Ficlet: See, Touch, Smell, Taste, Hear, Read
We readers evidently loved prompt 3 for this episode!
Not surprising, I think - there’s more to books than glue and paper. This is what Giles sees.
Title: See, Touch, Smell, Taste, Hear, Read
Rating: G
Pairing: Giles/books :-P
Author: Bruttimabuoni
A/N: Written for prompt #3, episode 8 ‘I Robot…You, Jane’ at Phantasmagoria.
Amaranth Giles was a tough woman. Motherhood wasn’t among her talents - she was stronger on arduous tuition, physical rigour and emotional control.
*
To know one is loved is a great blessing, and young Rupert never doubted he was loved. He did, however, wish sometimes that it could be accompanied with a smattering of demonstrative affection, or compassionate understanding. Returning from school with a tale of injustice or a bloodied scrape it would have been nice to be met with maternal comfort, milk and biscuits, rather than, “Upstairs and start that prep, Rupes. Verbs won’t conjugate themselves, you know.’
In his later teens, Rupert invented several responses to this pleasantry. Most ended with variations on “Go conjugate yourself”. But they didn’t occur to his six year old incarnation, and by the time he had crafted these retorts Amaranth was long dead and oblivious.
*
The key to his mother was always her library. Jealously guarded private space, revealing too much of her inner self to share with any but the closest, the room hummed with pleasures for every sense. Rose petals in a celadon bowl. Dark wood shelving, wax-polished and glowing in sunlight. Rich brown sherry in a decanter for evening indulgence. Velvet curtains to shut out winter cold, crackling log fire a beloved luxury. And huge, enveloping armchairs, battered and inviting, a perfect fit for each devoted reader to while a day away.
*
Rupert couldn’t remember the first time he ventured in. Somehow he had always known that the outer Amaranth, with her strict insistences, was quite different to the library’s inner reader. This woman greeted the small boy with a quiet smile, emitting radiant calm and comfort. Suggested reads were offered, but without compulsion. Rupert learned to trust her taste over his childhood years, finding her choices challenging, sometimes mind-stretching, but always engaging. She was no snob - popular fiction peppered her selections and she had a particularly marked weakness for Golden Age crime. But the pursuit of knowledge was always paramount, and Rupert even aged eight or nine could be found staggering under massive histories, Victorian geological tomes or the collected works of Trollope.
Rupert read, devouring the great worlds opened by print on paper. Enrapt, he saw his future in the books.
*
In rebellious adolescence he rejected that sanctum. The library refuge had betrayed him. The woodwork dulled and petals faded. The chairs were empty. Amaranth was lost.
*
After his demons were cast out, he returned to books. Knowledge embraced him, and he reciprocated. He collects a little these days - a Tiffany lamp, mahogany table, some fine whisky in cut glass. Smokes a cigar now and again, for the sweetness it gives to the air. It isn’t the same, but it’s a start.
Rupert Giles continues to seek his perfect library.
Not surprising, I think - there’s more to books than glue and paper. This is what Giles sees.
Title: See, Touch, Smell, Taste, Hear, Read
Rating: G
Pairing: Giles/books :-P
Author: Bruttimabuoni
A/N: Written for prompt #3, episode 8 ‘I Robot…You, Jane’ at Phantasmagoria.
Amaranth Giles was a tough woman. Motherhood wasn’t among her talents - she was stronger on arduous tuition, physical rigour and emotional control.
*
To know one is loved is a great blessing, and young Rupert never doubted he was loved. He did, however, wish sometimes that it could be accompanied with a smattering of demonstrative affection, or compassionate understanding. Returning from school with a tale of injustice or a bloodied scrape it would have been nice to be met with maternal comfort, milk and biscuits, rather than, “Upstairs and start that prep, Rupes. Verbs won’t conjugate themselves, you know.’
In his later teens, Rupert invented several responses to this pleasantry. Most ended with variations on “Go conjugate yourself”. But they didn’t occur to his six year old incarnation, and by the time he had crafted these retorts Amaranth was long dead and oblivious.
*
The key to his mother was always her library. Jealously guarded private space, revealing too much of her inner self to share with any but the closest, the room hummed with pleasures for every sense. Rose petals in a celadon bowl. Dark wood shelving, wax-polished and glowing in sunlight. Rich brown sherry in a decanter for evening indulgence. Velvet curtains to shut out winter cold, crackling log fire a beloved luxury. And huge, enveloping armchairs, battered and inviting, a perfect fit for each devoted reader to while a day away.
*
Rupert couldn’t remember the first time he ventured in. Somehow he had always known that the outer Amaranth, with her strict insistences, was quite different to the library’s inner reader. This woman greeted the small boy with a quiet smile, emitting radiant calm and comfort. Suggested reads were offered, but without compulsion. Rupert learned to trust her taste over his childhood years, finding her choices challenging, sometimes mind-stretching, but always engaging. She was no snob - popular fiction peppered her selections and she had a particularly marked weakness for Golden Age crime. But the pursuit of knowledge was always paramount, and Rupert even aged eight or nine could be found staggering under massive histories, Victorian geological tomes or the collected works of Trollope.
Rupert read, devouring the great worlds opened by print on paper. Enrapt, he saw his future in the books.
*
In rebellious adolescence he rejected that sanctum. The library refuge had betrayed him. The woodwork dulled and petals faded. The chairs were empty. Amaranth was lost.
*
After his demons were cast out, he returned to books. Knowledge embraced him, and he reciprocated. He collects a little these days - a Tiffany lamp, mahogany table, some fine whisky in cut glass. Smokes a cigar now and again, for the sweetness it gives to the air. It isn’t the same, but it’s a start.
Rupert Giles continues to seek his perfect library.