Into Perspective
Feb. 14th, 2026 02:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerI could have sworn I started writing this multiple times. Given that I haven’t actually found anything related to glasses anywhere in my documents or even handwritten, I don’t think I have. And I wanted to do a holiday fic for Valentine’s this year, so. Might as well. Happy Valentine's to everyone, and I hope you have a great day if you don't celebrate it.
Also, there was absolutely no indication whether Shaun was farsighted, nearsighted, or had astigmatism (basically, bumpy eyeballs). That’s usually an oversight (which, yeah, made its way into his rant here). He could be farsighted, since he’s usually staring at computer screens and paperwork and books, which are close-up stuff, but even when they were outside at the Coliseum or heading into Monteriggioni he was wearing his glasses, so I’m going with astigmatism here.
It occurs to me now that they didn't outright say it, but the X-Files did actually indicate that for once; Scully and Mulder are both farsighted as they only wear glasses for computer/paperwork so actual thought was put into writing the characters and I think that's neat. (While it was probably 'it's easier to do stunt work while not wearing glasses', it's still more than we usually see.)
(yes song choice is a pun on his voice actor)
Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: As a Brit, Shaun is mainly a collection of self-depreciation and neuroses encased in skin. This surprises absolutely no one who knows him, but Desmond still manages to trip over the debris on occasion. (What does surprise is that this doesn't end badly every time.)
Word Count: 1202
Rating: Teen
For all his grumbling, Shaun notably says not a word about his glasses. Like many spectacles-wearing brats, he’d had a few years where he utterly hated being different (school lads can be so cruel) before he’d given up the idea of being anything but. He rather liked the look they imparted by the time he’d gone into academia; they’d lent an air of sophistication and authority that he’d quite enjoyed. At this point, he wouldn’t consider for a second any type of surgery or contacts; he wouldn’t recognize himself without them. He rarely takes them off.
So perhaps it’s a spectacle after all (pun and all) when he bothers to do so to clean them. He notices the stare quickly. He may not be a field agent, but he is still possessed of some observational skills, and while Desmond stated he and Rebecca were always welcome, the fact that Shaun does not know every single person within means he has difficulty relaxing as much as the man would wish. He does feel a sting of disappointment and betrayal when he glances up, gaze fuzzy, to find that it is, in all probability, Desmond over there, gawking. His voice is a trifle sharper than he intends, tripping into slightly mocking, when he addresses the issue. “Can I help you, Desmond?”
“N-no, it’s fine,” Desmond stammers, turning away like he can’t actually look. If anything, he sounds actually vaguely embarrassed. And while under normal circumstances, Shaun would feel right pleased and smug that he can have such an effect, here it just blackens his mood.
As if being caught doing something naughty by the man’s young protégée, Shaun feels the urge to finish cleaning his glasses quickly, giving one last good rub with the cleaning cloth and shoving them back on his face so that Desmond can actually look at him again, but he deliberately slows down instead. Rushing the job will only ensure that the smudges are not fully cleared away, either giving him a headache from attempting to read and write with his eyes attempting to adjust to their presence or making him have to immediately remove them again to actually ensure the glass is clear, further intensifying the humiliation. Neither appeal. “Did you know, Desmond, that glasses are often portrayed in an offensive way in media? And no, for once, I cannot lay the blame entirely at the feet of the Americans, given that such happens to be a worldwide phenomena.”
“Huh?” is Desmond’s entirely intelligent answer. Usually he’s better at replying, more interested, but he’s obviously distracted, and Shaun’s mood merely sours further.
“Protagonists very, very rarely wear glasses. That is usually the province of the side character, quite often those whose only role is to further the story of the main character, with very little arc of their own, or background characters or villains. Should the protagonist wear glasses, it is often solely as a disguise, not because he is flawed in any way, or, occasionally, something to be cured by the ending. The one most well-known example happens to be tainted by association with its writer.” Still no response, and Shaun holds his glasses up to the light, judging if any sign of the streak remains. He’s working himself into a fine speech, now. Nearly there, by the looks of things. “And they’re mainly treated as a mere accessory, not the medical device they are. No thought is given to the actual diagnosis. There are rarely inconveniences—the need to clean them, to replace them if scratched or broken. Here I can think of a few counter-examples, but it is on the whole rare.”
He replaces them, all the better to focus his glare. “But the worst is the trope that someone is only attractive after they lose the glasses. I’m aware that society is obsessed with the need to be within the boundaries of ‘normal’, but I hadn’t expected that out of you, Desmond.”
Desmond catches on all too late, because he starts a rather weak excuse. “Wait, Shaun, that’s not—”
Shaun cannot listen to whatever inane words Desmond feels like offering up in defence. “I am not stupid. Your actions speak for you.” And here he thought it’d be better.
