Chapter Text
It was dark in the Aenar medical complex.
Shran had described the Aenar as “blind ice-dwellers,” as “isolated” and “secretive.” The description was accurate enough, as far as it went. To Archer's mind, the words had conjured up an image of a primitive, hardscrabble society, eking out a living in a barren, hostile environment. It was clear, though, that that image was far from the reality of things. From what little he'd been able to see as their hosts had led them through the tunnels into the heart of their hidden city, the Aenar were anything but primitive. Their buildings were architectural marvels, elegant, curved structures built directly into the underground spires of ice and stone like something out of a high-tech fairy tale. Their medical equipment looked to be as advanced as anything in Phlox's sickbay. And from the way that they moved, it was clear that, with or without functioning eyes, they had no difficulty perceiving the slightest details of the world around them. Living down in the dark, they had no need of light.
Archer, on the other hand, could have used some illumination.
Shran's howl of pain as he'd fallen, impaling his leg on a spike of ice, still rung in his ears. He'd done his best to bind up the wound, knowing that, between the injuries Shran had sustained when he'd lost his ship, and the one he'd taken during the Ushaan, the man could not afford to lose much more blood.
Stubborn, arrogant jackass. Archer clenched his gloved fists. Shran hadn't yet fully regained his sense of balance and body awareness in the aftermath of the Ushaan. Why couldn't he be more careful? Why did he have to be so hard-headed, refusing to accept any help until it was too late?
Alone in the dark, there was little to distract him from the mental images that had been playing on repeat in his head for the past week. The wreckage of Shran's ship – and he had known it was Shran's; for all of the distortion in the distress call, there had been no mistaking that voice – scattered across a field of stars. Shran's face, twisted with grief and rage as he took in the extent of his losses. A glint of light reflecting off the blade of Shran's ushaan-tor when the man succeeded, however briefly, in overpowering him. The shiver down his spine when he remembered that particular moment had nothing at all to do with the cold. It didn't have much to do with the thought that Shran really might have killed him back there, either.
In that moment, the thought had sprung to his mind, unbidden, that under other circumstances, he wouldn't at all mind being pinned down by his Andorian friend. With everything on the line, he'd been unable to stop himself from imagining an entirely different kind of heat in those bright, alien eyes.
It wasn't like the attraction was new. He'd been aware of it since Weytahn, although he was pretty sure, looking back, that there had been something there since Coridan. At least. The timing had never been right, though. There was always something coming between them. It was the nature of the lives they led.
Archer put his head in his hands, trying to banish the image of Shran at the end of the fight. Shran on his knees, bloodied and disoriented, throat bared, entirely at his mercy. The sight of it had filled him with fury. How dare you put me in this position? How dare you make me do this to you?
It had hurt to see Shran like that. It hurt because...
Because...
That was when he'd realized. The intensity of his feelings wasn't because they were friends. It wasn't because of the inconvenient, seemingly mutual, but mostly unacknowledged attraction between them. It certainly wasn't the principle of the thing.
It was love.
Love for a man whose arrogance, whose impatience, whose sheer disrespect for Archer's judgment and authority while he was a guest on Archer's ship had nearly cost them everything.
It had taken everything he had in him to follow through with the proper form for ending the fight – to cast aside his weapon and turn away. He hadn't been sure then, and he wasn't sure now, whether he'd wanted to pull Shran into his arms, or slug him in the jaw.
Infuriating man.
To his dismay, Archer felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He'd been so angry, and the realization of how deep his feelings went hadn't done a thing to soothe that anger. If anything, they'd inflamed it. He'd been – he was – grateful for the help Shran had given with their investigation into the origins of the Marauder in the days that followed. But things between them were ... stiff. Strained.
And then Shran had tumbled off that ledge, fallen far and hard, and managed to stab himself through the leg with a giant fucking icicle. And there was blood, again. So much blood, blood that Shran couldn't spare. And, once again, it was Shran's goddamn fault, because he had learned nothing, he was still impatient, and arrogant, and he wouldn't trust Archer to help him.
Out there in the cold and the dark, with the fate of the entire sector potentially depending on the success of their mission, all Archer had been able to think was please don't die, please don't die, I love you, you stupid asshole, please don't die.
