Twenty-Three
If Syler thought Dufault was the end of it, he was sorely mistaken. The other man had vanished sometime before Syler woke up, but the Colonel stopped by with his wife Madeline the following afternoon, laden down with food for the staffers still on call.
“It’s not as though we have children of our own, S,” he’d announced cheerfully. “Can’t leave you all alone to babysit the younglings.”
Daniel Thompson’s wife reminded him as strongly of the Director now as she had on the one other occasion he’d meet her, silver-haired and sharp. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they were friends. She was former CIA herself, retired a year prior to his recruitment, and Boothman’s previous Executive Deputy.
“He was fretting over you being here all alone,” she confided to him privately, both watching as he carried bags into Syler’s office. “Something about you having a fight with your boyfriend.”
The pitch of his groan was frankly embarrassing, drowned out only by the Colonel’s exclamation. “Syler, you got a tree!” The man poked his head back out of the office. “I love the fiber optic wires on top most.”
“Arthur’s doing,” he admitted. Truly, what a joy it was to finally experience nosy family at the holidays.
“Ah,” Daniel said, “so you’re not fighting anymore. Good. I was worried.” Beside him, Madeline rolled her eyes.
“We weren’t really fighting.”
“Well he certainly wasn’t coming around anymore.”
“Daniel,” Madeline cut in, “you’re embarrassing him. Spectacularly.”
Thompson waved her off with a flourish, apparently not seeing her point. “Oh, you had to be here, Maddie. The two of them were dancing around each other for months. It reminded me of the two of us.”
Madeline grinned, wicked. “You hopelessly following me around, trying to woo me with increasingly absurd gadgets in lieu of actually asking me on a date?”
“Were you a field agent?” Oh, that explained a lot. And also, “I am not the one following anyone around hopelessly, for the record.”
“The tree is in his office, not Dufault’s,” she helpfully pointed out, apparently in his defense.
“He gave him his own car for field work!”
“You made me a diamond encrusted tennis bracelet capable of cutting through steel doors. And poison lipstick.” Alright, Syler conceded, nosy family might actually be an entertaining experience. He leaned casually against the command desk, grinning.
Daniel huffed, begging askance at Syler, who chuckled mercilessly. “All I’m saying is that it’s very nice to see the next generation doing so well together. And besides, I won’t have to worry about you being taken care of when I’m gone. Always nice to have a lethal bodyguard for a partner.”
“Oh, you would know,” Madeline chimed in sarcastically, toying with what, Syler realized, was in fact a diamond encrusted tennis bracelet. Oh for fucks sake.
“I am so incredibly done with this conversation,” Syler concluded, actively not considering that he’d given Arthur a diamond encrusted watch. “Can we eat?”
---
Arthur reappeared sometime after the Thompson’s had left, a small dolly filled with boxes behind him. Apparently, there was to be more decorating of the bullpen at large. He smiled every time the other man toyed with his watch, utterly unable to help himself.
---
Christmas Day dawned early, Syler coming to on the sofa in his office at the smell of freshly brewed coffee somewhere in the vicinity. He blinked his eyes open slowly, room lit only by the tree on his desk, and found Arthur crouched near his feet.
“Merry Christmas, Syler.”
He smiled helplessly back at him. “Good morning.”
“I brought breakfast.”
“Of course you did, you delightful man.”
---
And so it went, with periodic visits from Arthur every day of his holiday rotation, and a few more from the people who’d taken him in as family. Maria and Miranda slipped in the day after Christmas, shooing him home for a few hours of sleep in a proper bed. Jason appeared the following night, swearing he was only there to check in on a project – at ten p.m., and ‘honestly, boss, you should go home for a bit, I need a break from the ruckus at mine anyway, in-laws are the worst.’ Boothman, apparently thinking herself hilarious, sent a posthumous Christmas gift in the form of a bottle of tequila wrapped in a bow with a memo expressly forbidding him from hacking into Interpol.
And, of course, there was Francesca, who slipped in on the evening of the 29th, shooing Arthur to find them a proper dinner.
“Have you told him yet?”
“As soon as I’m off call,” he promised.
“Good.”
---
He handed the comm over to Maria Wednesday night, somewhat eager to sleep in his own bed again. The petite woman blocked his exit out of the office before he could make a break for it, unfortunately.
“So, Francesca says you’re going to have a proper chat with Arthur now?”
He huffed. “It’s patently unfair to corner me when I’m literally carrying a tree that weighs as much as you do, Maria.”
“You gave him a watch, boss. A diamond watch. A Colonel Thompson Special grade of gifted gadgetry. You have achieved the rank of a legend. Please, for the love of all that’s good, don’t you dare quit on us now.”
“You are all,” he espoused, “entirely too invested in my love life.”
“Someone has to be. Bring him to the New Years party tomorrow or I’ll flay you alive.”
Twenty-Four
Syler, in the way only a human disaster can manage, proceeded to go home and sleep for a solid sixteen hours, waking up shortly after five in the evening. He blinked groggily, entirely one with his mattress, so thoroughly tangled in his sheets that he tripped twice trying to get up. It wasn’t until he caught sight of the pine tree sitting accusingly on his kitchen table that he realized he was supposed to be somewhere in an hour.
“Oh shit.”
And also
