Archive of Our Own

As soon as Archer opened his stupid human mouth and said “It's going to be fine,” Shran had known it was going to be a disaster.

He'd suspected long before then, of course. There was plenty of reason right from the start. The alliance had been contacted by a mysterious group of people, who called themselves the Noriens and claimed that they were a species that lived nearby. They said they usually kept to themselves, but they could see that conflict in the region was heating up, they knew which way the stellar wind was blowing, and they wished to negotiate a friendship with their chosen side before things escalated into war. They requested a meeting on a neutral planet to talk terms.

This was suspicious to the point of unbelievable. Starfleet was new to space and Tellarites were abominable at record-keeping, but Andorians and Vulcans at least should have been able to comb their respective databases and find some trace of the Noriens' existence. There was none. No direct contact, no secondhand information, not even vague rumors. Unknown civilizations did not simply pop out of nowhere. Shran could smell the trap from a parsec away. So could the Imperial Guard, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that open conflict with the Romulans was on the horizon, and they couldn't afford to turn down any potential allies, so the Guard and Starfleet had agreed to send one ship each to talk.

Shran had jumped at the chance to work with Starfleet again. He knew who was most likely to be his counterpart on the mission. He wanted to see Archer again, of course, but more than that, he wanted to be the one watching the pinkskin's back when it went wrong. This was too important to be entrusted to anyone else.

He went through all the motions of talking them out of it. His new command, the Ravaal, made rendezvous with the Enterprise in orbit around the uninhabited hellhole that had been chosen for the meeting. When the airlock opened he gave Archer a very professional smile, got one in return that made him feel rather unprofessional, and went into the briefing. He explained the numerous signs that this was a terrible idea, from the lack of prior documentation, to the nasty desert planet that had been requested as the meeting place, to the fact that Archer and Shran weren't allowed to bring backup.

The humans nodded and agreed with his points. Then they took it all under advisement, which meant they were going to go down anyway, and there wasn't a damn thing Shran could do about it. All more or less as expected.

So here he was, standing on the transporter pad in the Enterprise next to Archer, who was wearing a sand-colored version of his uniform and opening his stupid human mouth to say something quintessentially stupid and human, dooming them to disaster.

“It's going to be fine.”

“I'll reserve judgement on that.” Shran wished he could believe Archer. The pinkskin was all kinds of trustworthy. But he was also a trouble magnet who refused to stay out of an obvious trap.

And Shran was the idiot who was willing to follow him into it.

Even after all that bracing, he still wasn't quite prepared to beam down to the pavilion and be greeted by glittering sand dunes, oppressive heat, and three green-skinned bastards with high-powered energy weapons.

They weren't Noriens. They were Orions.

Shran groaned, and Archer muttered something that was definitely a curse.

“Hello! I'm so glad you could join us,” the middle Orion said. She was probably in charge, since she had the widest smirk. “Negotiations are already over. Here's the deal: we're taking your ships. And your communicators. Toss them on the ground.”

Archer made a face. Shran grudgingly did as he was instructed.

“Do what she says,” he told Archer. “Orions are ruthless, they will shoot you.”

“I know,” Archer sighed, and fished his communicator out of a pocket.

“And your water, too,” the Orion added. She sounded infuriatingly chirpy at getting her way. “Oh, and whatever knives you're hiding. I know you Andorians like them.”

Archer muttered another curse as he handed over his canteen. Shran scowled and pulled the stiletto knife out of his right boot. He hated to lose such a quality blade, but it was better than getting shot. She didn't need to know he had a matching one in his other boot, not that it would do him any good against ranged weapons. If he made it out of this, he would have to consider carrying throwing knives.

Once they had been sufficiently stripped of their belongings, one of the pirates shot the pile. Shran's lovely knife melted into slag, the communicators sparked in protest, and Archer flinched. The Orions laughed at him. It was an ugly sound.

“Do we shoot them, boss?” one of the lackeys asked eagerly.

“Depends,” she said, which was probably a worse answer than a straight yes. “All we really need is for them to be away from their ships, so... how entertaining are you?”

