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Archer blinked at Shran over the rim of his ale glass. “You want me to what?”
Shran tilted his chin up, a pointed glint in his eyes. “You heard me, pinkskin. I need a trim.” He pushed a hand through his short hair, smoothing it in a slow, studied motion. The gesture, so unlike Shran, caught Archer off guard—as did the sudden heat rising in his cheeks. Coughing lightly, he fidgeted in his seat.
“It looks fine to me. But if you insist, then Phlox might, uh, might be able to fit you in tomorrow, or maybe—”
“I need it right now.” Shran’s gaze pinned Jon in place as he laid a sleek, polished knife down on the desk between them with a quiet clack. The corner of his lips quirked ever so faintly. “Figured since you’ve got those…steady pilot hands, you’d be good at it.”
Truth be told, Jon's hands felt anything but steady right now. He eyed the well-honed blade, and reflexively ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t one of your people be better at…this?”
Shran snorted, swirling his drink. “They’re all too impatient. And none of them,” he said, his voice dipping even lower as he leaned in, “have quite the touch I’m looking for tonight.”
Archer swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Right. If this was just a haircut, then Risa had a lot of massage therapists with blinking neoned store fronts open at 2 am.
He took a long sip of his ale, hoping its cold bite would clear his head. But his mind wandered anyway, back to sickbay that afternoon; to him and Phlox chatting about Denobulan family recipes while Phlox briskly worked a scissor through his hair; to Shran, his jaw and hands clenched even as he sat and made tight-lipped small talk, all the while glaring at Phlox as though the doctor’s easy, unbothered cheer was a private irritation. The instant Phlox was done, Shran had hauled Archer away, and practically snarled when Trip caught them in the corridor to ask about movie night.
At the time, Archer had put it down to pre-mission jitters winding Shran’s usual short temper tight. Now, with a knife glistening on the table between them and Shran asking him in a low, gravelly purr to cut his hair, he felt like new pieces of the puzzle had revealed themselves—but they only left him with more questions.
He could say no. He should say no. Professional considerations aside, the prospect of his unskilled hands wielding one of Shran's obsessively whetted knives so close to his delicate, sensitive antennae sent a bolt of panic down his spine. It felt like the beginning of a story that would end in sickbay, very soon. If nothing else, they'd have to visit Phlox just to clean up whatever uneven, choppy mess of a haircut Archer was bound to saddle Shran with.
“Well?” Shran’s antennae curved toward him, as if drawn by the quickening beat of his heart. “Will you do this for me?”
I've never done anything like this before, Jon wanted to blurt out, but something told him Shran would only find that more thrilling. There was heat in his gaze, something both demanding and daring; that same dark intensity that always made Archer feel like he'd been caught in a gravity well with no chance of escaping.
And maybe, he didn’t want to.
Drawing a deep breath, he carefully set his glass down and picked up the knife. It was lighter than he expected, the hilt smooth and cool in his palm, the precise, narrow blade flashing silver under the overhead lights. He turned it once between his fingers, testing its weight and balance, all the while acutely aware of Shran’s eyes on him, his watchful gaze tracking every movement, every falter, with a focus as sharp as the knife itself.
Feeling at once both exposed and emboldened, Archer braced a hand on his desk and stood up.
“Turn around,” he said, voice calm but firm.
Smirking, Shran sat up straighter and swiveled the chair, turning to expose the back of his head to Archer. “You can start at the nape. Take your time, Captain.”
He sounded so casual, but Archer felt the tension in Shran’s shoulder as he took hold of it, trying to maneuver him into a position that would make his job easier. This close, he caught the faintly metallic scent of Shran’s well-worn leather uniform, undercut by something icy and alien, and his fingers tingled with anticipation as he gripped the knife. He rolled his wrist and tested the angle a few times as though rehearsing the motion, then finally brought the knife close to make the first tentative stroke along the curve of Shran’s skull.
The razor-thin blade sliced through the feathery strands with almost ethereal ease, as if gliding through static. A few tufts of pale hair, soft as snowflakes, drifted over Jon’s knuckles in passing, and his grip on the gleaming knife tightened instinctively as a shiver ran up his arm. Biting his lip, he held his breath as he finished one stroke and angled the blade for the next.
“You’re going to give yourself a cramp,” Shran muttered after another tense pass of the blade. “Loosen your grip.”
“I’d rather not,” Archer murmured back, eyes wide open in concentration. ”This thing is sharp enough to split atoms.”
“Hmph. Then try not to split any you aren’t supposed to. Do as I say, ease your hand.”
Huffing, Archer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and relaxed his fingers a little on the next cut. “That better?”
“Better,” Shran drawled, his tone unusually indulgent as he settled back and leant his head into Jon’s hands. “Steady now.”
Whatever Archer had been about to reply stalled in his throat at the brush of Shran's frost-light strands against his palms, at that small, deliberate yielding into his hands. For all the nonchalance in his posture, this wasn’t casual. Not for Shran.
