Scream It To The Nothingness Who: Archer and O’Brien Where: their quarters What: If ever there were two people overdue for a talk… -or- How Archer Gets That Bruise On His Jaw When: late Thursday into early Friday
It was a late night for Archer Avery after a long day at work, which was par for the course these last two weeks. It had been a steady build, ever since Archer accepted the chief’s badge, but the blob rain tipped the scales and pushed him firmly into the territory of overwork. There had ceased to be a difference between Archer on the job or off, because he was simply never off. Archer would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t see something like this coming within the first few seconds of the mayor, Reeves Olinger, congratulating him on this ‘promotion’ by circumstance… but a lot had happened this month, especially in these last couple of weeks, that had Archer burning the candle at both ends.
It wasn’t a good thing to do. Wasn’t a good way to be. He knew this was a part of him, had seen it in action back in the day, back in New York, back before he was supposed to have learned his fucking lesson about this. There were cops that talked a lot about how you love the job but it doesn’t love you back and maybe that was true, but that hadn’t ever really been the root of Archer’s need to become what someone -- maybe Bran -- had typed a ‘workaholic robot.’ Archer pushed himself back then because he felt it was necessary, that he’d be his best self on the job if he did it. Time was supposed to have taught him that wasn’t the case. And it didn’t feel like he was doing it these days to be his fucking best. At anything.
Last night (or early this morning, fucked if he knew how to keep it all straight), he’d fallen asleep at his fucking desk sometime after midnight. Archer wasn’t proud of this and he wasn’t proud of the way he’d startled awake before daybreak, edging toward a nightmare, gasping for air as he’d snapped back into consciousness. His shoulder had ached for a few minutes and he’d stretched carefully, alert and tense. Then he’d looked at the contents of his desk... and went back to work. Rereading the notes he’d made for the talk he wished to have with Thomas Lansing after their meeting at 2PM, Archer took the time to scribble down a few more notes, for both the official and unofficial discussion. After that, the chief looked at status reports from the shelters and set about planning out how Thursday would go. This was the stuff he could almost control. He could do fuck all about everything that was bothering him, all of the weight that had been placed on his shoulders and the secrets he now had to drag around, but he could do the basics of his job and do them well. He’d been tossed into the deep end and the new chief was gonna thrash around as best he could to keep his head above water.
All the while, Archer knew this wasn’t good, wasn’t smart, but so much was going on that he just didn’t know what else to do but keep moving. It was as if he thought if he stopped, it was all going to catch up to him and Archer didn’t know how to fucking handle that. If he’d been smart, he would’ve already tried sharing this feeling with his best friend, partner, and now Deputy Chief: Brannon O’Brien. But lately Archer felt like he’d been doing a really great job of fucking that up, too. It’d been okay when they’d had the blobs to focus their attention on. Archer had gone out to work side by side with Bran when he could, but eventually they’d had to split up as Archer was needed to coordinate so many things, being pulled in so many directions, and the moments of easy camaraderie over a difficult task had passed. Now Bran wasn’t feeling well and Archer had done what he could, cajoled Brannon into going to the doctor, but when his help hadn’t really been needed beyond that…? It had been easy enough to go right back into workaholic robot mode and Archer could sense that he was proving to be a huge fucking disappointment.
Tonight, at least, he wasn’t accidentally crashing at his desk, but it was later than it should have been when Archer finally left the police department and trudged wearily back to the quarters he shared with Bran. They’d decided to double up early on and Archer had always been fine with that. They had a decent amount of space, even if they’d had to shove both of their beds into the same room, and he was glad of the attached bathroom. There’d been time to drag over some stuff from their apartments, and Archer had been glad to snag the shit that had been important before looters got to it. Sleeping in his own bed rather than on a couch or in a sleeping bag for the rest of the end of the world was something, at least. There was space enough to put away their stuff, for him to have a nightstand and chair by his bed to lay out his clothes and gear, even for Bran to have his blanket fort set up around his bed. The main room wasn’t big but there was space to sit and read and a microfidge that Archer was able to keep stocked with stuff from the Capitol kitchen, though he mostly used it to keep cold water.
It wasn’t fancy, their place, but it was comfortable and it was theirs. Archer was happy enough to call it home. Just the same, as he let himself in and locked the door behind him, as he walked toward the bedroom, massaging his right shoulder under the holster strap, he was kind of hoping Bran was asleep. Brannon could read him better than anyone he knew, just about… and that could be a problem right now. There was shit Archer didn’t know how to tell him and shit Archer just flat out couldn’t tell him and his defenses were just utterly shot right now.
Even if he wasn’t feeling great, Bran was a good cop. Easily one of the best. And that’s what Archer was afraid of.