Adelaide's words about the chicken pot pie and her inclined head mean that Archer's surveying gaze flicks over to her and comes to rest on the ingredients. Her question makes him nod agreement and he moves to check if any of the cans have the pull-tops on them. A lot of those went first when everything started, partly because they were easy and partly because some folks weren't sure they kept as well as a regular can. Archer can't say he's seen much difference, though he's happy to have anything to eat. He's read about alternate food sources (there are animals he knows basically how to cook that he'd never thought of eating) and knows their climate is basically hopeless. The s'mores gas only makes it worse.
These cans are about fifty-fifty, pull-tabs and not, and of course the fucking chicken has to have the tab. It's experience working together that has him ready to open up all the cans and let her start work first, especially if they're working off of her recipe. Chicken in a can, though. Beggars can't be choosers and Archer knows from experience that he'll actively enjoy this food instead of just eating to live. But he can remember, in the life before this one, recovering from his wounds and convalescing at home and having no really good concept of day or night. When the concussion stopped bothering him, he'd hobbled his way out to the flat screen and joined Bran in staring blankly at whatever was on television and it was Food Network competition shows where he'd first seen canned whole chicken. Didn't even know such a thing existed. It made sense when he thought about it -- they canned and froze every other fucking thing, why not? -- but it still held just an edge of both fascination and repulsion for Archer as he'd watched.
Now, it's familiar. Archer is careful and his hands are steady (even tired, he'd be steady) as he pulls the tab back, cautiously removing the can lid over the sink. Success. Nothing spills and he sets it down for Adelaide, setting the lid aside. It can be washed; it can be useful. He opens the other pull-tab -- the soup -- and half-turns to Charlie to remark, "Tellin' you, little buddy: chickens? Don't look like that." He tips his head in the direction of the gelatinous stuff that makes up what he'd just opened for Adelaide. "I'll scrounge up a picture book. So you'll know for sure." Archer often talks to Charlie like this, a softer version of the banter he might use with Ads or Bran, including him in the conversation or telling him about his day. Well. The parts of his day he could safely tell an infant.
He won't be telling Charlie about yesterday.
Archer gets the can opener for the rest, falls to opening cans. He'd glanced at Adelaide and nodded his thanks for her condolences but he's been quiet for a minute or so afterward now as they work. He can't talk about Grady or Roccolini as actual people right now. Not if he wants to keep any of his defenses intact and do his job. Yet the mayor and Thomas hadn't really talked about them as anything but corpses and former employees, so it's difficult for Archer to find his way. Once or twice he opens his mouth only to shut it again with a small shake of his head. He's opening up the carrots when he finally says, "They were good cops. Wish it didn't happen. But that's the way things are." Direct, matter-of-fact, but said heavily. "So here we are."