No, [he answers, immediately.] obviously I'm fine, you... Pam.

[when is he not?

...when is he?

archer lets her take the bottle from him, carefully picking up one of the zombies and pausing his usual voracious intake of all alcohol around him to actually appreciate the effort she's put into the at-home tiki bar, racist in its stereotyping may it be. he thinks of mitimotu, for a mitimoment.

that's a pun that makes no sense to anyone but him. archer has to enjoy the little things. he has no choice.]

I don't think they give a shit, anyway. They're more drugged up than Cheryl on... name a day. [he takes a sip of the drink, eyebrows raising around the glass.] You look, uh. Good. I guess.

[god help him he doesn't know how to do this.]