And now Shran had been whisked off for treatment, and Archer was still cold, and it was still dark, and he had no idea what to do with himself. Their hosts had made it clear that they intended to wait until Shran had been treated before they would even consider discussing the reason for their visit. So there was nothing for him to do but sit, and wait, and stew.
He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there when he heard the sound of a door gliding open, and looked up to see a pale, shadowed form approaching, barely visible in the faint, reflected light.
“You're cold,” said the figure. The voice was, to Archer's ears at least, androgynous, cool and frustratingly serene. “And you can't see.” Before Archer could think of a polite response, the stranger spoke again. “How thoughtless of us.”
“I'm fine,” said Archer. “I just ... is my friend okay?”
“He was suffering from severe blood loss,” the figure said. “The doctors felt it best to sedate him while they operated. He will recover with no lasting damage to the leg.”
“I'm glad,” said Archer. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “Can I see him?”
“He has not yet woken,” said the Aenar. “But you may come to check on him if you like.”
Archer stood. “Thank you,” he said again.
When they reached the recovery room where Shran was currently resting, someone had already turned on the lights. Archer flinched at the sudden brightness, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting while he waited for them to adjust. He couldn't help wondering why the Aenar even had such bright lights.
“The sedation doesn't last long,” said the the stranger. Archer turned, and finally got a good look at them. Tall and slender, with snow-white skin, shoulder-length white hair and facial features that his Human eyes tentatively coded as masculine, they inclined their antennae toward him and smiled slightly. “He should be awake in a few minutes. The doctor will want to see him once he's fully conscious, to assess his recovery.”
“Okay,” said Archer, still squinting a bit.
“The light is too bright,” said the stranger, surprise in their voice. “Forgive us. It isn't often that we have visitors who can directly perceive it.” Their antennae waved, and the light dimmed. Without another word, they nodded politely and turned to depart, leaving Archer alone with the obstinate, overbearing idiot he was apparently in love with. At least he didn't have to think of anything to say. Shran was, for the moment, still unconscious.
He looked vulnerable in a way that Archer had never seen him, not even at the conclusion of the Ushaan. His eyes were closed, his one good antenna curled limply against his head, nestled in his unkempt white hair. His uniform had been removed, his body covered only by a thin blanket. There was a tube connected to his left arm, some kind of IV line, with a steady infusion of a thick blue fluid. A blood transfusion, maybe. Or more of the rehydration solution Phlox had been using. He wouldn't want me to see him like this, Archer thought, and he started to turn away, when his eye snagged on something.
On Shran's left forearm, partially concealed by the IV tubing, was a mark. Ignoring the voice in his head telling him not to look, telling him to respect his friend's privacy, Archer leaned in, reaching out to nudge the tubing aside for a better look. I'm imagining things, came one thought, even as another said, oh. That explains a lot.
The mark was about the size of a thumbprint, shaped like a starburst, and the exact same pinkish-beige colour as Archer's own skin.
He took two steps back, his heart thudding in his chest. He briefly considered rolling up his own sleeve to make a visual comparison, but he didn't need to. Except for the colour inversion, the mark on Shran's arm was a perfect match to his own. He knew it on sight, but more than that, he felt it, deep in his core.
Soulmate.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, frozen in place, trying to process it. Wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with this information. Wondering whether Shran knew, or suspected. It occurred to him that it should have been impossible – they weren't even the same species for god's sake – but it never occurred to him to doubt that it was true.
Whatever joy he might have felt at the discovery that not only did he have a soulmate, but that his soulmate was a person he already loved, was tempered by the fact that he was still extraordinarily pissed off at the man in question.
Just then, Shran's antenna uncurled. His breath hitched, and he shifted his weight, slightly, under the blanket. Archer stepped back again, narrowly avoiding a collision with a tray of medical instruments as he did so.
He doesn't need to know I was here. Feeling like a coward, Archer turned and ducked out of the recovery room, out into the darkness of the waiting area. We came here for a reason, he reminded himself. The Marauder's pilot needed to be found, and stopped. Nothing else mattered. Not now.
The shrapnel from the bomb that had just exploded in the middle of his personal life would have to wait.