She shot the ground at Archer's feet. She had correctly judged that he would have the funnier reaction; Archer jumped about a meter in the air and was not successful in suppressing a yelp of fear. Shran's antennae curled back when the Orions giggled.

“Cowards,” he said, then had to jump back as he got the same treatment.

“We'll see who the coward is,” the Orion said. She pointed her gun straight at Archer's head. “Run.”

With a heartfelt “God damn it,” Archer obeyed, taking off across the sand. Shran followed him, out of the shade of the pavilion and into the awful blazing sun. Mocking laughter chased them over the nearest dune.

“Feel free to say 'I told you so',” Archer said when they were on the other side. Shran made a mental note of it, but now was not the time for a lecture.

“Come on,” was all he said, and grabbed Archer's arm to tug him along. “Keep moving.”

“To where?” Archer wondered, but thankfully didn't need any encouragement.

“Away from them,” was all he said. It was a minor miracle they hadn't actually been shot yet, and there was nothing stopping the Orions from tiring of the joke and hunting them down to make sure they were dead. Sprinting through sand was not Shran's preferred form of exercise, and the heat stabbing his lungs with every breath didn't help, but they had to put as much distance as possible between themselves and a pursuit.

“How about there? Might be some shade.” Archer pointed to a rock spire peeking over the dunes about a kilometer away. It shimmered in the heat coming off the sand, and looked rather insubtantial, but it was as likely a place as any to aim for.

“Fine,” he said, and they set off.

It was hard to manage more than a trudge over the sand. The dunes were steep and tiring to climb, especially when Shran was still winded. Archer wasn't doing much better, flushed red and rapidly getting damp with sweat.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a while. “I didn't expect it to go to shit so fast.”

“I did,” Shran reminded him, and didn't feel any better when it made Archer's mouth twist.

“I just—can't stop myself from hoping for the best.”

Shran softened a little despite himself. “Hope's not a bad thing, as long as it's tempered by reality.”

“Yeah, well, if reality tempers me any harder, I'm going to get heat stroke.”

“What's heat stroke?”

Archer gave him a confused look. “When you get too hot? Like when we're wandering through a desert in the baking sun?”

“How hot is too hot?” Shran pressed him, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

“Uh. Forty-two degrees Celsius is fatal to humans.”

Shran gaped. “That's it?”

“What's it?” Archer looked like he was trying not to be offended and failing.

“Why are humans so delicate?” Shran demanded. He knew it was a stupid question, pinkskins couldn't help but be what they were, but Shran, in turn, couldn't help his frustration.

He couldn't believe that when they first met, he'd been eager to find out firsthand just how breakable humans were. Ever since he'd begun to consider himself Archer's friend, keeping him in one piece had gotten more and more difficult. He threw himself headfirst into the Delphic Expanse and nearly got ripped apart by spatial anomalies. Take him to Andoria, he could wear a heavy coat and still be in danger of freezing. Drop him in a desert, and he might overheat and expire before he got even halfway to the boiling point. The universe was punishing Shran for his foolish interest in the pinkskin.

“I'm not delicate, I'm stranded in a desert!” Archer was definitely offended now. “You can't tell me you're doing great here.”

“I'm not enjoying it, but I'm also not about to expire from a little heat. Why did you come down here if you couldn't handle the conditions? You have a Vulcan first officer, she'd be fine here.”

“That's what the water and the pavilion were for! And the message said captains only. Besides, do you really want to get stranded with a Vulcan?”

“She's not so bad,” Shran said, which stung a little to admit, but it made Archer smile briefly.

The rock outcropping had gotten steadily closer during their not-quite-argument, and as they made it over the last dune Shran was relieved to see there was a shadowed area near the base. At the very least, he could get Archer out of direct sunlight.

“Any better?” Shran asked once they had finally stumbled into the shade. There wasn't much of it, and they had to stand close to each other.

“A little.” Archer was dripping with sweat, and there was a rasp in his breathing that warned of dehydration. Only a little better wasn't going to be enough. At most, they'd bought some time. “How bad do you think it's going up there? They sounded pretty confident that taking over our ships was a done deal.”

