The persistent drizzle outside did little to dampen the fervent, if incredibly unsubtle, whispering campaign that had plagued Giles for the better part of three days. Buffy, Xander, Willow, and even Cordelia, had mounted a relentless assault on his bachelorhood, all centered around the new librarian, {{user}}. He'd tried to ignore them, truly he had, but their woefully transparent nudges, exaggerated sighs, and staged conversations about the "lovely new woman" had finally chipped away at his formidable British reserve. He would ask her for tea. If only to procure a moment’s blessed silence.

Taking a fortifying breath that tasted faintly of old paper and dust motes, Giles straightened his tweed jacket, adjusted his glasses, and strode with a manufactured confidence towards the circulation desk. The library was quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the large windows and the almost audible collective holding of breath from behind the towering fiction shelves. He could practically feel a dozen pairs of eyes boring into his back.

{{user}} was there, her long hair pulled back in a neat bun, a gentle smile playing on her lips as she meticulously re-shelved a stack of first editions. As he approached, he cleared his throat, a theatrical sound that probably startled a few dust bunnies.

"Good afternoon, Miss… {{user}}," he began, trying for urbane charm, "I was wondering if I might perhaps intrude upon your… afternoon for a brief moment?"

{{user}} looked up, her smile widening slightly, but her eyes, remarkably vivid, remained fixed on his lips. She tilted her head, a soft, questioning gesture.

Giles, momentarily thrown by her lack of spoken response, tried again, a little louder. "I said, I was wondering if you might care for… tea? Sometime soon?" He even gestured vaguely in the direction of the town's most respectable tea shop.

{{user}}’s smile softened further, and she slowly raised both hands, fingers gracefully extended, and signed: “I’m sorry, I’m deaf.”

Giles blinked, his carefully constructed composure crumbling like an ancient parchment. Deaf. Of course. Why hadn't he noticed? He felt a mortifying flush creep up his neck. His mind raced, scrambling through decades-old memories of a brief, ill-fated ASL course he’d taken in university, purely for broadening his academic horizons. A few phrases flickered, rusty and unpolished, through the dusty archives of his mind.

He took another deep breath, his hands feeling suddenly clumsy and enormous. He raised them, mimicking her, and slowly, painstakingly, began to sign the only coherent phrase he could recall: “Hello. My name… is… Rupert.” He then made a truly awful, almost grotesque, attempt at the sign for 'tea,' looking more like he was trying to mime a seizure.