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The first bar they ever went to together was on a neutral planet, after they joined forces and persuaded the local government to disarm the minefields around their solar system, the remnant of a long-disbanded hostile space program. The Guard would move in next to negotiate access to a mineral-rich asteroid belt, Starfleet would send a diplomat to open up formal relations, but on that night, it had felt very much like a private victory. There'd been a formal celebratory dinner, with dress uniforms and local dignitaries and eleven courses of spectacular cuisine – Archer had directed Chef to acquire several of the recipes and supplies to recreate them at leisure – but after everyone else had congratulated each other and gone home, it had felt too early to return to their respective ships and they'd walked the quiet, well-ordered streets, their conversation on nothing in particular pitched low to avoid disturbing the residents, until they'd come to an establishment that was half bar, half park, still busy and serving drinks inside and out. The locals had been surprised by their presence but not overly disturbed, welcoming them with a drink each on the house for their peacekeeping efforts, then a few more from anyone who wanted to say they'd stood a round for aliens or wanted to ask questions about their ships, their people, their work. The people here were curious without being obtrusive, and some time later they found themselves sharing a comfortable wooden bench in the large garden, conversations continuing around them but not with them, the night air cool without being harsh enough to chill the spectacular variety of fragrant greenery, both decorative and functional in dividing the open space into semi-private coves and corners. They watched the beautiful night-flying insects dance in unfathomable patterns, listened to several dozen people quietly getting on with their lives, heard friendly arguments and scathing disagreements, watched flirting both subtle and direct, and while it resembled nothing particular on either of their homeworlds, it felt oddly comfortable just to sit there, be two people in the crowd, seen but not the subject of much regard. Above the city, two extra points of light travelled in a matched geosynchronous orbit and tracked the vessels that even now were taking down ancient mines, but down here they were Archer and Shran, victorious in diplomatic negotiation, in speech for once rather than in action, and if they found that all the talking had left them intermittently silent, both found the company more than satisfactory.
The second bar they encountered was for a very different mission, on a planet much less interested in what the rest of the galaxy thought of them, and it took both of them to wrestle the being they were chasing outside and retrieve the classified Andorian technology from his person. Their actions had barely caused a ripple of attention, even when the being had, in a genuine accident of the sort that happens when three people are physically rolling around, had a particularly delicate pseudopod ground between someone's knee and the stony ground and had nearly shattered Archer's eardrums. After Shran had sent Tholos back to arrange to transport the gadget home, they'd glanced at each other and, at Shran's brief but succinct suggestion, headed back into the bar for a rest and a drink, not necessarily in that order. The same bartender that had held the door open for them when they'd had their hands full then opened a tab and kept the ale coming without comment, and Archer had no idea if it was in acknowledgement of their removing a troublemaker or just to stop them from harassing any other customers. Shran explained that it didn't actually matter which, as an unpaid tab meant the bartender wouldn't let anyone else harass them, either, and moreover, the ale was weak but quite palatable. Archer agreed on both counts, although the following morning, under the eye of a reproachful Porthos, he felt that perhaps it hadn't been as weak as all that, after all.
The third bar they'd ended up hiding in for three days while a local crime lord, inconvenienced quite by accident, had hunted the city for them. The stranglehold on local communication channels had been such that they hadn't dared call for backup, just waited it out while trusting that their combined security forces were following the last orders received and taking the crime lord out of circulation. Andorians were rare out this way, Terrans even more so, but a sturdy and untraceable credit chip bought a lot of disinterest. Though the rooms there were usually rented by the hour, the landlord had been happy to allow them to stay longer, intermittently sending up food and alcohol, which were welcome, and financially negotiable company, which wasn't, although Shran tipped the first one for the enjoyment he got out of seeing Archer flustered and trying to decline without causing offence. The second attempt – both a different physical type and considerably more persistent as the landlord apparently thought it was the choice offered that was being rejected rather than the concept – was less amusing, and Shran didn't comment on Archer's grim expression after the refusal was finally if reluctantly accepted. When the third appeared, Shran had opened the door without putting back on the shirt he'd removed to nap in the humid climate and told them firmly that they had taken the room to enjoy each other's company, not anyone else's, and further intrusions would be exceedingly unwelcome unless they sent down for anything. They had been left alone after that. The room was small and dingy with one small window whose curtains they didn't dare draw, and not being designed for extended occupancy, the diversions available were limited. A stash of pornographic magazines left in a drawer had proved briefly entertaining and certainly educational, although some of it Archer felt he would have to work hard to forget and hoped sincerely that the parts featuring Vulcans had actually been digitally altered aliens of some kind. Shran found the pictures almost hysterically funny, especially the ones featuring poses that neither human nor Andorian bodies could achieve, they agreed, without radical surgery. When that amusement wore thin, they found themselves sitting on the bed, the mattress sagging but more comfortable than the single rickety folding chair, talking about whatever came into their minds, the conversation occasionally drifting into silence but never quite ending. There was room for them both in the bed -- even if they slept in turns, there was nowhere else to be for any length of time except the floor, and that didn't look like it'd been cleaned since the last ice age – and aside from occasional trip to the bathroom, to answer the door or to stretch their legs, that was where they stayed, the thick coverlet folded as an extra pillow against the wall and the bare sheet more than enough for warmth and a token effort towards modesty. When on the second night Shran had drawn him out of a thoughtful silence with a strong hand on his jaw and kissed him, Archer couldn't honestly say he hadn't seen it coming. They didn't talk about it, just spent the remaining time mapping each other's bodies with a dedication and gentleness Archer found unexpectedly touching in Shran and startling in himself. When, in the early hours of the morning after next, he cautiously answered the knock to find Malcolm and a security team of both species looking pleased with themselves, it felt almost like a shock to become more than just himself again, to become the captain, and he didn't have to look at Shran to see that he was having similar difficulties. They parted without bringing up, to others or between themselves, how they'd filled the time, but Shran's hand was firm when he shook it and it was almost in passing that he leaned in just a little to brush Archer's temple with the pad of one antenna. He wasn't sure even the crewmembers present had caught it, but that night when he sorted through the glorious new memories of cool skin flush against his own, that little innocent touch felt just as significant as the firm hands that had slowly and tantalizingly worked him to completion.