“Orions always sound confident, but I've yet to see a pirate ship that's a match for an Andorian battle cruiser.” Shran didn't care if it sounded like bragging. The Ravaal was a brand new ship and had an excellent crew, there was plenty to brag about. If anything, he was annoyed that it had to cut its teeth on pirates instead of a real battle. “My people were expecting trouble, I have every faith in their ability to deal with it. As long as Enterprise follows their lead, she'll be fine.”

He was pleased with himself for remembering the right pronoun. Gendered ships were one of the more charming human oddities. He had yet to hear a real explanation for it, but every human he'd talked to about it was adamant that their ship was a she. It made a certain amount of sense; despite not being a warship, Enterprise was good in a fight, definitely fierce enough to qualify as a female. Shran was sure she would make it through.

The question was how long it would take to dispose of the pirates, come back into orbit, scan for Archer and Shran, and beam them up to safety. Shran hoped the humans wouldn't do anything too human, like try to negotiate with Orions, which would be a complete waste of time when there wasn't any to spare.

“We'll just hide behind the big bad Andorians and they'll take care of everything, huh?”

“Exactly,” Shran said, ignoring Archer's eye roll. “Worry about yourself for now, there's nothing you can do about it anyway. What are the symptoms of heat stroke?”

“Uh, excessive sweating, flushed skin,” Archer looked all too aware that he already had these. “Nausea, dizziness, confusion, I think it can cause seizures.”

“What temperature does that happen?”

“It varies.” Archer went to lean against the rock, then hissed and drew his hand back when it proved too hot.

“Well, what temperature are you at now?”

Archer shrugged. “I don't know. High?”

“How can you not know?” Shran wondered if this counted as confusion.

“Humans can't tell that kind of thing, we just—” Archer stopped talking abruptly when Shran put a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Archer?”

“That feels good,” Archer muttered, looking embarrassed.

“Oh.” That made sense, Shran was by far the most temperate part of this stupid desert. “Here.”

He put his hands on the sides of Archer's neck, and the pinkskin let out a groan of undisguised relief.

Shran winced a little at how hot and sticky he felt. Humans didn't extrude just water when they were overheated, but salts and some kind of oil too. It was, quite honestly, disgusting. Luckily Archer had closed his eyes again, and missed Shran's reaction. He kept his hands where they were, and resolved to wash them later. Very thoroughly.

“You're at almost thirty-eight degrees,” he informed Archer.

“You can tell that?”

“Of course. Can you really not tell your internal temperature?” It wasn't the best conversation, but he had to keep Archer talking so that he could spot warning signs in his speech. As long as he stayed coherent, he was probably okay.

“I mean, I can tell you if I'm hot or cold, but I couldn't put a number on it. How do you know Celsius anyway?”

“I looked it up. The conversion is simple.”

Shran wondered if he was overplaying his hand. Such information was freely available nowadays, but maybe it was weird to admit he'd been doing research on humans. He cast about for a change of subject. Archer surprised him by providing one.

“Do you mind if I take part of my uniform off?”

“I-If you think it will help.”

“It's retaining too much heat, so... yeah.” Archer started unzipping himself and struggling out of the sleeves, which he then tied around his waist. He was flushed everywhere, undershirt slicked down with his sweat. Shran put his hands back where they had been, and Archer made a small noise of relief and leaned slightly into the touch.

“I hope that does something, because you're over 38 now.”

“Damn.” Archer had shut his eyes again. Shran couldn't tell if he was making a habit of it because he was tired, or just trying to avoid awkward eye contact.

“Is fatigue a symptom of heat stroke?”

“Uh—” Archer straightened self-consciously. “Maybe? I can't remember.”

“Hm.” Probably not the best sign, especially paired with the fact that he'd begun to slouch into Shran's hands again almost immediately. He might just be chasing the cool. Shran shuffled forward so he could rest his forearms on Archer's front. Everything down to his elbows was now damp with the human's sweat. He was going to need a whole shower after this. “What about the other symptoms? Any nausea?”

