2/3
He swallows audibly, takes a few seconds to wrap up the most overwhelming feelings so that his voice will be under control when he's able to dig through the heap and finally locate it. "Ads..." Wait, nope, not quite steady. Archer's too damned tired. He's not normally a fucking wreck, and indeed he's not really falling to pieces right now, either. The situation isn’t nearly so dire or melodramatic as that. He's not going to burst into tears and cling to her. Instead, the new Chief of Police looks down and stirs the pot pie mixture for a few seconds to ground himself. He's neither going to give vent to his grief or his anger by punching a hole in the wall; that ship has sailed. This time in the kitchen has calmed him. Yet, as so often happens in this room, his guard’s been let down and that combines with his fatigue and all the rest of it to make him just a little more raw than he'd have anyone see, if given the chance. It's Ads, though, and she's one of a select few that is allowed to think of him as human. This particular human is just readjusting his reality -- he’s sworn a solemn oath, reaffirmed his commitment and accepted the mantle of responsibility, a job that killed its predecessors -- and it’s a draining task to get it all where it needs to be, in his head and in his heart. Brannon’s words of warning to the mayor are still pinging away inside his skull: “You'd better act like it's the single, most fucking important job in this city that any person would be proud to die for.”
A few seconds and Archer feels like himself again, even manages a ghost of a smile that’s packed with the same sort of wry humor that coated her speech. His words are soft, half in deference to Charlie and half because her earnest sincerity humbles him. “You sure you don’t wanna crack at the Chief job?” teases Archer lightly. “Got the inspiring words of wisdom part down cold, Ads.” He tips the soup and vegetable mixture for her examination and approval before its to be ladled into the casserole dish and the little crock dish -- and isn’t that so very much like Adelaide, to have a pot pie that was specifically Archer’s, so he’ll be sure to eat it? Archer hadn’t even thought about what he would grab to eat when he made his way toward the kitchen. When there is a lot on his metaphoric plate, he has a habit of making good hearty stew for the others and then cracking open a small can of soup for himself, or beans, or something that came in a supply delivery that isn’t going over well with the others in the shelter. Something quick. It isn’t the best thing he can do but it’s better than skipping meals entirely, a pattern from NYC that he’s worked to improve in Austin even before the apocalypse. Even the times he (and sometimes Bran) would be ordered to take an armored vehicle and some camping gear and go farther out along the territory, he’d manage some form of eating and sleeping… even if the kitchen is invariably his first stop upon return wherein he’d eat something ‘real’ and nearly fall asleep sitting up. He can be nothing but alert outside the shelter. Outside the edge of the city is worse.
There are comments he tucks away for later, like how he can’t take on all of this on his own -- “if you don't share, we'll make you” -- and her comparison between him and her husband -- “even though Thomas doesn't have a fraction of the heart you do” -- but Archer is still left with how much she believes in him, how sure she is that all of this is how it should be. “S’okay,” he says, agreement and reassurance rolled into one. “Wouldn’t worry about an ‘exit’ just yet. I’m gonna -- we’re gonna -- do all we can. Kick ass. Get things done. Right, little buddy?” he asks Charlie.