The flat shelf of ground has a blanket on it. A proper blanket, already laid out, with a basket at one edge that I did not see him carrying, which means someone put it here before we arrived.
“You planned this?” I ask.
“Jack planned this. I executed it.”
“Jack planned a river picnic for you to take me on?”
“Jack planned the logistics,” Archer corrects. “I would have chosen the location anyway.”
I look at him. “This is your spot?”
He says nothing, which is the Archer version of yes.
I sit on the blanket and he sits beside me. He’s closer than his usual distance, which I register and don’t comment on. He opens the basket, which contains things that are clearly Tristan’s work: small pastries, something wrapped in paper that turns out to be very good breadand cheese, two bottles of something cold.
“Tristan made this?”
“Tristan makes everything. It’s his primary contribution to operations.”
“What’s your primary contribution?”
“Perimeter security.”
“And flower-picking, apparently.”
He looks at the flowers, which I’ve set on the blanket between us. “Ryan’s idea,” he says.
“You picked them yourself.”
He looks at the river. I eat the bread and cheese and look at the river too. It’s actually quite nice sitting next to Archer in a quiet place. It’s different from sitting next to Archer in the carnival. The carnival Archer is watchful, territorial, always slightly running his perimeter even when he’s present. This Archer is present. The wariness is still there, it’s always there, but it’s lower.
I have, apparently, been classified as less of a threat now.
“Why did you actually come?” I ask. “Jack could have suggested all he wanted. It didn’t mean you had to do what he said.”
Archer is quiet for a moment, the considering kind. “Because he was right. That you should… That I should…” He stops. Tries again. “I haven’t been fair to you. I came in assuming you were a problem. You were one. A different kind than I thought, but.” His gaze slides to the river. “I’ve been recalibrating all weekand I should have led with something better than grabbing your wrist.”
“You should have,” I agree.
“I know.”
“And the neck.”
He goes very still.
“I’m not complaining about the neck,” I say, carefully. “I’m just including it in the inventory of unconventional approaches.”
An almost-smile. More visible than usual. “The neck was… necessary.”
“Mm,” I say. “Very clinical.”
“It was clinical.”
“Is that all that it was?”
He looks at me with a cheeky smile I have never seen on him before. “No,” he replies. “Not entirely.”
“Not entirely,” I confirm.
