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“Captain’s starlog, supplemental. There’s been no sign of any other marauder ships. We’re returning Shran and Jhamel to Andoria.”
Archer pauses, briefly considering adding more to the log. He decides against it for now, mentally noting that he’ll have plenty of time to finish all his reports that will be likely urgently required of the very chaotic series of events from the past short while. He can’t help but smile slightly and let out a huff that might almost have been a laugh, amazed at how often he finds himself and his crew in wild predicaments and just as often and impossibly find ways to manoeuvre out of them every time.
But he’s had enough excitement for a while. Some well deserved shore leave, or even simply a return to routine operations for an extended period would be a welcome change.
He glances at the display on his desk, noting the time. They’d almost be over Andoria by now. Nearly when he should be meeting T’Pol, Shran, and Jhamel at the transporter for the Andorian and Aenar’s send off.
Archer lifts himself from his chair and starts toward the door of his ready room, hand just reaching for the controls when the chime rings out. Puzzled, he takes a half step back to preemptively allow room for whomever was on the other side and opens the door.
The door slides open with a satisfying hiss and Archer finds himself staring at Shran. His chin is slightly quirked upward in preparation to meet Archer’s gaze and his single antenna gently searches, presumably a less voluntary motion than usual and more automatic in sensory perception, in its attempt to accommodate for the incapacitated one. The severed and bandaged antenna attempts to mimic its partner’s movements rather pathetically.
Archer has always found that particularly fascinating, the Andorian antennae. What research was available on Andorian anatomy from the Vulcan database, Archer had read enthusiastically, and it was particularly the functionings of the antennae that intrigued him. Certainly as a foreign sensory organ, they were fascinating simply from a scientific perspective, but Archer found a certain strange feeling of being more deeply perceived. He frequently wondered what he looked like or how he came across to Shran.
Seeing the injury again however sends a pang through Archer’s chest. Even though he knew the loss of the antenna wasn’t critical, he’d seen first hand what an effect it had had on Shran. But instead of letting himself feel guilty over hurting his friend, he reminds himself that it was better than the alternatives. Either one of them could’ve been dead. The prospects of an alliance could’ve been in shambles. The entire region could’ve been disastrously destabilized.
And yet this was just another wacky misadventure survived with its drama and scrapes to boot.
Archer quickly drops his gaze from his previous focus to meet Shran’s, the Andorian’s eyes betraying no emotion on his otherwise flat expression.
It’s a surprise to see him standing in the doorway, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless.
“May I come in?” Shran asks with a slight quirk of his brow.
Wordlessly, Archer steps back and to the side, gesturing with an open palm to invite the other inside. Shran steps through and the door closes behind him.
“It’s good to see you,” Archer says suddenly, then just as suddenly feels rather silly for saying so. They’ve already spent so much time together over the past while, both as friends and at each other’s throats, that a final encounter before Shran’s departure is frankly unremarkable.
This feeling is magnified when Shran gives Archer a mildly confused look, but the feeling begins to fade when the Andorian shrugs it off. Clearly there’s something more important on his mind rather than focusing on some human peculiarities regarding affection.
“I wanted to talk,” Shran begins slowly, “before you send me off.”
Archer doesn’t know why he’s nervous all of a sudden, but he doesn’t let his features betray this information. Shran is distant, cold, guarded, but when is he not? If anything, Archer should be used to this demeanour by now.
A silence falls over the room for a brief moment.
In that moment, the pair can feel the air shift. The tension Archer feels melts away as he watches Shran visibly relax, shoulders dropping, a gentle held breath finally being released.
“I wanted to compliment you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You fight well,” Shran continues, getting down to the point of the visit. “You’re an honourable man, Archer, and a testament to your species.”
Archer quirks his head inquisitively, brows knitted, almost not trusting the words he’s hearing. His lips part to speak but nothing comes out. He regards Shran for a long moment before a small smile comes across his face. He blinks slowly, his eyes now shining proudly even in the reduced evening Enterprise lighting.
“I-… Thank you.”
It goes unsaid, but both parties are well aware of how difficult this admission must have been for Shran. Even for something as mundane yet also culturally significant as honour to an Andorian, showing anything that might additionally be construed as vulnerability was generally frowned upon.
Shran’s trademark smirk then tugs at his lips, and this sends Archer’s smile growing into a dopey grin.
“That’s what you came here for? Just to compliment me? Not that I’m complaining, but-“
“No, not all,” Shran interrupts, taking a sudden swift step toward Archer and deftly closing the space between them.
Archer inhales sharply as Shran approaches, the nervousness he felt before steadily returning. How does Shran have this much of an effect on his emotions? Archer chastises himself mentally, feeling like a schoolboy with a pathetic crush. In all their time of knowing each other, all their returned favours, there was always this unmistakeable something between them that Archer could never quite put his finger on.
It wasn’t until one night over drinks and a taped water polo match with Trip that Archer had let spill his feelings and had come to the realization fully.
The honesty had soured the mood instantly, with the Commander recoiling with a baffled, “ HIM ?”
Archer’s head had dropped into his hands as he muttered, “shit, shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, s’fine, Cap’n.” Trip’s drawl was even more apparent in his intoxicated state. “Just surprised me, is all.”
