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“You no longer require my professional advice,” Stork blurts out, on their third trip to Murray’s Bistro. The cafe is uptown, and a short hike from the Adoption Agency. There are other outlets which serve food closer to the building, but many of them are frequented by Federation officials and Starfleet officers, a fact which he has observed to have an adverse effect on his companion. Whenever a Vulcanoid passes who is not himself, Crane becomes tense, and folds in on himself.
Stork has left this particular observation out of his report.
Crane whirls on him, sandwich in hand. “What?”
Stork clears his throat. “Your current application is excellent,” he clarifies. “It is likely that it will be accepted this time. Therefore, my advice is no longer–”
“- I see,” Crane says.
Stork blinks. “I thought this information would be pleasing to you.”
Crane crosses his legs. “It is. But I would be lost without your… Professional advice,” he says, carefully.
Given the situation, the speed of Stork’s heartbeat is unwarranted.
“But, as I said- your application is perfect.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Crane addresses his plate.
Stork watches an Andorian waiter pass.
Murray’s Bistro was founded by a retired admiral in the early days of Starfleet, and its current owners have continued the trend of hiring chefs and waiters rather than relying on replicators and robots. Stork cannot pretend to understand the perceived superiority of traditionally-prepared food, but Crane seems to appreciate it. However, on this occasion, his interest in his sandwich appears to be feigned.
“This will not be the end of our acquaintance,” Stork says. “I shall be the one to check on you and your ward every week during the three-month adjustment period, and twice a month after that. After that, I will-”
“- Acquaintance,” Crane echoes.
Stork tries to calm his heartbeat. “We have been acquainted for a little over three weeks,” he says, firmly.
Crane gives him a look he can't quite decipher, and reaches across the table to him. “Forgive me,” he says, in a low voice. “It appears I was vague about my intentions with you.”
“Your intentions were clear. You wanted my advice to help streamline your application, and, due to your unique circumstances and unfamiliarity with Federation protocol, I suggested-”
Crane places a hand on his wrist, and holds it steady. Stork wonders if he can feel the irregularity of his pulse.
“Crane,” he says, keeping his tone even. “Perhaps you are not aware of the-”
“Oh, I'm aware.”
“- connotations…” Stork trails off, and locks in on Crane’s hand.
“I spent three years on Vulcan,” Crane says, evenly. “Three years studying Vulcan etiquette.” His hand twitches. “Do you want me to let go?”
Stork does not pull away. They were discussing something important, but he cannot remember what they were talking about.
“Your intentions,” he murmurs, like an afterthought. He rests his palm against his, a gently invitation.
“Yes.” Crane breathes. “Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were the most lovely creature I would ever set eyes on again.”
“No.” Stork protests.
“No?”
“That is… not logical.”
Crane's eyes glitter. “I am illogical. You said it yourself when you met me.”
Stork distinctly remembers saying nothing of the sort, but he waits. Crane’s fingers touch his- the two fingers which are fused together- and Stork watches him with blank fascination.
“You are being hyperbolic,” Stork says, evenly.
“On the contrary- there are a finite number of Vulcans! Merely four billion.”
With his other hand, Stork reaches for him. “There are other beings. There are…” Romulans,” he says, haltingly.
“So, you agree Romulans are superior in this instance!” Crane teases. “Or, did you imagine a specific Romulan?”
Stork looks down at their joined hands, and back up at him. He tilts his head. “Whatever gave you that impression?”
Crane laughs, and presses two fingers to his.
Their connection is instant, a jolt of electricity, and Crane is temporarily startled. His hands retreat, and he bears a distinctly unnerved expression.
Stork waits.
The walls are patterned with white and blue tiles, and Stork doesn't need to look at them in order to recall their pattern. He pictures it in his mind’s eye, considers the grooves and lines of each one. Crane watches him likewise, studying the lines of his face.
“Many Vulcans still practise betrothal bonds, arranged unions,” he says, as he takes his hand once more. “Is this true of you?”
Stork shakes his head. “No.”
Crane smirks. “Then I will not be required to win you in combat.”
A sudden image flashes through his mind of Crane on the sands of Vulcan, engaged in kal-if-fee with some unknown challenger. A thrill runs through him.
He controls his expression, but the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “That is unfortunate.”
Crane looks up in surprise, then laughs. “However, I would fight for you, if asked.”
“That would be illogical.”
“But it would be… Desirable?”
Stork feels himself smile. “Yes.”