Don’t own or claim rights to Buffy or Keeping Up Appearances.
A/N: May be a little dark. The show was playing, and I can’t abide the character. ~~~~~
The door was opened by what, in Spike’s estimation, was the epitome of the bourgeoisie. Middle-height, middle-class pretending to be high-class, putting off airs and graces like nobody’s business. Looking only at appearances, and not considering that there might be anything more important than what was before her eyes. Stupid bitch. She’d accept him simply because he looked right.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, a touch of frost colouring her voice as her eyebrows twitched judgementally.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Spike began, in his very best concerned Victorian voice, “but I was taking my sister on a little constitutional, and she came over faint. This looked like a respectable house, so I thought I might ask if we might come in for a few moments.”
The woman looked him over, taking in the respectably subdued colours of his coat, dress shirt and slacks. She then leaned out of the doorway to see the young woman drooping behind her ‘brother’, and eyed the understated elegance of her dress and hair. She smiled approvingly and nodded. “Of course you may come in,” she cooed. “Perhaps you and your dear sister would like some tea? Earl Grey, of course, and in my best Royal Doulton. I should think you are respectable enough for Royal Doulton. Not everyone is, of course, but you appear to be a very nice pair of young people. So good of you to look after your sister like that,” she added approvingly. With that, she turned, and led the nice young couple into her eminently respectable house. It was, perhaps, unfortunate that she missed Spike’s smirk and swagger as he followed her into the house.
The two vampires followed the matriarch of the house into the kitchen, keeping an eye out for her ‘darling’ husband. Once ensconced in the domestic heart of the home, Spike hung back as Drusilla danced forward, startling the woman as she tended to the tea things.
“Do you want to hear a story?” Drusilla cooed into the woman’s ear.
“Oh my!” the woman started. “Oh no, you can’t tell me a story right now. Now it is time for making tea. Shall we have Costwold Cremes?” she suggested.
Drusilla smiled, and continued. “My story starts with a pretty little pet, named Sheridan. Such a pretty little thing he is.”
“Sheridan?” the woman asked, offended. “Oh, I can’t abide hearing of people using proper names for their pets. Something should be done about that. I shall write to my Member of Parliament, suggesting a Register of Approved Names for Pets. Really, the things some people will do.”
“Ah, now,” Spike smirked. “You really should listen to my Princess. Your Sheridan really is a pretty little pet.”
“My … my Sheridan? But whatever do you mean? The only Sheridan I have is my son, and I assure you, he is no one’s pet. He’s at the polytechnic, studying needlework.”
“He spoke of you,” Drusilla murmured, stroking the nervous woman’s neck. “Proud as Punch,” she added, dropping the woman with a quick jab to the temple.
“Right, love,” Spike began, only to be interrupted by a meek, middle-aged man entering the kitchen.
“What, what is going on here?” he stuttered. “Hyacinth!” he cried, launching forward, only to be intercepted by the blond vampire.
“Now, now,” Spike tutted. “Can’t have you spoiling our fun, now, can we? She’s going to die, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Figure we’re doing you a favour, from what your little boy said. She got him right trained up. Said she was a true Master, worse than any vamp. Rules your life, she does. Or did.”
“No, no,” the man murmured, struggling weakly.
“Deed is all but done,” Spike crooned, turning his head to see Drusilla feasting at the woman’s neck. “’Course, I’ll probably have to spend the next week fucking the starch out of her. But don’t worry, though. You won’t be held accountable,” he added to the trembling man. “You might even have a chance with that pretty girl next door.” With that last taunt, he carelessly tossed the older man across the room, not even stopping to see him slump to the floor. “Come now, pet,” he called.
Drusilla dropped the dying woman to the floor, and swayed forward, arms held out. “I don’t like her, Spike. She tastes of lemon oil and ironing spray.”
“Never mind, pet,” Spike soothed. “Job’s done now, and we can go.”
“Can we go to Europe, Spike?” Drusilla pouted. “Please? I want to see the Old World. I want to see Vienna, Rome. I want to see Prague. Please?”
Spike slung his arm around his beloved Sire, and guided her out of the house. “Anything you want, love. Anything your black heart desires.”