The conclusion was eventually that pursuing anything was a bad idea, that even though Commander Shran was a friend and ally of Starfleet, mixing work and romance was never a good recipe, particularly with the added complicating factors of interspecies affairs.
The answer hadn’t been satisfying to Archer, but he considered the matter settled and he never mentioned it to Trip again, nor did the other bring it up. He’d simply refuse to acknowledge these feelings for the greater good. Case closed.
And yet here Archer was, mouth slightly agape, barely breathing at the sight and closeness of Shran in front of him.
Shran stares back, his gaze softening as he searches Archer’s expression for something, though he doesn’t find it. Archer still remains guarded, barely finding balance between his automatic reactions and what captainly control he possesses to not betray them to Shran. Archer swallows thickly around a lump forming in his throat.
“I also wanted to thank you,” Shran says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What for?” Archer asks, his voice matching Shran’s in turn.
“For everything. I’d be here far too long if I were to thank you for each of your individual endeavours.”
Archer has seen this softness in Shran before, but the last times were directed entirely at Talas. The implication of this now sends a blush creeping up Archer’s cheeks.
“You’re welcome, Shran,” Archer replies softly, his warm smile returning to his lips.
“Thy’lek,” he corrects. “You may call me Thy’lek.”
“Thy’lek,” Archer repeats, hoping he isn’t getting the pronunciation too wrong. He had been familiar with the commander’s name through reading it in various documents and dossiers, but to say it aloud for the first time in such a tender moment felt nothing short of divine.
He then lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He stares at Shran, taking in his gaze before glancing down at blue lips, temptation rising within him. Archer finds himself leaning down slightly, drawn in. They’re nearly flush against one another as Shran regards him for a moment longer before stepping back. Archer snaps from his brief trance, and can’t help but feel disappointed in the increase of space between them, but once again doesn’t relay this to Shran.
“You’re heading to the transporter?” Archer guesses, surprised at himself at his own eloquence despite the butterflies filling his stomach and his heart pounding in his chest. “I’ll walk you there.”
He’s hopeful to spend even a few moments more with the other before needing to say what will likely be a curt goodbye for an uncertain length of time. Without a true promise of reunion, if he were being honest.
“I’ve been requested to check in with your doctor once more,” Shran answers, though his tone suggests his distaste at being fussed over. “I’ll meet you there.”
This time, Archer doesn’t hide his disappointment. He deflates a little, which Shran barely sees as he makes a quick exit from the room.
~*~
Archer and T’Pol are escorting Jhamel as Shran meets up with them, presumably from his final check up. The four walk together the short distance the rest of the way to the transporter room.
“I want to thank you again,” Archer says to Jhamel as they arrive and he positions himself to face the trio.
“I owe you thanks,” she replies kindly in return. “If I hadn’t come with you, my brother would have died alone.”
A beat of silence.
“Goodbye, Captain,” Jhamel says finally.
“Goodbye,” Archer echoes, his voice breathy and heavy with emotion.
Jhamel gently steps around Archer who stands near the transporter’s console. Archer turns to watch her as Shran moves to his side. Archer then turns to look at Shran when he senses the presence just to his right.
“I… regret much of what happened between us recently,” Shran admits, not meeting Archer’s gaze at first before looking at him and giving a small, apologetic nod.
“Same here,” Archer replies softly, his expression firm but warm. He wonders briefly if these regrets include more than just arguments and ritualistic fights to the death. Perhaps regrets of things not done, things left unsaid.
Quickly changing the subject, as Shran notices they have an audience this time and can’t linger in their mutual tension, he sucks in a breath.
“When you lose your ship, you aren’t usually rewarded with another one,” Shran explains solemnly, looking away from Archer again in an attempt to avoid that damned firm yet warm gaze emanating from the taller man.
“I may not see you for awhile,” he finishes, meeting those gorgeous green eyes flecked with hazels and browns, wishing he could freeze this moment in time forever instead of needing to leave.
“If there’s anything we can do,” T’Pol interjects smoothly, cutting through the tense connection between the captains, “or say, on your behalf.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Shran says in earnest as he looks at her, his voice for once void of annoyance or sarcasm as it usually is when addressing T’Pol.
“Let’s just see what the future brings,” he states with an air of finality, bringing his attention back to Archer. He offers a leather gloved hand and Archer takes it firmly, providing a strong and professional handshake.
Before Archer lets go, Shran gives another, surprisingly gentle, reassuring squeeze.
Shran looks down as he steps around the console, hiding his brief expression of sorrow. He composes himself in the few quick steps it requires for him to take his place next to Jhamel on the transporter pad.
T’Pol steps forward to trade places with Archer, and he steps back to allow her to man the console.
“Try to stay out of trouble, pinkskin.”
The ghost of a smile tugs at Archer’s lips upon hearing the pejorative-turned-petname and he nods deeply, a promise he can’t keep, to be sure, but he’d humour Shran for now. He’d like to say that more often than not trouble finds him rather than him always finding trouble, but in honesty both do occur often in equal measure.
Archer and T’Pol share a glance before he and Shran lock eyes in one final lingering look. T’Pol activates the transporter and Jhamel and Shran are dematerialized, the particles fizzling and finally dissipating. Another pang runs through Archer’s chest as the air shifts slightly, the room settling in quiet.
And now, harder than ever, Archer silently pleads for the future to bring good things.