Work Text:
It was a long, peaceful wander through the icy corridors somewhere on Andoria. The ceilings had peculiar images carved into the ice, old and weathered; the floors were smooth and wonderfully slippery, so the proper footwear allowed Archer to glide down the slopes and walk up the next ones without a hitch in his journey. The furs and pelts kept him wonderfully warm, so that his face, exposed to the Andorian ever-freezing weather, shone with a healthy blush; his eyes shone as well, the anticipation of a near discovery urging him on. Just beyond the next turn, there was going to be something great, something important, something worth every step of the way—
A sharp swerve brought him into a room with a traditional floor carpet and a few pieces of furniture not unlike poufs, and Thy’lek Shran of all people was sitting on one of them, obviously waiting for him.
It was a dream, Archer realised, and immediately wished it could be real.
He’d missed the blue-skinned bastard more than he was willing to admit out loud. To anyone other than Porthos, that is; the pup had heard many a word about the Andrian since the encounter at P’Jem, first in the form of all the reports Archer was composing, and then gradually in a more personal manner. Thoughts, musings, half-formed wishes—Archer’s thoughts kept gravitating to Shran just like the two of them seemed to gravitate together, each new interaction more infuriating and charming than the last, a curious mixture that always left Archer wishing for more.
He never knew if that was true for the other.
Somehow running into thiim here felt like there was an answer to that question well within grasp, but Archer told himself not to look for deep symbolism in dreams, especially not from within, and sat down on the nearest pouf as well. It was nice to rest; it was nicer to see Shran without immediately trying to kill each other. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he began cheerfully. “How have you been?”
“...I’m getting married.”
“Congratulations,” Archer said somewhat automatically. The flat delivery dumbfounded him quite a bit; on the other hand, what did he know. “I mean, I thought you’d decided on that part before the one where you stayed in Aenar.”
“It was an unspoken possibility. I can’t really explain all of our culture now—and there are differences between what I’m used to and what’s practiced in Aenar. Some customs have surprised me, and normally I’m hard to impress.”
There was a note to thiis voice that made Archer wonder if this was just an explanation of the alien customs. The word choice, the pointed look; wasn’t Shran getting onto something?
“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he blurted out.
He didn’t know if the Andorians valued personal happiness. Hell, he didn’t know if they had the concept to begin with. But the word seemed too fundamental, too closely tied to what Archer had always thought marriage stood for, and if he was wrong to assume so—at least he would learn of his mistake quickly and efficiently. Shran wouldn’t be the one to spare his feelings.
“Oh, I am.” Shran sounded unlike thiimself, so serene that the tone didn’t suit thiim at all. Maybe the Aenar influence had rubbed off on thiim already, or maybe there was more to thiis response. Way more. “It’s an honour to be accepted into the city, especially for someone who is obviously not as pacifistic. I intend to be worthy of it.”
“You’re not marrying the whole city, though.”
“Three people should seem like a whole city to you, pinkskin.” A hint of amusement glimmered in Shran’s eyes now. “And I intend to be worthy of their trust, too. Why; is it different for you? Isn’t marriage in its essence the same as a newly forged alliance where all the sides work together and strengthen words with deeds?”
Archer smiled, too. “I’m not a military diplomat. Sounds about right, though.”
“It better. Are you married?”
“A lot of Starfleet captains say they’re married to their ships. Seriously, though? It might happen, but I still haven’t met anyone who would tolerate me for long enough.”
“You’re not that hard to tolerate.”
The near-reproach made Archer smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. So— Are you happy?”
“We have a lot in common.” Shran was looking at him intently, seeing more than thi was letting on. “You keep reminding me of that. To answer your question—yes. The matriarch is very fond of the question, too, and zhe has to be sure that every marriage is premeditated and realistic. I have no desire to backtrack this, change my choice, and move on with my life somewhere in Outer Andoria like nothing happened. Just—”
Thiis antennae turned to the sides, like thi was looking for something, and then pointed right at Archer.
“If I could, it would be you, you know?”
Archer blinked. Then he thought of it more, and blinked again.
This wasn’t real, but he knew what his dreams felt like. This was unlike any of them; the details were clear as the day, and Shran’s voice sounded in his ears as if some wild trick of nature had brought it here from across light years.
Was this a dream?
...The desire for an answer must have been too strong. The delicate weave was unraveling, the fabric of the sleep ruined beyond repair, and all he could do was reach out and try to grab the blue hand before jolting awake, his hands grasping thin air and his heart aching with something he dared not name.
The comm chimed, again, as if waking him up wasn’t enough, and somehow the electronic sound had an insistent note to it. Archer raised a hand and pressed the button. “Archer.”
“An incoming transmission for you, Captain. It’s from Andoria. We’re receiving it now, but it will take me a couple minutes to apply their deciphering matrix.”
“Send it down to my quarters when you’re done, could you?”
“Aye.”
Archer could think of no Andorian officials who might be willing to come in touch, and wondered out loud if the transmission would turn out to be anything personal. Porthos didn’t know the answer—and a few minutes later, when the letter did come through, they both didn’t know what to think anymore at all.
It was a wedding invitation.