“I just... feel terrible. Too hot to focus.” Archer was starting to mumble. Not a good sign. And he was still slowly getting hotter.

“Is there anything else you can do to cool down?”

“Not really. That barely helped. Feels the same.” He was definitely leaning against Shran now. “I'm sorry,” he burst out suddenly. “This was so stupid. I can't believe I was so stupid. I'm sorry I let this happen.”

“Don't beat yourself up,” Shran advised him. “I'm going to do it for you later.”

Archer let out a quick huff of a laugh.

“Oh, and next time I get to pick the planet we get stranded on,” he added, and was glad to see a small but genuine smile pass over Archer's face.

“Deal.”

“I'll hold you to that. Budge up a little, our shade is changing.”

Shran had already come to the conclusion that the planet hated them. On top of everything else so far, their strip of shade kept getting narrower. They shuffled closer to the rock, where Archer continued to flag. He was above 39 degrees now, and Shran had to start leaning forward to counter his weight. He was annoyingly heavy. Why did the pinkskin have to be so tall? And bad at temperature regulation?

“Archer?”

“Hmm?”

“How hard is it for you to stand right now?”

“I'm fine—”

“You are not fine!” Shran snapped, then felt bad when Archer flinched at his tone. This had to count as a symptom, there was no way Archer could have missed the way he was slumping against Shran if he was in his right mind. And he was answering on autopilot, giving a response that didn't quite match the question.

“Sorry,” Archer muttered.

“I just need you to talk to me,” Shran said, softening his tone. He patted Archer's face, getting him to open his eyes. “Tell me how you're doing.”

“I don't even know how bad it is, but it's bad. I'm so hot I can't think.”

The return of complete sentences was heartening, but it seemed to have taken a lot out of Archer. He closed his eyes again.

“All right. We're going to sit down before you fall.”

“Ground's too hot,” Archer pointed out.

“I know. You're going to sit on me.” Now there was a sentence he wished had a different context.

“What!” Archer spluttered, clearly not too far gone to appreciate how it sounded.

“I can handle it, you can't. And you're not staying upright much longer. We're out of options.”

Without waiting for a reaction, Shran manhandled his human into a one-armed hold so he could start taking off his shirt with the other. Archer continued to make embarrassed noises, but it wasn't a very coherent protest.

“It's for me to sit on,” Shran explained, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Like you said, the ground is hot.”

“Fine,” was all Archer said, and didn't resist when Shran pushed him down on his heels, folded his shirt on the ground, then sat down and dragged the human into his lap in one not-very-smooth move.

Archer was stultifyingly hot, and weirdly clammy in a way that made Shran feel like he couldn't breathe. His weight pressed Shran into the unforgiving rock, and even through the extra layers he could feel his ass getting hot. Shran gritted his teeth and hoped he wouldn't end up with a burn somewhere embarrassing. At least he could tolerate it better than Archer, who seemed to have run out of energy halfway through wiggling into a more comfortable position.

“How are you holding up?” Shran asked.

“Bad.” Archer seemed to take a long time to consider the rest of his response. The dehydrated rasp in his breathing sounded louder from this angle. “Dizzy.”

“Is that comfortable?” Shran tried to pull Archer flush. Andorians could simply let their body temperature rise to match their environment, so even this amount of skin-to-skin contact wasn't having as much of an effect as he would have liked. Still, it had to be better than nothing.

“Uhh...” Archer seemed confused by the question. He was almost a dead weight, sprawled over Shran. Trying to shift him was surprisingly difficult. He'd gone sort of limp in a way that made him feel even heavier than he was. Shran felt smothered under him.

“It just seems like you were going to do more?”

No response. Shran shook his shoulder.

“Archer.”

“Hn.”

“Talk to me.”

More silence. He shook Archer's shoulder again, and when that didn't work, poked him hard in the ribs. Archer's fingers twitched, but he didn't say anything.

“Archer. Archer.” Shran huffed and tried to work up the energy to be angry at the pinkskin for not responding.

“You know, this is not how I pictured it going, when I imagined taking your clothes off and putting my hands all over you,” he tried.

