A/N: How did this happen, come again? Haven't got a clue. Still watching the show and up to series 4 right now, so if ever there is a scene anywhere close to this, my apologies.
I wanted to play with the Bucket's dynamics. I have written pieces for another show under a different pseudonym, and I haven't quite had the chance to read up on what's available here, so this is sort of impolite (I feel at least a Hyacinth eye roll coming up; and an Elizabeth blank smile to go along). This should go on a bit more, depending on my insomnias (that led me thus far), but I don't have a schedule.
One last thing, English is not my first language. If there's a glaringly obvious misspell or nonsense, feel free to point me out. I tend to do that.
-csf
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Richard Bouquet (spelled B-u-c-k-e-t) takes a seat at the kitchen table for breakfast, minding his paper and his toast. He feels that he hasn't had a wink all night; but that's hardly true. According to his wife, the exuberant Mrs Bouquet (spelled B-u-c-k-e-t), he has snored heavily. She frowns and twitches her nose to the idea of such vulgar sounds that every night come from her husband. Well, he should be more respectable! No, that's not quite it; he should be more considerate! They have a social standard to maintain and that snoring – or whatever passes for it in the form of animalistic grunts that should be reserved to the lower working classes – is so out of character for the Bucket residence (still spelled B-u-c-k-e-t, but always to be read the French way as Bouquet). Oh, if only Richard could be more attentive of all the effort Hyacinth makes, of all the trouble she goes to. You see, she does it for him too. She's always done it for him. Even before she met him, she's done it for him, she's quite sure.
'Richard, I wish you'd refrain yourself from such vulgar sounds.'
'Whaaa?' he grunts even more (at least according to his wife) as he turns his neck towards her in an exaggerated question mark turned to life.
'At night. You keep making these noises... I hardly slept a wink.' Hyacinth nods to herself, reliving the traumatic experience for an instant.
'You mean snoring?' he finally catches up. A hint of a smirk comes up as he thinks of what other people could make of a sentence about nightly noises. But it cuts short immediately. Not with Hyacinth, no, that hasn't been going on for a long time...
She hesitates, oblivious to anyone else's train of thought as usual. 'Talking in your sleep', she finally decides upon. Snoring is so ordinary. 'Snoring is what the lower middle class does, Richard. I will not have you doing that. Please refrain from saying that. What you do is talk in your sleep. If it comes out a bit grunted, it's not like there's a lot you can do about it, dear. And I hear a lot of interesting people talk all the time. They like to have their fantastic ideas being heard. I'm sure they too must talk in their sleep. There's nothing to be ashamed of in being outstanding, Richard. In fact, that's the spirit our great country has been built of.'
'What – snoring?' Richard almost chokes on a piece of toast. He's used to his wife, after thirty-odd years of marriage; but even occasionally Hyacinth can top herself and surprise him again.
'Oh, Richard!' she scolds him with a hollow polite half-giggle in an "I can't believe the silly things my husband will say" tone of voice. 'Now, now, we don't use that word!' she alerts him as an ancient truth. The Snoring-word.
Richard puts the toast down and blinks for a couple of moments. Then he comes back to his senses and seemingly agrees (it's always easier to agree with Hyacinth). 'Yes, dear, I was sleep-walking.' The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows he got them wrong. Both of them flinch.
'Richard?' Hyacinth calls him with that high-pitch annoying intonation only she can give to his name even after all these years; if that's not love...
Only the ever-suffering patient Richard Bucket is not quite paying attention. He has slowly bent over the kitchen table and seems to be gasping under his breath now.
'Richard!'
'I think...' he starts, overly calm, 'you need to call 999.'
Hyacinth widens her eyes and, credits are due, she immediately catches up. 'How pedestrian, I will not stand for a heart-attack! Richard, I'm counting on you to stop this childish nonsense at once! Richard, I'm telling you—' She shakes her head as she sees him collapse some more. 'Oh, Richard, why do you always conspire to make my life harder?' she lets out in a petulant sigh that is completely contradicted on the way she's now on her knees on the floor, trying to support her husband and keep his unsteady form to slump off the chair perilously. There's something loving, frail and vulnerable in the way she holds him up. It's there, even if only for a few seconds.
'Richard, I will not have everyone saying I caused you to have a heart-attack', she murmurs under her breath, as she looks beyond the kitchen door, where her white state-of-the-art phone is kept.
At the end of the day, Hyacinth is the driving force of the couple. Richard, however, is the strong solid counterpoint that keeps Hyacinth afloat.
One thing is ever present in both their minds at this point. Things are about to change from now on.
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