1/2
There's a give and take to Archer and Adelaide's friendship, even on a morning like this, and Archer feels himself unconsciously relaxing into the rhythm of being in a kitchen with her. Relaxation of any kind is somewhat costly for Archer, a man usually so well guarded, but this is the place for it and there's no help for the way a few more of his shields fall away as stew bubbles and Charlie shifts in his baby seat. Archer reaches for the spare sprig of rosemary almost absentmindedly and holds it between his fingers a moment, appreciating it for the green little miracle that it is. Then he folds it together to crush between thumbnail and the pad of his index finger, brings it up to close his eyes and inhale the assertive evergreen scent of it. This is the chief of the Austin police force now, an officer of the law known for being both stoic and stubborn, a man that's taken off a zombie's head with a shotgun blast without flinching, within range of this building... and yet he can still grieve, still stagger under weight, and still visibly appreciate a small pleasure in a world such as this.
Rosemary is like so many things and like absolutely nothing else. It's thankfully just different enough from the Christmas trees of his youth that he's not in any danger of veering off the track from exhaustion into maudlin -- it'd be beyond unusual, but there's a first time for everything -- and Archer opens his eyes pleased with the experience Adelaide's just offered. There's a quote about that and it's just beyond Archer's reach right now. He's read more since the virus hit Austin than he had in years, anything he can snag and return from the library shelter. They're about his only ways he has to unwind anymore, this kitchen and reading -- often with Brannon, sometimes without. It will bother him, that the words he wants to think are just at the edge of his brain. He's more tired than he wants to admit.
Though he'd like to carry the sprig with him, it's a foolish whim, and Archer doesn't really give into those. This piece, small as it is, can be allowed to dry, to be ground with the mortar and pestle with other herbs to flavor other meals another day. Archer releases it to the counter.
He's about to approach Charlie, come closer, but no. Archer has rules and he follows these before so much as coming within an arm's length of the child. He steps away, looks to Adelaide as she leans against the countertop. There's that something in her expression again, a not-quite-rightness that he can't quite understand yet, but there's also the beginnings of something that he'd call... worry.
And that's when he's sure that she knows.
Not that Thomas would keep any of it from her: Grady and Roccolini, him and Bran having that fucked up little meeting with the mayor (though Archer doesn't know off the top of his head a better way of breaking the news), their subsequent promotions. No, of course her husband would Adelaide, and Archer's fine with that. Means he doesn't have to. But it does mean he must look like shit.