“Fucking shit.”
He darted back to his room, fumbling wildly for his phone, managing to jam it in the space between the headboard and the wall in the ensuing struggle. God help him, he really did need a keeper. Finally retrieving the blasted thing, he swiped open the lock screen, a handful of missed texts from Maria telling him in increasingly vivid detail all he needed to know about how screwed he was if he didn’t actually show up to the agency New Years Eve party with his agent in tow.
Disregarding her ire momentarily, he pressed call on Dufault’s contact tab, phone pressed tight to his ear, suddenly nervous. His nerves didn’t improve as the phone continued to ring. And ring. And eventually go to voicemail. He tried again with similar results. Shit.
Giving up on that, he opened a blank text message and typed out the time and address for the bar the covert affairs division had rented out for the night, freezing on what else to include. God, why was he such an awkward mess? He was a thirty year old man, for heaven’s sake. He finally sent it as it was, assuming the other man wouldn’t need an in-depth explanation on why he was wanted at an agency party. Honestly, there was every possibility he was already aware it was taking place.
He flopped back on his bed with a frustrated groan, although that reprieve only lasted as long as it took to see the time. He had to be at the bar in forty-five minutes, Arthur or no Arthur.
---
Syler stepped out of his cab and up to the bar an hour later, grateful he’d elected not to drive. Parking was non-existent tonight, to put it mildly. He tugged self-consciously on his jumper and smoothed down the scarf Arthur had given him. He’d even made an attempt at taming his hair, for all that he couldn’t hope to replicate anything resembling a fashionable style. Arthur hadn’t opened his message, so it was probably going to be a useless effort anyway.
He made a beeline for the bar, ordering a whiskey neat and downing it before Maria could catch sight of him. He could face his death valiantly, but only if he didn’t have to be sober for it. He’d just collected his second, ready to actually taste this one, when a hand settled on his shoulder.
“Alright there, sweetheart?”
His entire body relaxed, leaning into the other man’s arm as he turned to face him. “Hello Arthur.”
“Hello.” The fingers massaging small circles into his shoulder blade had him going boneless, turning further to press his face into the other man’s neck. “Long week, huh?”
“A bit,” he sighed, content, indulging in Arthur’s earthy cologne as he nuzzled into his collarbone. The hand on his back stilled. “Don’t stop.”
Arthur dropped his hand onto the smaller man’s waist, squeezing. “Never.”
---
Arthur found himself with an armful of engineer for the rest of the evening, his beloved handler nursing a handful of glasses of whiskey throughout the night, apparently content to stay there and relax. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, but he wasn’t going to risk asking just yet. The agent smiled softly, glancing down. Syler was conversing quietly with Maria, who was herself leaned up against Benson.
Miranda caught his eye, raising her beer in a toast and chuckling at their two companions, both tipsily debating the merits of AI directed hacking. Daniel and Madeline dropped by at some point, bidding them an early new year before they set off. The former Special Agent Rosencroft glanced admiringly at his recently acquired watch and he grinned, absurdly pleased with the little lock pick his genius had bestowed upon him. If it didn’t require letting go of the man, he’d happily show it off.
As midnight approached, Syler seemed to rouse himself, grinning at him as the timer hit one minute ‘til. Arthur stroked a hand down his back, perfectly content.
“Mm, will you drive me home after this? I didn’t want to chance the parking.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
Syler grinned, turning to Maria, who joined him in an enthusiastic countdown. Arthur wondered, briefly, if the inevitable New Years kiss between the two might finally clue the man in on their marital status and end the running departmental joke that he was blind even with glasses. He was so focused on watching for Syler’s reaction to Reyes’ leaning into her wife that he found himself totally unprepared for the lips that met his own.
‘Oh,’ he thought, pulling Syler closer. Well alright then.
---
“Arthur, answer me very seriously now,” Syler began, blinking from his spot tucked under his arm. “Is that actually your car?”
Arthur grinned shamelessly. “Meet Lucy.” Lucy, as it were, being his 1969 Boss 429 Mustang, the 2-door coupe painstakingly refinished to a gleaming black jade.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, tone decidedly admiring. “That’s fucking beautiful.”
“And she has a real engine too,” he proclaimed, chuffed.
“How much did that cost you?”
“About $50 at the scrapyard I pulled her out of twenty years ago. They had no idea what they had there. Rebuilt her myself.”
“Dear god,” he continued, “that is incredibly attractive.”
“Wanna take a ride?” He pushed him gently towards the passenger side, all too thrilled to introduce his sweetheart to his beloved girl. The sound Syler made was pleading. Apparently, even computer engineers could be hotrod fangirls.
---
They pulled into the second bay of Syler’s assigned parking an hour later, Lucy tucking in neatly beside his Tesla, having taken a bit of a detour to the highway. His handler laughed breathlessly, leaning back in the hand-stitched cream leather seats. “Oh my god. I want one.”
“Mm, thought you said there wasn’t enough room to put guns in something with an engine.”
“I lied,” he hissed, stroking a hand reverently over the dash. Arthur grinned.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you to bed.” He had to come to Syler’s side and open the door. The other man seemed unwilling to leave otherwise. “I’ll take you
