The tailor finally took note of Dufault, lighting up anew. “Arthur! I just finished your suit!” He paused, taking in the crutches and boot. “What in hell’s name have you done to yourself now, Dufault?” His tone was flat, decidedly unimpressed. Clearly, this was far from the first time his agent had shown up to the shop injured. He was starting to like the man already. Syler couldn’t help but grin, wondering what story his agent would come up with.
Arthur looked suddenly bashful. “Landed a bit too hard during a cartel job in Mexico last week.”
Syler felt his jaw drop. “Did you seriously just—”
Gerald’s booming laughter drowned out whatever invective he would have spewed at his agent. “Oh, I’m sure Jeanette loved that. Did you finish the job or will she be breaking your other leg as punishment?” Syler blinked, hopelessly lost.
“Thankfully, I get to keep the working one for now,” Arthur shot back. “Syler, meet Gerald Thompson. Gerald, this is your brother’s new deputy.”
---
Fifteen minutes later, Syler found himself being pulled and tucked and pinned from every angle, standing in front of a set of mirrors while the Colonel’s younger brother tutted and made adjustments to what was, apparently, ‘an absolutely glorious example of 40s craftsmanship.’
“Arthur, why don’t you ever let me put you in pretty things like this?” Gerald questioned the man lounging on a nearby bench. “You’d look wonderful in a medium blue plaid. Imagine what it would do for your eyes.”
“Because you’d never be able to get matching material for replacement sleeves after I’ve been shot at.” The entire field division of the CIA used Gerald Thompson, Syler was told, because he was very good at sewing concealed holsters into evening gowns and didn’t bat an eye at bloodstains. Apparently, other tailors eventually got suspicious of such things. “Leave the pretty things to the pretty man you’re so expertly stabbing, Gerald. He’s the face of future CIA engineers everywhere. Let him have some personality while he looks the part.”
Gerald huffed, returning his attention to Syler, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear, that man of yours has no sense of adventure. You, though, you I like.”
“He’s not my man,” he stuttered, “I’m just his handler.”
Syler watched the other man’s eyebrows race to his hairline. “Dufault requested a handler? You’re joking!” The man in question had wondered off, apparently more interested in browsing the collection of imported ties along the back wall than watching Syler squirm. Small mercies. “I did wonder,” Gerald continued, “who it was he was going on about the last time he stopped by.”
“He talks about me?”
“Frequently and enthusiastically over the last few months.” Gerald said this as if it were a perfectly normal thing and not a groundbreaking revelation. “I’m glad that he’s finally met someone he gets along with.”
“You make it sound like we’re dating.”
“Maybe you should be,” he replied, the meddlesome old man. “Change out of that for me, will you? I’ve got something in the back I’ll hem up for you to wear out.”
Syler obeyed, eager to escape, passing Dufault on his way to the changing room. The man was still browsing through ties, apparently intent on finding another to add to his collection. The blond looked up, grinning. “How are you and Gerald getting on?”
“How are those two even related?”
“A question asked by generations of siblings, I’m sure.” Arthur held a tie up, considering. Syler glanced at it, scrunching his nose up. Plain black. Never his first choice for neck nooses. Arthur set it back down, amused, and Syler continued into the back, glancing at his watch. He was going to be late getting back to the lab at this rate.
He shut the door to the stall, casting a critical eye at his attire. He had to admit, even with just the pins, the fit was a vast improvement. Perhaps Dufault had a point.
“Here we go!” Gerald called, passing a garment bag over the door. “I think you’ll like this one. Let me know if the hem is off.”
Syler unzipped the bag, reaching out to finger the material, a plush mid-weight wool suiting in a dark blue herringbone print, pattern subtle enough to look solid at first glance and surprisingly to his taste. He peeled himself out of his beloved tweed with painstaking care, not particularly interested in impaling himself on one of the hundred odd tiny needles marking the wool, and hung it up on a spare hanger before pulling on the new suit. It fit well in the shoulders, actually long enough in the leg and arm, and was slim cut without drawing attention to how lanky he was. It contrasted well with his camel colored vest, he thought, although his shiny satin skinny tie might need to go.
He stepped out of the changing room, tugging lightly on his new jacket sleeves. Dufault was waiting just outside. The other man let out a low whistle. “Now that’s lovely.”
“Satisfied?”
“Nearly,” he answered, leaning forward a bit awkwardly to reach for Syler’s tie, off balance. He reached out to steady him automatically. The other man smiled, resting his weight on him more firmly as he unknotted the fabric. He fished a replacement from his pocket, a dark green brocade that matched Syler’s favorite jumper, slipping it over his neck and knotting it back into place beneath his throat. He leaned back, taking him in, apparently satisfied. “There now. Turn and have a look.”
With a long suffering expression, he turned to the mirror on the opposite wall and oh.
“Put them both on my account please, Gerald,” his agent called to the man at the front desk, no trace of smugness in his voice. “We have to get back to the agency.”
“Of course, Arthur! Pleasure meeting you Syler. I’ll have your suit finished up by the end of next week. Say hello to my brother, will you?”
“Always. Thanks, Gerald.” Arthur