“That’s not—” Desmond breathes out a frustrated sigh, but he keeps his distance, raising his hands in a placating gesture, though he does make sure to meet Shaun’s eyes. “You’re not entirely wrong, but you’re not right, either. You’re misinterpreting something. Shaun, tell me, when do you take off your glasses?”
That’s...not the response Shaun had expected, and his righteous indignation deflates slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Desmond smiles fondly. “You don’t, not when people are around. Half the time you fall asleep at your desk and don’t even bother to take them off. You don’t even take them off when we kiss. But, theoretically—the shower. Going to bed, with or without somebody.”
...Oh. “It’s...the intimacy?” Shaun ventures softly, a little baffled. The thought had never occurred. Well, not to him, at least. Clearly it had to Desmond.
“Yeah. Sorry, I just...the thought of being the person who gets to see that—that’s what got me. I like you wearing glasses, okay? You’re hot in them.” Shaun still feels a little lost, but in a good way. Desmond waits another instant and then adds, “So, we’re cool?”
Any confidence he tries to inject into the statement is marred by the hesitant kicked puppy eager to please expression the man is trying and failing to keep off his face, the same hint that Shaun had used in the past to correctly diagnose that the story about a cult was not mere fabrication. No matter the words verbally asserting that the matter is over and done with, the man doesn’t dare actually assume that Shaun is done with the argument. Considering their conversation about the Crusades, and the man’s fears about every word he hasn’t said out loud being the final straw, well. The problem, as his therapist would probably say (still Rebecca’s fault, no matter how useful it’s been) is similar trauma, but understanding doesn’t necessarily make it easy. And he does appreciate Desmond not taking him for granted, as well as being very, very aware that he is the one least able to complain about the incongruity between words and virtually everything else he does without being a massive hypocrite. Given the emotional roller coaster he has been experiencing of late (technically, since the beginning of his acquaintanceship with Desmond, but who’s counting, really) and the fact that Desmond had just admitted to finding Shaun attractive, astigmatism and all, perhaps he can’t be judged for indulging a little. “I like the sound of ‘hot’ myself,” he admits.
It fails to land. “Is...that some Britishism I don’t know?”
“I’m aware I’m out of practice. That was an invitation to come over here for a snog and perhaps tell me again how sexy I am in glasses.” The humiliation quickly fades with Desmond’s brilliant smile.
“Oh, I think I can manage that.” He basically scrambles over, the enthusiasm amusing and charming, but even that thought quickly fades in the face of pleasure and contentment.
Also, there was absolutely no indication whether Shaun was farsighted, nearsighted, or had astigmatism (basically, bumpy eyeballs). That’s usually an oversight (which, yeah, made its way into his rant here). He could be farsighted, since he’s usually staring at computer screens and paperwork and books, which are close-up stuff, but even when they were outside at the Coliseum or heading into Monteriggioni he was wearing his glasses, so I’m going with astigmatism here.
It occurs to me now that they didn't outright say it, but the X-Files did actually indicate that for once; Scully and Mulder are both farsighted as they only wear glasses for computer/paperwork so actual thought was put into writing the characters and I think that's neat. (While it was probably 'it's easier to do stunt work while not wearing glasses', it's still more than we usually see.)
(yes song choice is a pun on his voice actor)
Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: As a Brit, Shaun is mainly a collection of self-depreciation and neuroses encased in skin. This surprises absolutely no one who knows him, but Desmond still manages to trip over the debris on occasion. (What does surprise is that this doesn't end badly every time.)
Word Count: 1202
Rating: Teen
For all his grumbling, Shaun notably says not a word about his glasses. Like many spectacles-wearing brats, he’d had a few years where he utterly hated being different (school lads can be so cruel) before he’d given up the idea of being anything but. He rather liked the look they imparted by the time he’d gone into academia; they’d lent an air of sophistication and authority that he’d quite enjoyed. At this point, he wouldn’t consider for a second any type of surgery or contacts; he wouldn’t recognize himself without them. He rarely takes them off.
So perhaps it’s a spectacle after all (pun and all) when he bothers to do so to clean them. He notices the stare quickly. He may not be a field agent, but he is still possessed of some observational skills, and while Desmond stated he and Rebecca were always welcome, the fact that Shaun does not know every single person within means he has difficulty relaxing as much as the man would wish. He does feel a sting of disappointment and betrayal when he glances up, gaze fuzzy, to find that it is, in all probability, Desmond over there, gawking. His voice is a trifle sharper than he intends, tripping into slightly mocking, when he addresses the issue. “Can I help you, Desmond?”
