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18. Denial
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Archer grits his teeth so hard, he thinks they might crack. He keeps still and silent as Shran tries to convince him that this meeting is worth it, that there’s something to be gained from it, and if nothing else, didn’t Archer want to establish some kind of pinkskin presence at Rigel X?
It wouldn’t be so infuriating if it weren’t for the fact that Shran was lying. There’s nothing to be gained from this, there’s little to obtain, other than a (possibly) good fight. In fact, Archer is pretty damn sure that Shran is simply omitting the most important part, and Archer can tell by the obvious twitching of Shran’s antennae. Well, it’s more like the left one, which has an odd tic whenever Shran has more on the table than the Andorian is willing to show.
“It won’t take long, pinkskin; I don’t see the issue,” Shran is saying, and, like clockwork, his left antenna jerks subtly towards the right, disturbing the strands of white hair.
Archer hates him right now, hates that Shran has left the Imperial Guard to save his own life (really, he could have resigned his guard commission and joined Starfleet with a field rank, just like T’Pol did, but no, Shran’s fucking pride would have gotten in the way of that), hates that there’s something more to this deal than Shran is letting on, and fucking hates the way he knows that because Shran’s goddamn left antenna is twitching as he waits on Archer’s answer.
Shran is still rattling on and spinning words like a weaver when Archer slams his empty glass on the table in his private dining room. Shran simply quirky his right antenna at him in question—Archer squeezes his eyes shut because goddamn it, the left one is still. fucking. twitching. He’s suddenly exhausted, what with the signing of the new Federation coming up and T’Pol’s constant grinding about getting there on time. He’s tired of dealing with Chef, who is enthusiastically going after everyone for their favorite stupid dish in order to send the crew off proper (and really, he’s had five people tell him today that Chef seemed more inquisitive than normal and not quite himself). And, out of it all, he’s had it up to the bridge of Enterprise with Shran’s unique way of asking for help.
“What is it really, Shran?” Archer demands quietly and more wearily than he intended as he pours another glass of bright, sky-blue ale. It reminds him of the break between space and atmosphere.
Shran looks at him for a long silent moment, his antennae still and his lips tightly drawn. His blue fingers trace the condensation against his half-full glass. He suddenly sweeps to his feet and joins Archer at the head of the table, thunking his glass down and the smell of the alien ale pouring off of him.
“They have Talla.”
Archer sucks in a breath and downs half his glass in one go. He had never quite understood when Shran joined with Jhamel, who had always seemed little more than a little sister to either one of them. He suspected it had more to do with the fact that they both felt a little out of their depth in their loss, and had decided grieving together was better than crying alone.
Shran’s fingers jumped restlessly; his antennae continued to twitch—now it was both of them, and the agitated fashion gave the man away entirely.
“Jhamel’s dead, isn’t she?” Archer asked bluntly.
Shran didn’t respond—there again, he didn’t have to. The blue antennae drooped slightly, his white hair (longer than Archer has ever seen it) falling in front of his sky-blue eyes.
Archer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, digging the nails in for good measure, because Christ, what a fucking mess. Shran is still staring down resolutely at his drink. His pride was obviously wounded, and his antennae remained in their faintly downward angle.
“Why didn’t you just resign with the Imperial Guard?” Archer asks in a tight voice that is hoarse with the ale and disuse from letting Shran talk all night. “You could’ve gotten a Starfleet commission. T’Pol did. Hell, you probably still could.”
Shran snorted. “And never be welcome on my home planet again? I think not.”
“T’Pol has little stigma on Vulcan. And your ambassadors are going to be there when we sign the Federation documents.” Archer looks at Shran’s hands, at his antennae, at the vibrating energy that radiates from the blue man. “I’ll make you a deal then.”
Shran looks up, and his antennae seem to perk up a bit, as if to hear better. “And what’s that, pinkskin?” he finally asks tiredly.
Archer downs the rest of the ale, because really, he’s already a little more buzzed than he should be. Andorian ale has a kick, and it’s not like he’s been partying lately. “You’ve gotta agree before I tell you.”
