Archer's head slowly came back around as Brannon scoffed, hands stilling their movement as his friend extricated himself from his blanket fort and headed out to the other room with his smartass fucking comments. Even as he felt anger leading the pack now, nudging out his feelings of helplessness and frustration, Archer's heart gave a bit of a lurch. Yeah, this shit right here was exactly why he was struggling as much as he was. There was just enough truth in what Brannon said to make him feel guilty, just enough misunderstanding to make Archer want to fucking punch the wall until his hand broke.
He needed Bran's help, but knew he couldn't ask for it without telling him everything that was wrong. He couldn't tell Brannon everything for the first time in years and it wasn't sitting well, but Archer had hoped his friend -- his fucking partner -- would be able to understand that. At the very least, he'd hope Bran would give him time to get his head on straight. Not give him shit.
Archer crossed the room slowly, filled the doorway as Brannon went to the fridge in their much smaller outer room, just the microfridge and the couch and some odds and ends. "Got something you wanna get off your chest?" asked Archer, low and careful. It was more of an offer than a warning, but it was just on the verge of being Archer's dangerously quiet voice; it wasn't the icy tones of wintry disinterest but the soft snick of a match being struck, flame wavering, waiting to find out if it would be touched to tinder.