The fourth bar they went to started out well enough, on a cosmopolitan trading planet in a city with more aliens resident than natives, busy enough that they could fade into the background, quiet enough that, tucked into a corner, they could have a real conversation. Or that was the theory, but there were only two rings on Archer's not-quite-a-pint when the local constabulary came in, horns blaring, and it turned out that it was low-key but busy because it was the preferred hotspot for dealing in illicit substances. Their crews had kept to more central locations for their shoreleave and avoided the whole mess, and T'Pol had had to come and bail them both out of the local lockup. She also argued the locals out of pressing charges and into letting them go with a warning, which featured an actual judge behind an actual podium talking to them as though they were misbehaving schoolboys, which Archer could've done without and Shran took with bad grace. T'Pol's glare kept them both silent until they were allowed to leave, and neither particularly felt inclined to talk once they were in the shuttle home.
The fifth bar was on Andoria, when Archer was dropping a new diplomat off at the consulate in Laibok and discovered that Shran was at the Imperial Guard headquarters while the Kumari underwent repairs. It was Shran who insisted they attempt a meet-up despite precedent, and he who picked a location, sending directions via a coded channel. Archer took the hint and went without a security escort, just a communicator in case (it seemed more and more likely) an emergency beam-out was required. Shran was waiting outside when he arrived, coat buttoned and scarf tight, and he turned and went straight in before Archer could do more than nod a greeting, paying a cover charge for them both without comment. This bar was quieter, and Archer suspected that it wasn't just because it was some way away from the main streets – the outside had been plain, a small name plaque that he couldn't read its only concession to public presence. Shran ordered drinks for both of them from the ambiguously-gendered barperson, who raised an impressed antenna at Archer but otherwise provided their glasses without commentary, and Shran picked up them both and lead his way through the sparse crowd to a booth out of the way, all dark wood with vials of luminescent fungi giving a gentle greenish light. Archer sat and took his drink, and waited, and listened to Shran's halting speech, answering and arguing quietly as their drinks cooled half-drunk and forgotten. When Archer finished speaking, Shran stared at him for a long time, then leaned in and pressed their temples together, antennae curling into his hair, and didn't protest at all when Archer turned it into a kiss. When, somewhat belatedly, Archer remembered they they were technically still in a public place on Shran's homeworld, Shran pointed out with exasperation that he hadn't chosen this venue for the décor; looking around properly for the first time, Archer noticed that there were an unusually high percentage of non-Andorians around, most of them with Andorians and often with several of them, and that the bartender wasn't the only one present he wouldn't know how to address a letter to. On the way out the bartender, charming and earnest, asked for a photo for their wall of fame, as Archer was the first Terran to walk in, let alone leave with an Andorian. Archer smiled, reminded Shran that nobody either of them knew would ever see it, and put an arm around his shoulder. Shran scowled, but the picture caught him glancing at Archer, antennae set in amusement, and Archer insisted on taking a copy with them. The original print was pinned amid hundreds of others on the wall behind the bar, only one in a collection clearly dating back decades or more, the oldest fading and half-covered by newer additions. Archer asked how many species were represented and Shran shrugged, but said that if they'd found company on Andoria in the last two hundred years, they'd've found it here. Archer liked the idea of being part of that kind of history. The copy he later tucked into his desk, with the other pictures of far-away people he thought about every day.
The sixth bar was beautiful, Trip assured him, all ancient construction with cutting edge music and the cream of the local social scene, views of lit beaches and rolling hills, and half of both their crews agreed to meet there for the start of their first evening of shoreleave. Reviewing it in the local tourist database, Archer agreed that it looked fantastic, had them deliver a few bottles, and he and Shran shut themselves in Shran's quarters instead. They locked the door, as well as all but the emergency comm channels. Perhaps Trip and company had a good time; Shran and Archer were quite sure they had a better one.