Work Text:
Shawn sat at his desk, waiting for the photos to transfer from his camera to his computer. He was content with how almost all of them turned out, which only meant it would be more of a pain to select the final shots, but he'd rather a whole bunch of good photos than the opposite, obviously.
He stared at his computer screen, as if that would make it load faster. It didn't.
Next thing he knew, there was a mug of coffee being set down on his desk. He turned his head slightly to look at his girlfriend. "Evening, babe," he said, a dopey grin spreading across his face. He was still getting used to living with Angela and having her be with him almost twenty four-seven, but he wouldn't give it up for anything.
Angela was his first serious relationship. The first girl he wasn't scared to commit with. The first girl he told about him being trans.
He still remembered the day she came home and told him about this person she met, who mentioned the term. Transgender. And she told him to look it up, and he did.
Shawn always knew he was a guy. Well, at least since he was a preteen. But he didn't realize how many other people like him there were. Or that there was even a term for it. That it was more normal than he thought.
Angela bent over and kissed Shawn's cheek, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Your beard is coming in nice."
"Yeah?" he asked, as if he didn't know. As if he didn't almost cry every time he saw his face in the mirror, thinking to himself, if only teenage me could see me now. It was the best.
"Yeah. It's itchy, though."
"Well, I guess you're just gonna have to kiss my lips instead of my cheek," he said with a smile.
"I guess so." Angela mirrored Shawn's smug grin and kissed him. "I love you, baby."
"I love you too."
Shawn turned his attention back to the computer for a moment. Still loading. He got up and stretched. He loved his fancy digital camera and all, but sometimes he felt like it was just as much a pain in the ass as film. (No it wasn't. However, Shawn still adored film way more, in a pretentious indie way, and he wasn't going to give it up entirely.)
His stomach growled. "What are we thinking for dinner?" he asked.
"About that… I'm making alfredo."
Shawn squinted skeptically. "I feel like there's a 'but'. What did you do?"
Angela sat down in Shawn's chair. "I invited your dad over for dinner."
"What? And you didn't tell me sooner?" He ran his hand through his hair. "I need to get better clothes on! And clean the apartment. And make sure we've got side dishes. Do we have side dishes? Oh we should break out the nice china."
"We don't have nice china. It's really not a big deal, Shawn."
"Sure it is. Jon hasn't been over to the apartment yet. I need him to see how well I'm doing on my own." He touched his face. "Should I shave? Oh, what am I thinking, of course not."
"Shawn," Angela pulled him from his thoughts. "He's going to be so proud of you."
Shawn felt giddy at the idea. "You're right."
Shawn Hunter had such a rough life. He half believed in a tragic poetic way that he was doomed from birth. That he wasn't the comedic relief of the Shakespearean tragedy to die in a mildly ridiculous way, he was the soliloquist Dane, with his fate written in the stars, never to be loved in a real way.
But now, smiling at his girlfriend, he glanced around the apartment. At the framed photographs that had won him awards. At the stacks of poetry books by their couch. At the bottom drawer of his desk which Angela never went into, that only he knew contained a little box with an engraved gold engagement ring, just waiting for the right moment.
Jon was going to be proud of him. He probably already was.