Shaw thinks Root is cute af in glasses
Myopia isn’t one of the curses heredity has saddled you with. A good thing, since glasses don’t really work with the lifestyle. It’s hard enough being on call day and night without having to compensate for fuzzy vision with something breakable on your nose–or worse yet, contacts.
But something funny happens whenever you swoop in on Shaw when one of your cover identities happens to wear glasses. She gives you this odd little look, almost knowing, like you’ve told her a secret and she’s brimming with it.
“Why are you staring?” you ask her once, when you’re slinging off your bag and kicking off your shoes at her place.
“I’m not staring,” she says–staring–with that little sphinx smile, from the bed where she’s sitting cleaning her gun. One foot swings from the end, aimlessly, like a cat’s tail.
“Are too.” You pounce into bed next to her, mussing her blankets as you land, and she doesn’t even protest.
“It’s nothing,” she says. A pause. Then she touches the bridge of the glasses you forgot you were wearing. “You just look so silly in these.”
“I’ll take them off, if you don’t like them.” You reach for an earpiece, but she grabs your hand away and pins it to the bed.
“Don’t,” she whispers, and kisses you–softly, then not-so-softly.
A few minutes later, breathless and tousled, you pull away.
“Got a thing for sexy librarians?” you murmur in her ear.
“Shut up,” she says, which means yes–or close enough. She rolls you onto your back and you don’t ask any more questions.
Later that night, cleaning the sweat off the non-prescription lenses with the corner of a sheet, you make a mental note to ask Her to give you more nearsighted identities from now on.