Syler followed, still a bit shell shocked that he finally looked like a grown up. Although, he considered, fingering the textured brocade at the hollow of his neck, perhaps that feeling had more to do with the wistful look he’d seen on Dufault’s face in the mirror.
Nineteen
He and Dufault went their separate ways from the parking garage, Dufault limping off to god knows where while he headed to the Director’s office. Syler would’ve put the whole excursion out of mind had he been allowed, but apparently the agency rumor mill was clocking overtime that afternoon. That, he reflected, or it didn’t take a building full of spies to notice that he’d come back from lunch wearing an entirely different set of clothes.
“Oh good,” she pronounced, “you’ve met Gerald. I was starting to think I’d have to send a memo. Maybe Dufault isn’t completely useless after all.”
“Is the Colonel on his way up?” Syler grabbed valiantly for a change of subject.
The man in question rapped lightly on the door, letting himself in, eyes alighting on his protégé. “Oh, now that looks sharp. Been to meet my brother, have you? Give us a spin.”
Syler groaned but obeyed, feeling impossibly young and foolish, cheeks flaming. He spread his arms wide, finishing with a parody of a bow. “Yes, alright, I’ve been thoroughly humiliated. Everyone satisfied now?”
Boothman snorted. “Better us than the sharks in the Oval Office, Perrin. Shall we get started, gentleman?”
He was all too happy to change course, settling back into the rhythm of project overviews and threat analysis data, refusing to allow his mind to drift back to lingering blue eyes in shop mirrors. Whatever that was, he was sure he’d imagined it.
---
“Nice,” was all Miranda said when he finally made it back to the bullpen late in the afternoon.
Jason was just clocking on for swing shift, preparing to relieve Miranda. He eyed him mournfully. “Don’t tell me they’ve gotten to you too, boss.” Alvarez, apparently, wasn’t taking the threat of him turning into one of The Suits particularly well.
“It’s herringbone not a lethal case of measles,” he muttered.
“Oh, it starts with herringbone, but no one who goes to Gerald stops there.”
“How am I the last person in the agency to know about Gerald Thompson?” He couldn’t help but grouse a bit.
“Boss,” Miranda deadpanned, “you’re the last person to know about a lot of things.”
Syler huffed. “I am not.”
“I’m married,” Miranda pointed out as if this were one of the apparently numerous things Syler had been blissfully unaware of in his nearly two year tenure with the CIA.
“I know that!” he snapped, nose scrunching up.
“No,” Miranda smirked, “you really, really don’t.”
Syler threw his hands up, entirely done with the lot of them. “I’m going to my office if any of you need me. For work, not more ribbing.”
He sulked back to his door, abruptly aborting what surely would’ve been a loud entrance when he caught sight of the agent napping on his couch and instead saw himself in quietly, face softening by several measures. He entirely missed his shift managers shaking their heads at him.
“That,” Miranda intoned, “is just sad.”
Jason nodded his agreement, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully. “Think we should stage an intervention yet?”
Miranda sighed. “Give it another month, at least. Dufault’s dogged enough to wait that long.”
---
Dufault was inescapable these days. He lingered in operations more often than not, taking up almost permanent residence on his couch and stalking after him to the labs. Sometimes, he even invited himself along to departmental meetings, possibly because no one was brave enough to try to evict him.
“Do you not have other friends?” Syler queried as they rounded out the second week of whatever this was, once again finding his agent stretched out in his office with a tablet, idly scrolling through assignment dossiers Boothman had sent down for his assessment. Privately, Syler thought, it reeked of a desperate bid to keep the man from climbing the walls out of sheer boredom.
“You mean the other agents who are busy picking up my slack right now?”
“...fair enough.”
“Does it bother you?” He fixed him with a peculiar look, blue eyes filled with something Syler couldn’t quite parse.
“No, it’s just...” Syler scrunched his nose up, words escaping him.
“Just what, S?”
“I’m not used to constant company,” he finally settled on.
Arthur sat up. “If I’m distracting you—”
Syler huffed, settling into the vacated spot on the couch. “No. Really. I’m just not used to the company. Before Boothman frog marched me into the agency, no one ever really sought me out. Now it happens all the time.” He paused, thoughtful. “Is this what normal people experience their entire lives?”
“Oh sweetheart,” his agent sighed, head settling back into his lap. Syler’s hand went to work in his hair automatically by now. The man was like a cat honestly.
“Don’t ‘oh sweetheart’ me, Dufault. It’s rude to tease the socially inept.” Arthur murmured something about it being rude to tease him, tilting his head to guide Syler’s fingers towards the base of his neck. He went along with it, grateful for the late afternoon pause, mind drifting peacefully until his office phone rang. Arthur grumbled heartily when he moved to answer it.
“Perrin here. Oh, yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll come by in a bit.”
“Someone else seeking you out again?” Arthur called as he set the phone back in its cradle.
“Gerald. Suit’s ready. Do you mind heading out early?” Syler asked, already slipping into his coat.
Arthur shook his head, glancing at the clock. “I’ve gotta meet with Boothman in fifteen. I’ll take a company car home tonight, sweetheart.”
“Alright,” Syler smiled, “lock up when you’re done here. I’ll see you Monday.”
---
Gerald Thompson, of course, refused to allow him to make the visit a short one. He found himself on the dais once again, this time acting as a living mannequin while the other man draped him in a dark green wool, the shell of the suit already nearly complete when he arrived. Apparently, this was an
