He finishes his meal, calmly pays, and leaves.
2 pm
Johanna sings to herself absently, as she arranged flowers in her father’s parlor. The house is otherwise silent. The servants knew better than to chatter among themselves, and after enough years, had ceased to do it even when their master was abroad. In the empty house, her voice echoes, a little twisted, as if she has a sister who’s slightly tone-deaf.
It was still better than silence, morning, noon and night. The flowers were beginning to wilt a bit already, but she has decided they are better than nothing in these dark, heavy rooms. They are the same as they have always been, she knows, and yet… and yet. She doesn’t know why she’s been so discontented lately. Her father is as attentive as ever, her possessions are just as nice, she goes to just as many (or perhaps as few) parties. The same doors are locked as always were.
But something has changed, in her or the house, that much is clear. Her singing is almost a challenge, to the big brooding townhouse. The clear, crystalline notes of her voice are flung out before her like a banner. Try and stop me if you dare, she seems to say, I will make this a home yet.
She tries.
4 pm
“Heaven knows I try,” she murmurs, as she rolls the dough out thinner. Nellie Lovett often talks to herself these days. Since her husband’s death, she’s missed having a person about to absorb her steady stream of chatter, so she’s taken to addressing herself instead, to get around the problem.
Well, that problem anyway. Mrs Lovett has bigger problems. “Mum!” bellows a large, beef-faced customer who can’t be bothered with her name. He’s glaring at the pie before him as if it had had taken a bite of him, rather than the other way around.
“Yes, sir?” she says, coming around the counter to see.
“There’s no meat in this pie! It’s all crust and sauce. What do you take us for?”
She smiles, bright and false. “Whatever do you mean, sir? No meat in a meat pie? Let me see.”
He was right, of course, or practically right. But she says, “Well, it seems this one’s a little short. Let me get you another that’s made proper-like.”
“I don’t want another,” he bellows. “I want my coins and to be on my way.”
“But sir, ye’ve half eaten it. How can I – ”
“GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK BEFORE I CALL FOR THE BEADLE.”
She returns his coins, and watches him go. And watches half the waiting customers leave with him. Some days, she decided, times were simply hard.
6 pm
It is already dark, and the London streets are full of a chilling fog. The beggar woman picked through the piles of rubbish in the alley, looking half-absently for anything useful or edible. As she does, she murmurs to herself a little song, a lullaby. She may cry, from time to time, but neither she nor anyone else notices.
Someone throws a pail of liquid from above. The beggar woman doesn’t know what it is, but knows she would rather not have been covered in it. She shivers harder against the chill. She knows, absently, that she should have started looking for a place to spend the night long before now.
It begins, lightly, to snow.
8 pm
The lamplight only pierces dimly through the curling snow that was so fine it was almost an extension of the fog. The asylum keeper peers out his window into the gloom. Another long night, and an unpleasant prospect for the journey home. He sometimes wondered why he bothered. It wasn’t as if the inmates would notice, if he went home early.
Not that there was much waiting for him, but it will be warm, and dry, and snug enough. He didn’t require much of anything else. And quiet. It will certainly be quiet.
A nurse hurries up behind him. “Excuse me, Mr Fogg, sir,” she says in a rush. “But it’s number nine, sir. He’s biting his own arm again, and we need help restraining him, sir.”
Fogg sighs. Why they wanted him, slender as he was, would never become obvious to him. However, he nods. “Alright, Thorton, I’ll be there in just a moment. Thank you.” At the clear dismissal, the nurse bobs into a curtsey and hurries off. Fogg sighs. What he wouldn’t give, he absently thought, to once in a great while be done in time to watch the sun go down.