Shran snorts and pours them both another glass—funny, Archer hadn’t noticed that Shran’s was empty. “You dream, pinkskin.”
Archer suddenly grips Shran’s blue fingers in his own. “Agree and I’ll use everything at my disposal to get Talla back.”
Shran studies him for a long moment, calculating and precise, and stares at the foreign pink-hued flesh curled around his own. “I’m not joining Starfleet.”
Archer rolls his eyes, declining to point out Shran’s left antenna twitching in interest. “Just say yes.”
Shran raises an eyebrow, downs his glass once again, and tightens his fingers where Archer holds them. “Alright, pinkskin.” He leans forward. “Yes.”
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As soon as Shran says yes, he knows he’s in trouble. Archer grins broadly, white teeth and hazel eyes bright like a supernova. They’re both drunk and they both know it, but it isn’t mutual grief fueling the jarring tension that exists between them.
“And just what have I agreed to?” Shran asks, trying to sound dismissive but coming off as weary and relieved that Archer has agreed to help.
Archer snorts into his glass, never taking his hand from Shran. He drinks long, throat muscles and adam’s apple bobbing as he does so.
Shran doesn’t squirm, but he can feel one of his antenna—maybe the left?—twitching. “What?” he snaps.
Archer grins, and again, it’s almost like when Talla kisses him on the cheek (she’d picked it up during their time on a boomer ship and Shran doesn’t have the heart to break her of the odd, alien habit), and it feels like the entire room is blinding and bright with emotions that he can’t process or handle, and so he does neither.
Archer leans forward as well; they’re both well into each other’s personal space now, far closer than they’ve ever been, close enough that if Shran wanted, he could let an antenna swoop and stroke against the soft-looking brown hair in front of him, test the salt of a human’s flesh.
“Well…for one, you’ve got to fucking stop with the pinkskin bullshit,” Archer smirks, all teeth and ale.
Shran sputters. “I most certainly will not, pin—“
Archer doesn’t let him finish; only grips Shran’s hand tightly before he seems to think about it, and then interlaces their fingers in a way Andorians don’t. Shran exhales sharply, too much sensation coursing through the touch of skin on his own.
“You most certainly will,” Archer responds cheerfully, but in the intensity is clear in his hazel eyes, which now look green.
Shran stares at him. “Your demand indicates there was something else.”
Archer regards him for a long, thunderous moment. “There is.”
“I’m still not joining Starfleet,” Shran insists with as much Andorian ferocity as he can manage.
“You should,” Archer replied without a hint of insecurity. “You’d be good for it. And besides, as I already told you…your ambassadors will be there to sign the charter. You stop calling me pinkskin and apply to Starfleet, and I will do everything and guarantee your daughter’s safety.”
Shran’s fingers tensed beneath Archer’s. “You can guarantee nothing, pinkskin,” he says belligerently.
Before Shran is entirely aware of what’s happened, Archer has him against the wall, one hand shoved up unceremoniously to his cool cheek and the other gripping his plainclothes. He gasps at the sudden intrusion to his person, keenly aware of the soft hair that his antennae drags against as he tries to pull back.
“Trade her for me,” Archer says unexpectedly. “I’m far more valuable to a group of common thieves after jewels than the daughter of a disgraced Imperial Guardsmen, don’t you think?”
Shran feels his head thump against the wall as he tries to pull back in surprise. “You’d do that, pinkskin?”
Archer shoves him again, this time pinning him with hips and chest and legs. “As long as you stop calling me pinkskin and consider a Starfleet commission.”
Shran considers, antennae drifting down to feel that soft hair again, even if it were only for his own benefit. “I’ll consider the commission,” he finally says. “If you put me down and make good on your promise.”
Archer chuckles lowly, a wild sound that whirls straight to Shran’s gut. “You’ll consider the commission, but say fuck you to not calling me pinkskin?”
