Chapter Text
Interstellar Alliance HQ on Andoria happens to share a building with Imperial Guard HQ – five subterranean levels down from the main plaza. Having only been there once before, Archer hopes he will be spared the great indignity of getting lost – but on level six, passing by uniformed Guard members who all give him deferential salutes, he is guided by the unmistakeable sound of a very familiar voice.
“…And another thing! I want no mention of the statue to him. From anyone. Hide it. Divert him. Send out a division-wide alert, pretend to have a heart attack, I don’t care. Anything. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“What about the reservations at J’harimar?”
“A private balcony table for two, upper level, with a view of the commercial district,” rattles off the harried subordinate.
“Good. Good. Dismissed.”
“Sir.”
Archer turns the corner, already smiling before he sees Shran – gripping the railing overlooking the seventh level. He is frowning deeply, but that’s nothing new.
“…What statue?” Archer asks.
Shran nearly jumps. “You’re here.”
“Sure am.”
“I didn’t receive your answer to my message.” Shran’s jaw is tight and his antennae have drawn together. He looks at Archer shrewdly, dark eyes shining from under his brows.
Archer tries to think of a way to say, ‘I kept recording answers but they all sounded completely insane, so I gave up by the time I was almost to Andoria anyway,’ but fails. Instead, he says, “Sorry. There was a lot to do on Enterprise, and it slipped my mind. Shore leave on Andoria requires a lot of paperwork, apparently.” Grinning guiltily, he adds, “Good to see you?”
“Good to see you too.”
“What was that about a statue?”
“Nothing,” Shran says quickly, antennae pointing in opposite directions. “You seem… Well.”
Shran’s odd, probing manner quickly gets Archer on his guard. “Yeah?”
“Good. I’m well too.”
“That’s great.” Archer squints back at him, absolutely determined to pretend as though this isn’t a big deal to him. “Look, Shran, is something the matter?”
“Yes! We’re married!” Shran bursts out, straight to the point. “Did you forget, or something?”
A few people passing turn to look at them.
“We’re married, Pinkskin,” Shran repeats, leaning a little closer to Archer, gripping his forearm. “And it’s my fault.”
“It’s just as much my fault,” Archer reassures him. “‘Takes two to tango.’” He winces. “Not that… Huh. Anyway, I’m not mad, if that’s what you think. I thought you’d be mad at me – I was gonna bribe you with my entire minibar.”
Shran blinks. His antennae stand straight up. And then he bursts out laughing.
“No, seriously!” Archer begins to laugh too. “I already put a request in to the Admiralty to name a new class of ship after you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Shran, I was honest-to-god refreshing my memory on the Ushaan code! Turns out married people without kids can defer-”
Shran’s expression immediately shutters. “ That is what you thought,” he says, stony.
Archer rolls his eyes, his turn to take Shran’s arm and shake it gently. “Shran, relax. Sure, you stabbed me in the ass, I cut your antenna off – we’re square.” He smiles crookedly. “Besides, I’ve been through way worse for diplomacy. I once had to get ugly hair extensions and chainsaw a tree, shirtless, in front of the whole command crew and some alien dignitaries.”
Shran pauses, looking pensive as he tries to imagine that fiasco. "…Right."
“Hell, remember how we met? You beat the crap out of me! If I was bothered by our past, you really think I’d’ve spent all these years being your friend and ally?”
“…And now, my husband, apparently,” Shran adds dryly.
“Right. Yeah.” Archer leans back against the railing with a heavy sigh. Husband.
They fall into a somewhat uneasy silence.
“So, about-”
“Archer, I-”
“You go first.”
“No, you.”
“No, you.”
“You distinctly spoke first.”
“It’s not that important.”
Shran glares and crosses his arms . This is going to be a very long argument. The guy doesn’t like to lose, who knew?
Archer sighs again . “Alright. Fine. I’ll go first. What’s your timeline?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what have you been telling everyone? What kind of ceremony did we have? What was our first date? Where do we go from here? Andorian white picket fences and two-point-five kids, or an explosive divorce on every news-screen headline?”
Shran pauses. “I…” He frowns. “No. To all of it.”
“Huh?”
“We can stick as closely to the truth as possible. No embellishment, unlike what got us into this mess. No ceremony, just our signatures on a marriage contract. No ‘first date,’ we’ve known each other too long. No children – we’re biologically incompatible.”
Archer nods. “Wow. Ok. Sure. Great. …What was your thing?”
“Nothing,” Shran says.
“So this is all just a PR stunt for the sake of interstellar politics? That’s how we’re spinning it?”
“To my superiors? Yes.” Shran chews on the insides of his mouth for a moment, looking away, antennae taut. “…My family will be a different matter.”
Archer rubs his forehead. “Right. What’s the deal there?”
“I’m known by most as a traditionalist. My closest family members know me as a…” Shran turns a slightly darker shade of blue, “What you might call a romantic. There’s a different word in Andorian, of course, with different connotations-”
“Of course,” Archer says, trying not to seem too charmed. Shran, a romantic. Just imagine.
“They know me well enough to know I wouldn’t marry someone other than for love. So, in their eyes, our match is… Less pragmatic. The story can be the same – just…”
“More romantic?” Archer suggests.
Shran glares at him.
“Don’t worry. I can ham it up for the clan. I did it on Gh’fa, didn’t I?”
Shran’s deep blue hue deepens further. “That’s not necessary. Just… Be like you usually are.”