Drawn by the sensation, Jon swept his thumb through the downy softness, slow and careful. Shran's hair was thicker than it looked, cool to the touch, and incredibly fine. Almost silky. Shran shivered in response, a subtle tremor that seemed to ripple through Jon as well, and his fingers twitched against the armrest, as if sparked by a current seeking release.
“Keep going,” he urged, tipping his head forward just slightly in silent invitation back to the task.
A flicker of excitement warmed Jon’s chest, and he leaned back into the task, slower this time, guided by a new attention to every little reaction: the barely audible sighs, the subtle loosening of Shran’s shoulders, the small tilts and shifts that seemed to invite his touch.
When he reached the crown, he took a step back to assess his progress. He frowned at the uneven patches and swept a few strays aside, letting his hand linger just a heartbeat longer than necessary. His nails grazed the fine hairs lightly, gently, in a touch meant not just to tidy, but to connect. One of Shran’s antennae swiveled toward him, and the other gave a measured tick, like a needle graphing his movements.
“You’re tracking me,” Jon said, lips twitching.
Shran let out a low, almost inaudible hum and leaned slightly into the touch. “You may have noticed, Andorian scalps are… attuned.”
Jon’s brows rose. “‘Attuned’?”
“…Sensitive, then.”
“Not in a bad way, I hope,” Archer said, his tone light, almost playful, and let his hand drift away from Shran’s hair—only for one slim, surprisingly strong antenna to lasso his pinky, anchoring him in place.
“That,” Shran said, turning his head just enough to shoot Archer a sidelong look, “depends entirely on who’s touching.” Unwinding his antenna, he traced its slender tip along the inside of Archer’s wrist, making the human’s pulse jump.
“Oh.” Archer chuckled, and drew his fingers through Shran's freshly shorn hair. “I take it you liked that, then?”
“Perhaps,” Shran replied, his voice mellowing by a shade. His antenna curled lazily into Jon’s hand, betraying his enjoyment.
Archer nodded, humming to himself as he ran his thumb along the squirming appendage. He shuffled his feet, then thought to hell with it and asked, “So is that why you reacted like that in Sickbay?”
The antennae snatched out of his grasp, and every line in Shran's body tensed. “Like what?”
Jon took a step back and, just in case, hid the knife behind his back. “You looked like you wanted to wreck something.” Or someone. “You know, when Phlox was—”
“It wasn’t jealousy,” Shran clipped off, his ears flushing a deeper blue.
“No? Then what was it?”
Shran spun his chair to glare at Jon, sharp as a lightning strike. “I got possessive. There’s a difference.”
Archer’s heart thudded once, hard, and the two men stared at each other in charged silence. Shran’s ears beat blue again, but he didn’t look away, didn’t flinch, just held his head high with a look that expected Archer to speak, yet made it clear he wouldn’t be impressed either way.
But something was blooming in Jon’s core, hot and heady and past the point of language. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to move, to act. In a rush, he dropped the knife on the table and reached for Shran.
Shran was faster. Snagging Jon by the arm, he yanked him down with a sudden, forceful pull. Jon barely had time for a panicked yelp— My knees! —before Shran caught him, sparing him the impact. With calculated, breath-taking strength he settled Jon securely between his thighs, and his hand seized his jaw, angling it until their eyes locked.
Then Shran was on him, in a kiss that was all teeth, heat and bruising intent. Jon’s lips parted in a breathless sound of half-surprise, half-delight, and his hands scrabbled for purchase. He clutched, pushed, pulled, trying to meet Shran’s force with his own, but it felt less like a kiss and more like being consumed; if his knees weren’t already on the floor, they would have buckled under the onslaught.
His hand slid up Shran’s back, slipping over slick leather and taut muscle, until he found the hair he’d just shorn. He tugged gently at the short strands, and the effect was immediate. Groaning deep in his chest, Shran arched into the touch, clutching Jon closer, his quivering antennae stroking Jon's face with urgency. His breath came hard through his nose as he deepened the kiss, eyes and fists squeezing tight with want, like he was tasting something he’d hungered for too long. A soft, helpless moan escaped Jon’s throat, muffled against Shran’s mouth, and lost in the sensations, he let himself melt against Shran, into the heat of their mutual desire.
When Shran finally broke away, Jon barely had time to catch his breath before Shran’s hand fisted in his hair, drawing his head back to bare his neck.
“You look good on your knees,” Shran crooned against Jon’s pulse point, before dragging his teeth over the thin, tender skin, triggering a gasp from him. “I might keep you down there for a while.”
Jon shivered. Then he grinned, reckless and flushed, and gave Shran’s freshly shorn hair another tug. “Why don’t you join me?”
A smoldering growl rumbled from Shran, vibrating through Jon’s body, and his lips curled in a predatory smirk. “If you insist.”
He pounced, startling an excited whoop out of Jon as his compact muscle pinned him firmly to the floor. The lights dimmed, and the rest of the night answered any questions left unsaid.