“Well, there was that one time in Montenegro,” he couldn’t help but interject.
“There was no plan in Montenegro, Dufault. That entire situation was the absence of a plan.”
“Precisely!” Arthur beamed, relishing in the exasperated face of his handler. Well, he had to die someday. May as well go out in a blaze of glory. “No plans, no problems. Well, except for the part where I nearly got decapitated by a machete-wielding—”
“God help me, we are not talking about Montenegro today, Dufault. We’re talking about your moonlit rooftop escapade across Mexico City.”
“Next session,” he promised, turning to grin over his shoulder at the assembled members of operations. He was met with assorted laughter and at least one whoop. Syler massaged his temples briefly.
“Suffice to say,” he continued, “the original plan to exit at ground level and proceed undetected to a vehicle several blocks away was somewhat dampened by over a dozen armed guards spilling out of the convoy like angry hornets in response to the assassination of their boss. Which leads us to the aforementioned rooftop escape—”
“So what happened to your leg, Dufault?” a particularly brazen technician called from somewhere in the back of the room.
Arthur briefly entertained a slightly bloodthirsty fantasy before acknowledging that he’d brought this on himself by bantering with his handler in front of the minions. “Didn’t quite stick the landing.”
“Second rule of providing support to a field agent,” Syler pressed on blithely, “despite your best efforts, they will constantly come up with new and interesting ways to give you gray hair. Now, let’s go over the framework for reworking an exit strategy, starting with the pre-contact ground work and moving into dynamic system breaches.”
Arthur more or less lost the plot at that point, awash in a sea of coding jargon and digital asset acquisition far beyond his pay grade and skill, content to watch and listen as his handler presented a step-by-step guide to getting an agent’s ass out of a hot zone. He looked lighter, somehow, bright and skillful, entirely at home in his place at the front. Incandescent, if he was feeling particularly sappy and, honestly, when wasn’t he sappy about this raven-haired handler of his? He was starting to nauseate himself.
Towards the end—and, oof, that landing really did look painful through CCTV footage—the Colonel caught his eye, nodding at Syler who continued on obliviously, brown eyes shining like a proud father. Arthur wondered at what sort of dopey expression he must have had on his own face, grateful he was at the command desk where the minions couldn’t see him.
‘Jesus, I’m so whipped.’
---
By the time Syler finished his seminar, it was after two o’clock. He was fielding questions from inquiring techs and junior officers off and on for another two hours, eventually relocating to his office in hopes of shaking them off. Arthur followed, stretching out on the couch until the last of them had made their way out, nudging the door shut with the tip of a crutch, a clear sign to any passersby to try again on Monday.
“My god, you had them hanging onto your every word. I think they’re going to found a new religion in your name.”
“Oh,” Syler breathed, cheeks going pink. Flushed was such a good look on him. “Thank you. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
Arthur smiled. “Seems to me like you’ve nailed it, sweetheart.”
“The comic relief at the start helped a bit, I suppose.”
“Yeah? I’ll come by for the next one!”
“Please, please don’t.” Syler stood, slinging his messenger bag across his chest, hitching it higher up his shoulder as he did. “I’m going to head out. Do you want a ride home?”
“Didn’t you walk?”
“Self. Driving. Car,” he intoned, waving his tablet to display the progress of his Tesla toward the agency. “It comes when called.”
“I suppose I can stand another evening in your engine-less monstrosity.” Arthur sighed, hauling himself up. “Want to stop for dinner on the way?”
“Sure, but you’re buying for that comment.”
He grinned guilelessly. “Why, sweetheart, if you wanted to make it a date, all you had to do was ask!”
Syler huffed, shaking his head, curls awry all over again. Well, Arthur figured as he followed him out, maybe next time.
Eighteen
Arthur racked the barbell with a clatter before awkwardly maneuvering himself into a seated position on the bench, workout finally finished just as the first of the agency day staff made their way to the facility gym. He’d hauled himself in here early knowing full well he didn’t want an audience privy to the spectacle he was going to make of himself in trying to modify his weight routine. Monday was rough enough without help, thanks.
He hoisted himself up, panting slightly, already regretting the extra abuse he’d ladled on his upper body as he made his way to the showers. Twice as long to do half as much work. Seemed to be a running theme, lately.
By the time he made his way to operations and let himself into his handler’s office, he wasn’t even pretending he had a decent excuse to be there. Miranda shook her head at him fondly as he went in, all high heels and crisp collared shirt, neat braids pulled into an artful twist at the back of her neck rendering her the very picture of a functional adult. He wondered if Maria would commiserate with him over the tone of voice contained in her judgmental stare. She lived with her after all. Willingly, even.
He just wanted somewhere quiet to catch some shut eye, utterly fucking exhausted. Syler wasn’t anywhere to be found, apparently off doing his job, so Arthur stretched out on the sofa, tugging the throw over top of himself and nodding off to the muffled sounds of the day staff going about their work.
---
Arthur came back to wakefulness with a hand carding through his hair again, slim fingers working gently at the space behind his ear, groggy enough to know that several hours had passed. He was smiling