“N-no, it’s fine,” Desmond stammers, turning away like he can’t actually look. If anything, he sounds actually vaguely embarrassed. And while under normal circumstances, Shaun would feel right pleased and smug that he can have such an effect, here it just blackens his mood.
As if being caught doing something naughty by the man’s young protégée, Shaun feels the urge to finish cleaning his glasses quickly, giving one last good rub with the cleaning cloth and shoving them back on his face so that Desmond can actually look at him again, but he deliberately slows down instead. Rushing the job will only ensure that the smudges are not fully cleared away, either giving him a headache from attempting to read and write with his eyes attempting to adjust to their presence or making him have to immediately remove them again to actually ensure the glass is clear, further intensifying the humiliation. Neither appeal. “Did you know, Desmond, that glasses are often portrayed in an offensive way in media? And no, for once, I cannot lay the blame entirely at the feet of the Americans, given that such happens to be a worldwide phenomena.”
“Huh?” is Desmond’s entirely intelligent answer. Usually he’s better at replying, more interested, but he’s obviously distracted, and Shaun’s mood merely sours further.
“Protagonists very, very rarely wear glasses. That is usually the province of the side character, quite often those whose only role is to further the story of the main character, with very little arc of their own, or background characters or villains. Should the protagonist wear glasses, it is often solely as a disguise, not because he is flawed in any way, or, occasionally, something to be cured by the ending. The one most well-known example happens to be tainted by association with its writer.” Still no response, and Shaun holds his glasses up to the light, judging if any sign of the streak remains. He’s working himself into a fine speech, now. Nearly there, by the looks of things. “And they’re mainly treated as a mere accessory, not the medical device they are. No thought is given to the actual diagnosis. There are rarely inconveniences—the need to clean them, to replace them if scratched or broken. Here I can think of a few counter-examples, but it is on the whole rare.”
He replaces them, all the better to focus his glare. “But the worst is the trope that someone is only attractive after they lose the glasses. I’m aware that society is obsessed with the need to be within the boundaries of ‘normal’, but I hadn’t expected that out of you, Desmond.”
Desmond catches on all too late, because he starts a rather weak excuse. “Wait, Shaun, that’s not—”
Shaun cannot listen to whatever inane words Desmond feels like offering up in defence. “I am not stupid. Your actions speak for you.” And here he thought it’d be better.
“That’s not—” Desmond breathes out a frustrated sigh, but he keeps his distance, raising his hands in a placating gesture, though he does make sure to meet Shaun’s eyes. “You’re not entirely wrong, but you’re not right, either. You’re misinterpreting something. Shaun, tell me, when do you take off your glasses?”
That’s...not the response Shaun had expected, and his righteous indignation deflates slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Desmond smiles fondly. “You don’t, not when people are around. Half the time you fall asleep at your desk and don’t even bother to take them off. You don’t even take them off when we kiss. But, theoretically—the shower. Going to bed, with or without somebody.”
...Oh. “It’s...the intimacy?” Shaun ventures softly, a little baffled. The thought had never occurred. Well, not to him, at least. Clearly it had to Desmond.
“Yeah. Sorry, I just...the thought of being the person who gets to see that—that’s what got me. I like you wearing glasses, okay? You’re hot in them.” Shaun still feels a little lost, but in a good way. Desmond waits another instant and then adds, “So, we’re cool?”
Any confidence he tries to inject into the statement is marred by the hesitant kicked puppy eager to please expression the man is trying and failing to keep off his face, the same hint that Shaun had used in the past to correctly diagnose that the story about a cult was not mere fabrication. No matter the words verbally asserting that the matter is over and done with, the man doesn’t dare actually assume that Shaun is done with the argument. Considering their conversation about the Crusades, and the man’s fears about every word he hasn’t said out loud being the final straw, well. The problem, as his therapist would probably say (still Rebecca’s fault, no matter how useful it’s been) is similar trauma, but understanding doesn’t necessarily make it easy. And he does appreciate Desmond not taking him for granted, as well as being very, very aware that he is the one least able to complain about the incongruity between words and virtually everything else he does without being a massive hypocrite. Given the emotional roller coaster he has been experiencing of late (technically, since the beginning of his acquaintanceship with Desmond, but who’s counting, really) and the fact that Desmond had just admitted to finding Shaun attractive, astigmatism and all, perhaps he can’t be judged for indulging a little. “I like the sound of ‘hot’ myself,” he admits.
It fails to land. “Is...that some Britishism I don’t know?”
“I’m aware I’m out of practice. That was an invitation to come over here for a snog and perhaps tell me again how sexy I am in glasses.” The humiliation quickly fades with Desmond’s brilliant smile.
“Oh, I think I can manage that.” He basically scrambles over, the enthusiasm amusing and charming, but even that thought quickly fades in the face of pleasure and contentment.
