A muscle in Archer's jaw jumps when Brannon can't just... trust him. When Brannon has to take it that step too far and make a scene on the way out. Because sauntering into the mayor's office like he owns it isn't enough; because kicking up a ruckus when they weren't given the news the way they would have wanted it isn't enough; because staying off to the side during Archer's swearing in isn't enough. Archer will always be the stoic and Bran will always be the character. It doesn't disturb him, this quieter role he fulfills beside a much more animated Brannon, because they mesh well, interlocking gears that keep the clockwork moving. It doesn't bother Archer to be the fulcrum while Brannon plays the lever, that he must stand fast while Brannon should not stand still. The parts work together as a whole machine and their methods have served them well over the years. Save for one specific time, it's served them very well indeed.
Why Bran should forget that so quickly, the give and take that they have, that he should storm out like a petulant child when Archer's look asks him for trust, he doesn't know. He's unaware how deep it wounds him and how long it will take for that particular wound to be uncovered. Even now, Archer is already sealing up the chink in his armor, letting it go, shoving the feeling down to be dealt with somewhere other than here. Instead, he's left with Olinger's genuinely curious smile and a room that threatens to press the weight of this city more firmly into Archer's shoulders, ready to leave new scars.
"Permission to speak freely, sir," Archer begins, loosening his dark tie just a hair more. He's not O'Brien, isn't going to go strolling around in a rumpled blue plaid shirt with half the buttons undone, but this is the closest he'll allow himself to a scrap of comfort. When the mayor, further intrigued, gives him that permission, reassuring him again that his new chief has his attention, Archer allows himself a quiet sigh. It's just a soft exhalation, and very little changes on the calm face of the man that towers above Olinger. But there is a shift, however subtle.
Archer gestures him back into the seats they'd vacated in order to do the swearing in, a request rather than a demand, questioning where Brannon might have taken for granted that he could order the mayor about in his own office. When they're settled, he says quietly, "It's Archer. For this conversation, if no other..." A slight shrug of his left shoulder, punctuation to his soft statement. "Archer would be better, Reeves."
It's not entirely clear if Archer is even aware that he's not only asked the mayor to use his given name, but called Olinger by his. The respectful tenor of his words is still in play but it's been brushed by a thoughtful overtone. Archer's never called him 'Ollie,' to his face or behind his back. It's simply never occurred to him, though he can't say it bothers him when Bran or Graham or anyone else does it.
The new chief's hand comes up, thumb brushing over the barely-there scar on his left temple a few times before falling away. His cap has been relegated to the empty seat that Brannon would have occupied, had he been asked to -- allowed to -- stay. Archer's legs tend to be too long to sit comfortably in many situations but for once he manages to not look too awkward as he settles into his armchair. Take away the grimy badge burning a hole in his pocket, take away the trappings of this office, and the two men might have a lot of common ground. Archer isn't sure. "What did you know about me?" It is Archer's turn for curiosity. "Before you brought us in here tonight?"