“Yeah, okay. ‘Sweetheart,’ was a bit too far. In my defense, I panicked.” Just like he’s panicking now.
The deep, resigned sigh from Shran puts an end to Archer’s mirth. For a moment, the Andorian’s craggy face looks tired beyond his years. “…We’ve got a dinner reservation set for a few minutes from now,” he says gruffly. “We should start getting to the transport station, Pinkskin.”
With that, he turns to lead the way, leaving Archer with a dizzying mix of confusion, mild dejection, and a distinct sense he had said something wrong, but not a clue what.
--
Their private balcony at J’harimar, which, apparently is the classiest place in Laikan, if not on all Andoria, offers a great view of the city’s top levels, all glittering lights and glittering ice. The balcony itself is enclosed and insulated, but still a few degrees colder than Archer is used to (just like everywhere else on Andoria.)
The table is laid out with a fantastic spread of food that Archer has no idea what to call, and a tall bottle of a dark-orange drink similar to wine. With the soft, blueish light around them, and the view beneath, it’s almost a little romantic, though, probably, Archer figures that’s just what Andorian restaurants are like.
“…So, you don’t want to get divorced.,” Archer says, with as carefree of a smile as he can muster. “I got your message, sure, but you weren’t exactly forthcoming.”
Shran’s antennae droop slightly. “Very well. I’ll be forthcoming.”
Archer raises his eyebrows.
“When I lost the Kumari, I was recalled to Andoria and given official reprimand. My options were limited – ultimately, I chose a term of service aboard the Starliner Threvall, under Commander Okev.”
“Right – Okev was the one who let me borrow you for the Gh’fa mission.”
Shran nods. “When I returned, I was praised for helping secure a trade deal so quickly, but I was not to be reassigned to a different ship until my probationary period of three years' time had passed. Then, I got a call from the head of the Andorian Diplomatic Commission, General Thelex.”
Archer takes a sip of his wine and tries not to roll his eyes. Of course the head of Andorian diplomacy was a military commander.
“The General congratulated me on my match – and intimated that the reason the Interstellar Alliance has been so generous to Andoria is because of my influence over you. I pointed out that the Tellarites and the Vulcans also benefit, but he was certain that the outcome of war with the Romulans would depend on the pinkskins. I was recalled back to Andoria, and within a month, I am to be in command of my own ship again.” Shran takes a breath and looks up at Archer. “That is what I have to gain from this marriage.”
“You’re telling me your promotion is riding on this marriage?”
Shran’s jaw tightens. “Essentially.”
“Well, then we can’t get divorced for a while. I won’t leave you out to dry like that,” Archer says decisively, with a single, sharp nod. “I might be your husband by accident, but I’m your friend on purpose, and it’s no skin off my back, Shran. I promise you.”
Shran looks at him with wide, dark eyes. “That was… A quick agreement,” he says.
“Of course. I don’t need to think twice about it.”
Shran shakes his head. “ There is something else.”
“What?”
“General Thelex was not always the head of the Diplomatic Commission. Previously, he ran the Guard’s more… Discreet interstellar operations.” Shran’s jaw works, and his antennae have drawn apart, still pointing downwards. On the table, the knuckles of his hand have turned a much paler shade of blue as his fist clenches around his meat knife.
Impulsively Archer lays his hand over Shran’s. “You okay?”
Shran startles and Archer pulls back. Shit. Too much.
“General Thelex issued the order to find you in the Expanse, and use any means necessary to acquire the Xindi weapon from you.”
“Oh, is that all.” Archer snorts. “Wow. Jeez. What a guy, huh.” He takes a breath and shrugs. “Well, uh, as much as Thelex has the wrong idea about… Basically everything, except that we all need each other for war with the Romulans… I’m not going to screw you over just to spite him. So, like I said. No need to think twice about it.”
The relief is palpable in the set of Shran’s shoulders and the gentle rising of his antennae. “Careful, Pinksin, you haven’t met my superiors, nor my family yet,” he jokes.
“I’ve met you.”
“I’m like a ‘piece of cake,’ in comparison to them. Several pieces, in fact.”
Archer bites back helpless laughter, unsuccessfully.
Shran tries not to smile back, looks away, then looks back with a frown. “What about… Assignations.”
“Huh?”
“Three years is a long time to keep a cold bed.”
Archer’s mouth twists in uncomfortable amusement. Not like he was getting it on much anyway . “Don’t worry, I can take it. Extramarital affairs aren’t my thing.”
“Andorians aren’t generally monogamous,” Shran counters.
“Humans mostly are.”
“So you have no-one, now?”
“It’s hard to form lasting relationships when you’re flying around the cosmos for years at a time. And Starfleet has rules about fraternization.”
“The Imperial Guard doesn’t.”
“Look, if you’re trying to tell me there’s someone… Or, uh, a few someones… Well, that’s normal for Andorians, right?”
“No,” Shran sighs. “There is no-one.” He drums his fingers on the table, antennae getting closer together and bending forward. Avoiding Archer’s eyes, he says, “I’m unusual in that I prefer my ‘someones’ one at a time.”
Archer smiles encouragingly and reaches across the table to briefly pat Shran’s hand again . “Hey, so I guess that just means we’re both living like monks for three years.”
Shran squints at him. “…Either there was a mistranslation, or Earth monks lead exceedingly different lives to Andorian ones.”
Archer grins. “Okay, shoot. Tell me about the monks.”