When Adelaide quirks her brows at him, Archer understands instantly and nods, needlessly wiping his hands clean again though he'd done so mere seconds prior. Of course he'll take Charlie. Then he's accepting the sleepy little bundle that's nodding off and too tired to squirm or protest his change in perch, curling into the warmth of Archer's chest when his self-appointed protector cradles him close in his arms. When he doesn't think Adelaide is looking, when she moves to the pantry, Archer lifts the boy in his arms and bends his head to whisper words of comfort, jaw brushing against the striped hat so that he wouldn't disturb Charlie with the rasp of his unshaven cheeks and chin.
He loves this boy. He cares about Adelaide's son without the sense of regret or loss or grief or jealousy than Archer thought he'd experience when Charlie first came into the world. The tired cop hasn't been anyone's son in decades and will likely never be a father. Even if he were to find someone now and to start a family -- finding love among the corpses? for fuck's sake. -- it isn't likely he'd live long enough to be a grandfather. He can face the fact that with his new job and not knowing his immunity status, it's highly possible he wouldn't live to see his own child being born, were the other conditions to be met. He is no one's brother anymore, no one's uncle, no one's nephew. Illness took his parents young; his calling ruined the only stab he ever took at a wife and possibly children; the virus cut him off from whatever family he had left and Archer believed them to be dead. He's had to be okay for a long time now that 'family' was a word with a new definition, and that it was made up of the survivors here he'd truly come to know as people, who took the time to break down the barriers he put up. Brannon has been family long before this. Now there are others to join him, others his heart considers family without even telling them. Or him. Though he didn't, maybe couldn't, put it into words for Adelaide... once Charlie was born, Archer realized that he was going to do everything in his power to make sure this child of the apocalypse had a chance. To thrive, not just survive. It is Archer's worst kept secret from himself, how much he loves the boy.
With Adelaide in front of him once more and proudly displaying the tub of Crisco, Archer gives a soundless whistle, properly impressed. "Haven't seen that," he nods to the container, "in... what, months?" Never really thought he'd see it again.
Moving onto the balls of his feet and back again, subtle motion to lull Charlie further toward sleep, Archer watches Adelaide make the crust and listens to what she's telling him. That is new information. They've both talked about the past but she's never talked about her family before Boston. She's mentioned the South and, once in a blue moon, Tennessee. He's always gotten the opinion that it was just a little painful, the way he doesn't talk much about his sisters and only ever told her once about what he and Bran went through when he was shot. This newness pings on his radar the same way the look in her eyes did when he walked in.
"Weren't raised to like cops?" he repeats lightly, "S'okay. Can't blame you. We're people. Some good. Some bad." Archer shrugs his left shoulder. "Glad to know I change your perception, though. From growing up." This last bit is said a little cautiously, the worn dark blue eyes both open and friendly as they rest on her. Maybe even a little worried. His head tips to the side a little. Archer does boundaries. He seldom pushes for information, not from friends. But he makes himself available to listen, if need be.