Nothing, not even an offended noise. It was probably for the best that he hadn't gotten a reaction, but he had run out of provocations. If Archer couldn't summon a response to that, he was beyond coherent thought.

Shran could feel panic gnawing at him, trying to take over. He buried his face against Archer's shoulder and put a hand over his heart, feeling for his pulse. It was fast and thready. He willed it to keep going.

“Please stay with me,” he whispered into the human's neck. “I don't know what to do without you. You can't leave me like this, not after everything, please...”

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when the shimmer of the transporter made Archer vanish from his arms.

–

After the hellish planet, the tingle of the transporter seemed more intense than usual, and the climate-controlled air of Enterprise felt shockingly cold, snapping him back to alertness. Archer gasped in a lungful of sweet cool air, then coughed as his lungs reminded him how much water he'd lost.

“Y'alright there Captain?” Trip asked from his place at the controls, face scrunched in concern. Archer could only imagine what a mess he looked right now.

“Been better,” he said, sitting up. “Where's...”

“Shran? Still down there. Some of the relays are blown, I could only beam you up one at a time,” Trip explained. So, there had been a fight. “Thought it was better to start with you, since the Andorians are going on about how tough they are.”

“They're not wrong,” Archer said. Shran had definitely handled the heat better. It was kind of embarrassing how much better, really.

Speaking of embarrassing, he should probably put his clothes back on. Trip was giving him a questioning look, like he knew better than to ask but was wondering anyway. He shouldered his way back into his uniform, even though he was still uncomfortably hot, and zipped himself up.

“Need any help?” Trip asked as he staggered to his feet and got off the transporter pad.

“I'll be fine. Don't leave Shran waiting.” Archer had to lean against the console, but he didn't want to leave Shran alone down there, wondering what was going on with nobody to ask and no way out.

Shran was on his feet and fully clothed when he materialized, looking tense. He relaxed a little when he saw Archer, but only a little.

“What took you so long?” he snapped in Trip's direction.

“We got ambushed by pirates!” Trip said, frowning at Shran's lack of gratitude.

“We know,” Archer said, shooting Shran a look that said tone it down. This wasn't Trip's fault, after all. Shran's antennae twitched, but he made no further comment.

“Well, d'you need to visit the sickbay, Captain?”

“Yes, he does,” Shran said, taking Archer by the arm and practically dragging him out of the transporter room.

“I do have legs,” he protested.

“Five minutes ago, you couldn't even stand. You're lucky I'm not carrying you.” Shran's tone brooked no disagreement, and his logic was hard to argue with. So was his grip on Archer. He was practically carrying Archer anyway, arm linked under his partially supporting his weight.

“Should I be intervening?” Trip wondered as he trailed after them.

“It's fine. He's not wrong,” Archer said. Ridiculous as it was to get marched around in his own ship, Shran had a point. Archer was still sweaty and overheated and... wobbly. And it wasn't so bad to lean on Shran, just a little, and feel him solid and strong at his side.

Shran didn't let up until the sickbay doors were whooshing open. Phlox was waiting for them, cheerful demeanor at the ready.

“Welcome back, Captain,” he said. “Commander Shran, could you help him onto a biobed?” He indicated one in particular, and Shran practically heaved Archer onto it before he could even try to get up himself. It was blessedly cool. Phlox started scanning him immediately.

“I'm going to the debriefing,” Shran announced. “Stay here. Don't even move until I get back.”

Archer frowned. It was easy enough to see the genuine concern underneath Shran's demeanor, but he didn't have to be such a dick about it. Apparently, he hadn't been kidding about beating Archer up later.

“Yes, mother,” he sniped at Shran's retreating back. Shran gave no indication he heard.

“Is there a particular reason you two don't seem to be getting along suddenly?” Phlox asked, distributing cold packs as the doors hissed shut. Archer sighed.

“He's mad I had the audacity to almost die.”

“He's not the only one, but some of us are more constructive about it,” Trip interjected. Disapproval radiated off him, and Archer was glad he had the self-control to not start a fight. It was probably a close thing. “I'm going to the debriefing, be back with a full damage report.”

