Syler glared. “Don’t call my staff that.”
“You call them that all the time!”
“They’re my staff! It’s different!”
“Whatever you say, dear.” His grin went wolfish. “As long as I get you to myself.”
“More like as long as I’m stuck with you by myself, thanks.” He flipped a file open, quickly scanning over the acquisition request and signing it before slipping it into the outbox for the Colonel to approve.
“You know, I’m sure you’d change your tune if we just had a proper chance to get to know each other,” Arthur started, leaning in close, and, oh no, not this again. Syler turned to fix him with a stern look, but the edge of his chair caught a precariously situated stack of hardware near the corner and sent it tumbling across the floor. Syler swore, stooping to gather the components. Arthur’s hand caught his shoulder, crouching down to collect them for him instead. “You really need a proper office,” he commented.
“If I can ever perfect the cloning process, I’m sure I’ll find the time to clean out the old deputy’s office. As is, the room is a death trap of Civil War-era requisition forms and broken equipment,” he sighed, accepting the parts from Dufault and checking them over for damage. “Thank you.”
“Have you ever considered delegating?” he asked, straightening and resuming his casual stance against the neighboring desk. “I hear that’s a job perk in management.”
“Ah, yes, finding someone else without the time and piling onto their workload. A sure fire recipe for success.” He set the components aside, probably salvageable, and finished approving the last two mission allotment forms before one of the senior system technicians called for him over the intercom. “Excuse me, Dufault. I need to oversee the server upgrades.”
“Of course. Have fun with your tech, S. I’m told it’s your version of Christmas.” Syler huffed a laugh and waved his goodbye, heading down the hall towards the server wing. Arthur waited until he was out of sight, before heading into the office of the former Deputy Director and surveying the damage. He let out a low whistle.
Well, he did have a free afternoon.
---
Syler stumbled back into the operations bullpen shortly before seven p.m., exhausted, left sleeve slightly singed, and hair smelling faintly of ozone. It just wasn’t a server upgrade without a small electrical fire. He settled heavily into his desk chair, reaching for his keyboard by muscle memory, and startled. Three monitors, keyboard, mouse. Nothing else.
“What the hell?” Even his name placard was gone. He glanced frantically around the room. The minions still on staff were all diligently at work at their respective stations, apparently unbothered by the cosmic fuckery taking place at the command desk, before settling on the open door to the Deputy Director’s office. Well, his office, he supposed, for all that he’d only been in it once before promptly shutting the door on that particular waking nightmare.
A shiny gold placard proclaiming S. Perrin, Deputy Director, Operations had been fitted into the door slot. He proceeded over cautiously, hazel eyes wary, wondering if he’d finally started having vivid dreams about work, and stopped short as he nudged open the door.
“What do you think?” He jumped, spinning to face the agent who’d crept up behind him. The other man grinned, all schoolboy charm. His suit jacket was missing, shirt sleeves rolled up, illegally broad shoulders on full display. ‘Oh,’ Syler thought faintly, ‘oh no.’
He was saved from his treacherous brain by the sight of a take out bag dangling from the other man’s hand. “Is that curry?” Syler sniffed, stomach choosing that moment to make itself known.
“Well spotted,” he answered.“Now, what do you think?”
“Is it for me?”
“The office or the curry?”
“I find that I’m not feeling especially particular at this very moment,” Syler admitted, resisting the urge to make grabby hands.
Arthur laughed. “Good news then, the answer is yes to both.” He pressed his free hand to Syler’s shoulder, guiding him gently into the repatriated office. Syler’s eyes first settled on the half dozen entirely empty bookshelves—god help him, space to put things—before coming to the wide oak desk containing his laptop, filing trays, and other various knick-knacks. His missing name placard was located in the upper right hand corner closest to the door. It was lovely.
“Well?”
“If I wake up now, I’m going to cry,” Syler replied, settling into the comfortable office chair with a groan. Arthur beamed, shutting the door before taking up residence in the visitor chair opposite him.
“Shall we eat, darling?” he asked, unpacking the meal without waiting for an answer. Syler found himself helpless to do anything but stare.
“How did you even manage this?”
“I can’t give away all my secrets, now can I?” Syler accepted the take out container that was passed to him, mumbling a thank you automatically. “Although, if you must know, I have connections.”
“Do you now?” Syler raised a brow, voice somewhat muffled as he hastily swallowed a mouthful. God, he was absolutely ravenous. He took back every terrible thing he’d ever said about the man, menace or not.
“Mmhm. Janitorial staff took care of the broken equipment and the mailroom keeps an industrial shredder.” He paused to take a bite of his own meal. “I’m assuming you’re not overly concerned with what happens to the thirty year old requisitions forms.”
“Whether destroyed or lost in the former black hole of this room, it makes no difference to me.” He set down his fork, eyes meeting the man across from him. “Dufault, thank you. Really.”
Arthur hummed contentedly. “Of course.” His eyes took on a sly look, playful and bright blue. “Now, what do you say you tell me what you meant when you said you were ‘conscripted’ into working here, hm?” Syler threw back his head and laughed.
Overwhelming. The man was absolutely overwhelming.
Eleven
The following morning found Syler back in operations bright and early to oversee the outfitting of an agent on his way to
