Shran never would have agreed to the Federation if he knew the blasted beurocrats running it were going to take Jon from him for months at a time. He curses its name as he waits with baited breath for his husband’s return from his latest trip to serve on the Federation council. It may be his job, and their dream, but if he has to wait a minute longer he might punch a hole through the glacier he’s standing on.
Finally, the light of the thrusters appears as an eerie glow in the snowfall. Shran stands up straight, tense with anticipation.
Jonathan Archer, Federation councilman, pinkskin, the love of Shran’s formerly dark and bitter life, steps out of the shuttle, and Shran blinks back his tears of joy.
“Jon,” he drawls out untranslated, in his best imitation of English. (Jon says he’s getting better, but the n still sounds a little harsh to Shran’s ears. Not that Jon is any better in Andorian.)
He covers the distance to Shran in three quick strides and wraps his arms tightly around him. When he pulls back to look him in the eyes again, Shran is sure the warmth of the love in them could melt all the ice on Andor.
“Welcome home,” is all Shran can whisper over the pounding of his heart. Jon kisses him until he couldn’t say anything if he tried.