The methods of battlefields were dependent on terrain. Adelaide's life had been fought in the heat with land mines, while Thomas Robert Lansing had been raised in a cold war. Survival had seemed dependent on keen awareness of everything around himself. An accounting of every word, every action, anything that might lead to fallout. Knowing that eventual conflict would come quickly and quietly. That failure to see it coming could lead to erasure. A small, perfunctory funeral, perhaps, if his failure was great enough. More likely simple ostracism. Messages sent by an icy silence. You do not exist. You are of no importance. You failed.
His own mother had loathed noise. It had been a shame that she'd ever had children -- boys instead of exotic fish. The chaos of children had never sat well with Christine, and in his desperate need to stay in her good graces after each of his brothers disappointed her in turn, Robert had done his best to eliminate all chaos within himself.
It hadn't been an entirely successful endeavor. Adelaide had learned to act from her battlefield. She'd learned to smile convincingly and adapt herself to the situation. Ensure that she would not cause any explosions by a misstep on her part. Robert had taken up accounting, instead. He didn't navigate his life like someone picking through a minefield, so much as one who'd lived under the threat of total annihilation so long that the only recourse possible was to make sure his own hand was poised over a button. Force a stalemate by being in a position to destroy anyone who could destroy him.
Love did not change his modus operandi, but it complicated things.
After the file had been delivered to him, he'd made it a point to expedite the gift. There were tactical advantages to delivering bad news with a softener, but he didn't want to rush into a negotiation head first.
When he steps into their apartment, he takes notice of everything. The music, the smell of the food (Adelaide's post-apocalyptic cooking was surprisingly palatable; one of the many shining testaments to her value), Charlie on the floor, his wife's approach. It warms him to see them safe and seemingly happy. He hates to be the potential hatchet man to such domestic tranquility, so hesitates to force the docket. Instead, he returns her kiss. "I am, as it happens. Hungry and grateful to be home."
He almost apologizes for the awkward texts from the night prior. The misguided attempt at communication fueled by nervousness. But it seems treacherous to bring it up when she seems so perfectly at ease, so he refrains.