1/2
Soon enough, evening comes. With it, an acolyte of dogged, devoted loyalty makes his way over to the cells in the Department of Justice. He doesn't arrive unburdened. He passes a few -- very few -- quiet words to the guards on duty, placidly allows the items he's brought to be searched. The hulking Chief of Police removes his ever-present duty pistol, racks the slide, breaks the clip out and hands the whole of it over to the desk guard, takes his pocketknife out and adds it to the pile in her hands before allowing the other guard to search him for hidden weapons. He accepts the man's muttered apology of, "Sorry, sir, standard procedure," with a nod of understanding. He expected nothing less from his request -- the one that was delivered without the sound of a question mark at the end, the one that didn't so much as seek permission as state a fact.
Chief Archer Avery is going into that cell with Adelaide and Charlie Lansing. Period. His badge may bring him little else than responsibility, work, and grief... but god-fucking-damnit, he will take the privilege and prestige it gives him tonight.
This happens just within sight of Adelaide, though Archer hasn't craned his head to look at her once, too busy with his mask and armor to cant his head at an odd angle to find her just yet. There'll be time for that soon, but she's still given a fairly unobstructed view of the procedure he goes through. Search completed, he's allowed to pick up the bags he's brought with him and sling them over his shoulders, the still-hot stoneware from the kitchen taken up again in his hands. Archer seems to stand at parade rest as he waits for the right key to be selected.
Then he pivots smartly as the female guard takes his weapons to the front and the male guard tells him he'll open the cell now. Archer moves deftly for someone of his size; it's something few notice or understand about him. It's something he has in common with James Hawkins, in point of truth. It's how he was able to catch him, once. Catch and release.
He turns and his eyes seek out Adelaide instantly. Archer isn't sure what she sees when she looks back. He's come at the end of a long day, one in a long line of them, taking the time to shower but not shave, so she doesn't have to see him in any of the trappings of uniform. He figures she's getting enough of that here. Archer, then, as casual as he gets these days: jeans instead of the uniform pants or cargos, a grey t-shirt under a grey and blue light flannel shirt that he'd wear sometimes when he'd come over to the Lansing apartment for dinner. As if that was all this was, Archer coming over for dinner.