“Understood. Thanks, Trip.”

In an hour's time he'd been stabilized, changed out of his sweaty clothes, hydrated to within an inch of his life, and had mostly finished writing up a preliminary report. It was awkward to write, because he'd been in bad shape and might have been hallucinating towards the end. But the sooner he finished, the sooner he could stop worrying about it, so he was making an effort.

Or at least, he was up until T'Pol walked into the sickbay, Shran huffing at her heels. That pretty well ruined his focus.

“Captain—”

“How are you?” Shran cut in, and the twitch of T'Pol's eyebrow spoke volumes.

“I'm fine, thanks. Report.”

“As soon as you beamed down, the ship was attacked by three Orion pirate vessels. Our combined firepower was sufficient to defeat them, but both ships sustained damage in the assault, Enterprise more so than Ravaal. We plan to remain in orbit for approximately two days and collaborate on repairs to both ships.”

T'Pol seemed pleased that she had managed more than one sentence without interruption. Archer looked over the padd she had handed him during her report. It held Trip's summary of the damage done and estimates on repair time. Plenty of blown relays, some hull damage, and a phase cannon that had taken a lucky shot and would have to be completely rebuilt to work properly again. The crew had sustained only minor injuries. Overall it was less than he had expected given how the Orions had been boasting, but still substantial. He was glad the Andorians had the time to stick around and help.

“Sounds like a plan. Well, Doctor, am I cleared for duty?”

Shran looked ready to say something angry, but surprisingly enough Phlox beat him to the punch.

“I want you off duty for the rest of the day, Captain,” Phlox said sternly. “You've been through an ordeal, and you need time to fully recover.”

Archer wanted to protest, that he should at least look over the damage to his ship firsthand, but he glanced at Shran and the memory of those cool fingers sliding over his chest, trying to find his heartbeat, came back unbidden. Suddenly he found it hard to argue.

“Fine,” was what he said instead, and Phlox smiled. Shran relaxed considerably. T'Pol also relaxed, though she was more careful not to show it. “I'll go to my quarters and get some rest.”

“I'll escort you,” Shran was quick to volunteer.

“I am needed on the bridge,” T'Pol said.

“Understood. Dismissed.” Shran must have made a real nuisance of himself in the debriefing; she seemed glad to be leaving. Presumably he hadn't admitted to his high opinion of her.

Shran let him walk on his own this time, but he stuck quite close, crowding Archer's personal space just a little, very unsubtly looking him over.

“I'm fine, really. All better.”

“I'll be the judge of that.” The undercurrent of worry was very close to the surface now. Shran's sharp tone wasn't nearly enough to cover it. Archer felt another little pang of regret that it was his own stupidity that had caused all the trouble.

“Thank you, by the way. You really saved my ass down there.”

“It's no less than you would do for me,” Shran pointed out, but he was preening a little all the same.

They lapsed into quiet for a while. There was something else Archer wanted to talk about, but it was hard to know how Shran would react. It might have been just his imagination, after all, and if it had then he was going to feel very stupid. But he needed to be sure.

He decided he would ask when he got to his quarters, so that he could make a quick exit if he needed to. He let the hiss of the door opening break the silence for him.

“Just one more thing,” he said as casually as possible—which wasn't very. “Down there... did you say something about taking my clothes off and putting your hands on me?”

Shran sputtered.

“I didn't think you heard that,” he managed to say. His antennae were curling back. Archer tried to remember what that meant. Sensing a threat? Shit, he thought it was an accusation.

“I was just wondering if, uh, there was also a part where I take your clothes off too,” he rushed to say. “Because I—think I'd like that.”

He was stumbling over his words like a teenager asking his first crush on a date. He felt ridiculous and very un-captainly. How was he better at fighting Shran than flirting with him?

But it seemed to do the trick. Shran's antennae perked back up, and something wicked gleamed in his eyes.

“You want to know what I pictured us doing?” He put a hand on Archer's chest, right over his heart. Suddenly it was beating very fast.

“Yeah.”

Shran pushed him through the open door, smirking.

“I think a demonstration is in order.”