ic; salt inbox

[ripher]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

USERNAME: GILES

text ❖ audio ❖ video

note: this inbox is a choose not to warn experience and may contain nsfw threads

Comments

💌 letter.

[begot]

[ Delivered to Giles' door — an envelope containing a piece of fine, off-white card stock (smelling faintly of sandalwood and fig), upon which has been written, in fluid script: ]

Hi, handsome.

I don't know how Thanksgiving works in a place like this, but I like writing letters, and a holiday seemed like as good an excuse as any.
So: thanks for a nice time. A few nice times, really. I'd suggest the planetarium next, but you already make me see stars.

🩷 Amy

[ripher]

[ He lingers over it, bringing the letter to his nose to sniff the paper, smiling gently over the memory.

In return, his own letter, penned carefully on slightly more boring paper. ]

Amy,

I'm afraid I'm not much for Thanksgiving, usually — except when Buffy is involved, which reminds me that I meant to invite you to our little celebration tomorrow night, if you're free? Forgive me if you have plans, but I would very much like to see you again. And as often as possible, really. I'm afraid I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.

I'm doubly glad to receive your letter, since it not only gives me a chance to think about you some more, but also to apologise for not writing to you sooner. I'm afraid that I'm rather out of practice with any of this. It's been a few years since I was involved with anyone at all, so I find myself feeling my way through it — and all of the associated chaos that's arrived with us in this place — rather haphazardly. I fear that means that I may be making mistakes, irrevocable ones, without knowing it. So I hope you will be able to forgive me if I seem to be catching up when I ought to know where I'm going.

I digress — a thing I seem to do all too easily around you, since you have made me feel so welcome and so comfortable so quickly, as well as a great deal of rather adolescent excitement over the thought of seeing you again, in any capacity. I think I should tell you that exchanging a smile with you over breakfast or at the gym between sessions has become quite the highlight of my day — my week, in fact.

If you would like to visit the planetarium then I think that's an excellent idea, but I have to confess I think I might say that to anywhere you suggest, if it only means getting to be near you, and hearing you laugh, and perhaps being allowed to kiss you again.

I hope my rambling hasn't put you off. I will stop myself here now before I go on too long!

Yours,
Rupert

[begot]

[ To pen a letter, one might argue, implies a certain expectation of a response, and yet Amy still feels her pulse flutter when she sees the answering letter outside her door — a flutter that forms into a knot as she opens it up, lying on her back in bed, the words a little sun to warm against the encroaching cold. ]

Dear Rupert,

What a funny coincidence — I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, either.

Suffice to say I think we're both putting atrophied muscles back into motion. I can't remember the last time I went on a real date, or the last time my heart skipped a beat, or — of all things — the last time I really put some thought into where to sit at a communal table. (I look for you when I come down for breakfast. If you aren't there, I try to find a seat with an empty chair next to it, just in case. Isn't that silly?)

So there's nothing you need to apologize for, especially not for rambling, whether it's out loud or on paper. Listening to you talk, reading your writing, even just watching you think or catching a glimpse of you from across the room, I like it all. I'm the one who should be thanking you, anyway — so much of this feels like the strangest dream, like I could just float away or disappear in a puff of smoke, but I feel real when I'm with you. Better than real.

But be careful how much you encourage me, or else I might suggest your bed or mine for the site of our next meeting. (Though I did find out something strange about my roommate, which I'll fill you in on the next time I see you.) When I think about your voice, it's not just about the way you sound in neutral conversation, and when I think about your hands, it's not just about how they feel in mine. Is this what things were like, when I was a hormonal teenager? My turn to digress, I suppose.

All that to say, I'd love to join you for Thanksgiving.

Yours,
Amy

[ And enclosed, this time, one extra slip of paper, cut into a rectangle, and doodled upon to look like a ticket. Upon it, in neat print: REDEEM FOR: ONE (1) KISS.

And on the back, in Amy's usual script: Too corny? Idle hands ... ]

[ripher]

[ Better than real. The words are an unexpected salve. Giles takes out the little card and turns it over, gazing at it with a fond smile. After a moment's thought, he slips it into the inner chest pocket of his jacket to keep it safe, then immediately goes to the desk by the window where he can sit and pen a response. ]

Amy,

I have to admit I was more than a little nervous about sending that letter, so to receive a response, and such a wonderful response, is a pleasure in so many ways. I find nothing silly about any of your actions or decisions — except perhaps, if you can grant me a moment of self-deprecation, the ways you have been so very complimentary to an old washed up librarian. Being allowed to fill the empty seat beside you at breakfast is always a gift, especially since it means we can divide and conquer the jam and toast (I've been promised blueberry jam tomorrow, so we have that to look forward to).

I've also decided that I will encourage you as much as possible when it comes to choosing our next rendezvous, since I very much would like to see you again in that context, as often as possible. I know what you mean about feeling like a teenager again — only the girls at my school weren't half as intriguing and gorgeous as you, and I'm not sure that you would have given the young Rupert quite so much of your time (there was an unfortunate amount of tedious teenage rebellion involved, I'm afraid).

At this point I would like to list some of the things I have imagined doing to you, with you, and you to me, but I'm afraid I might run out of paper, and I think I'd like to demonstrate in person in any case.

Yours,
Rupert

P.S. This token — how soon will it expire?

[begot]

[ On the occasion of a second letter, Amy finds a gilt box in which to keep their correspondence. Premature, maybe, but in alignment with the degree to which she looks forward to them (to seeing him). Something more appropriate than leaving them loose, when such a swell of— whatever it is, warm and thrilling, like electricity running through her nerves, is worth keeping close. ]

Rupert,

What a dilemma you've put me in. Do I tell you that I think "librarian" is the only applicable descriptor in the bunch, or do I let you continue laboring under the delusion of my endless generosity in allowing your modesty to go uncontested? Maybe I'll sidestep the question entirely, and instead tell you how much I like that phrase: "divide and conquer." We do make a good team — the toast never stood a chance.

And who knows? They say opposites attract, and I was a model student. A little rebellion, tedious or not, might have done me good (though you'd run the risk of being immortalized by my parents).

But that's enough about the past. I find I'm quite excited for the future. Think I could steal you away for some breakfast in bed? If you'd allow me the indulgence, I think I'd be happy to spend all day under the covers with you, and we'll need that much time to address even a fraction of what I've been thinking about you, anyway. We can save my planetarium fantasy for later.

Yours,
Amy

P.S. Another dilemma! This one, though, is one I think I'll let you answer for yourself:
1) Desperately soon, within the next hour.
2) Never, to be set aside for redemption on a rainy day.