There are a few things that Adelaide Hawkins takes especial pride in in her life, and being in the exclusive club of knowing Sarge is one of them. His mind makes sense to her, his history is familiar to her, his instincts mesh with her own more often than not, and it all combines into an understanding that is one of the bedrocks of her life.
But Sarge-with-children is something she doesn't really know, hasn't seen except for that tense, reluctant proximity the first time she brought Charlie to visit, where Sarge said as few words as humanly possible and avoided eye contact at all costs, and looked like he might just be getting actually tortured. She remembers being a child herself and knowing him, but he was hardly more than a child himself then, and that is different. So when Charlie stirs, Adelaide is all curiosity, touches of hope and dread basically canceling each other out so that anything could be about to happen - will he acknowledge the child's presence this time, will he be able to interact, will he straight out run for it? He stands up and she wonders if he's about to make his excuses - and instead he goes inside, not one word about it.
This is all part of the Sarge experience, she thinks, watching his tall form duck into the trailer while she grins into the kitten's fur. The dazzling moments where he comes through, all the more dazzling because of the struggle, because he doesn't say anything at all. She rests the kitten down on her knees, scritching her fingers over his soft belly while she smiles, and listens to the indistinct rumble of Sarge's voice from inside the trailer, talking to Charlie about something she can't hear. "You sure know how to pick 'em, bud," she tells the kitten, while the affectionate little thing makes grabs for her fingers and purrs.
And then they're back, and Charlie isn't wearing what she sent him to nap in, and apparently Sarge really truly knows how to do this baby stuff, which tells Adelaide that his involvement with Lori's kids was most likely significant, which is both weird and also sad, since those children aren't here and she can't imagine watching Charlie grow and then being separated from him. It lends insight into his initial reaction to Charlie, though she is sure there are plenty of other layers to that, too.
Adelaide doesn't think that internal combustion is an unreasonable reaction to the way Sarge's big hands steady Charlie's inexpert sitting up skills, and the fact that she doesn't swoon is likely worthy of commendation. Instead she grins, and reaches across to tame Charlie's bedhead, his face sleep-lined while he yawns and rubs his blue eyes with an imprecise fist and looks plenty content right where he is. His free hand is patting Sarge's arm all the while, interested in the tattoos and absently trying to pick them up off his skin.
"I can honestly say I never heard a more compelling argument for world reform," she says, while she unabashedly admires the sight of them together. Sarge's avoidance of her son would have been an unacceptable rift in their family, and she knows that Sarge knows it. Knows it, and is currently fixing it. Her expression is full of it when she catches his eye, enough so that she doesn't feel like they need the words. Instead she shifts and grins, bringing up her knees on the step below Sarge, the kitten still on them so that Charlie can see it. He quits his yawning and gives a shout, grabby hands reaching to plop down on its back once, twice. "Easy," Adelaide murmurs, without any real thought that either of the two small creatures might hurt each other. "I'm feeling like we should probably call him Skittles," she says, as if the topic is epically serious in nature. "Thoughts?"