Shran really isn’t sure of the Terran swear words, but if it’s anything close to what the Andorian equivalent is, then he’s pretty sure Archer understood. “Naturally, pinkskin.” They’re way too close, much closer than Shran recalls Terrans being comfortable with. Archer’s hand falls from his collar to his waist, and the sudden warmth of a fleshy thumb drifts under his tunic, tracing along a hip.
“Deal,” Archer says, his breath short and dripping ale.
“Deal,” Shran agrees, and though he’s never done it (it’s a Terran thing, really), he ducks his head and kisses Archer’s cheek, antennae finally giving into the urge to drag through hair much darker than his own.
Archer jerks back in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized how they’d gotten here. Glassy-eyed and observant (ever the scientist, ever the pilot, ever the everything that Shran hadn’t always given him credit for), his eyes fall to Shran’s lips and then up to antennae and then back to his eyes. “We’re really doing this?”
Shran’s fairly certain they’re not just talking about saving Talla anymore, even though that’s at the top of his priorities. Enough ale in him at the moment though, and all he can concentrate on is the blush-pink of Archer’s lips, the dazed almost green-color of hazel eyes, and the high flush on pink skin.
Shran tilts his head, trying to indicate disinterest, but then he sees Archer’s eyes travel to his antennae and he knows he can’t lie. “Why not?” he responds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Archer snorts and then smashes his mouth against Shran’s.
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They have Talla back quickly (without having to trade Archer, thanks to T’Pol’s ruby-composite) and they’re heading to Earth now to sign the charter, the one that the Federation insisted Archer be there to sign.
The man himself seems irritated and not all together happy.
Shran sits against the wall, a sleeping Talla in his lap and the weird Terran pet snoring against his leg. He has a hand on both of them as Archer regards his dress uniform with something close to disdain and a lot more like reluctance.
“You’ve done well in this sector, pinkskin,” Shran says, because he thinks Archer might need to hear it.
Archer slumps, back to Shran. “But Trip—“
Shran’s sigh interrupts him as Talla stirs on his lap and the tiny mammal at his leg twitches and jerks. “Commander Tucker is in the infirmary, and your doctor said he would likely make a full recovery, the scars aside.”
Archer sits beside of him and takes Talla off his hands to ease the weight from his body. Talla sprawls against Archer’s chest, her skinny legs poking over Shran’s knees. Archer’s pet wakes and jumps into her lap. Talla’s small fingers drift over the fur before falling asleep again.
“She likes your mammal.”
Archer snorts, uncaring of close they sit. “His name is Porthos. He’s a Terran mammal called a dog.”
“A dog, you say?” Shran asked.
“We keep them as pets. They’re extremely loyal.”
Shran makes a funny chuckling sound in his throat. “Not unlike your Lieutenant Commander Reed?”
Archer jostles his shoulder in admonishment without waking Talla. He says nothing else though, and they sit together on the bed against the wall, Porthos asleep in Talla’s lap and Talla asleep against Archer’s shoulder.
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It’s similar to how T’Pol finds them much later when they’re 12 hours from Earth, except Shran’s head is tilted into Archer’s shoulder, and Archer is leaned on Shran.
T’Pol lifts her gaze diagonally in a move that most humans might call “rolling their eyes”, but refuses to acknowledge the fact she had picked the habit up. Instead, she simply covers Archer, Shran, and Talla with a blanket. The Terran mammal named Porthos senses the movement and jumps down, looking at her expectantly.
Another side-lined gaze, and then T’Pol stares down at Porthos. “I believe Commander Tucker would benefit from your company. Would you care to accompany me to the infirmary?”
Porthos wags his tail.
T’Pol takes it as an affirmative with a tilted nod, and they both stride quickly from the room, locking the door behind them.
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When Archer wakes briefly, he still has Talla in his lap and Shran is asleep on his shoulder. With quiet maneuvering, he gets them both laid out on his bunk, Talla between them, and his fingers drifting against the cool skin of Shran’s ribs, waist, and hips.
Shran’s antennae stroke through his hair and forehead in an unbearably intimate way.
Maybe Archer doesn’t hate Shran’s antennae so much after all.
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