1/2
Impassively, Archer watched O'Brien's adamant call for respect; just as impassively, he watched Olinger's pleasant attempt at a reality check. In a deep down place that he couldn't afford to access right now, he resonated very strongly with what his partner was saying. To admit that, however, meant that he'd have to admit that just enough of him saw the mayor's point of view, too. And right now, Archer was fucking over this. None of it was how he would choose to give notification of the deceased or to inform the next officers in line that their time had come, but so fucking what? There was a low level buzzing in the back of Archer's brain and if he didn't quiet it, it would turn into something he wouldn't be able to ignore. A headache, at best. His soul, at worst, ready and willing to ping at him from now until his heart stopped that blood will be on everything and while Archer knew that to be true, he,, at least, hadn't needed the pointed verbal reminder. For fuck's sake, Brannon hadn't needed it, either. Both cops knew what streets looked like strewn with corpses. They'd been out to do the reaping. If Olinger's intent was to tell O'Brien to grow the fuck up? He didn't need to bother.
Everyone in this room had seen some shit.
Though O'Brien's hand and arm had come down between him and Olinger, the badge still made it into Archer's hand and he didn't look down at it when the mayor's steely gaze came to rest on him again, choosing instead to maintain eye contact, right on through the comment about the polish. "Thank you, sir," he repeated, and if there was a scrap of something in his tone that might've been considered dry humor from another man, that might be coincidental coming from Archer. 'A little Brasso should polish it right up.' Yeah, he'd take fucking note of that. Right after he soaked off the dried on bits of dead Grady.
Shifting slightly, Archer reached and touched O'Brien on his outstretched arm briefly with his free hand, glancing at him with a slight nod. Letting him know it was okay to stand down, that he didn't have to put himself between his new chief and the mayor right now. That it was okay, that Archer understood. His blue eyes carried none of the thaw that was often reserved for off-duty so the nod would have to suffice. One of them, at least, spoke his mind and his heart; the other would maintain the gravitas that hadn't quite been achieved by muddy tea and the politically correct timing of smiles.
There were days, Archer could privately acknowledge to himself, where he wished he was the guy that spoke up and fuck the consequences. Instead, he was the stalwart, inexorably steadfast, dogged in his attempts to serve and fucking protect. Olinger and Lansing wouldn't care to know that he did all of that while still tilting at windmills: fighting giants even he couldn't see, fighting against something because there was something wrong in all of this and it was really hard to fight a fucking virus. O'Brien got mad, let off steam, but Archer was quietly pushing his frustrations deep down and becoming the Chief of Police was bound to land him back in his NYPD mindset if he didn't watch out.