Covert Affairs: Partnership : A Covert Affairs Romance (Book One)

by Valerie Vaughn

  “Told you I would,” he called back, rife with mischief. “You’ll love Gerald, sweetheart. I promise.” Internally, he crowed. He couldn’t wait to watch the other man be helplessly pulled along in Gerald’s wake, already relishing the satisfaction he’d feel as his handler was forced into properly fitted business wear. Hopefully he could take in the tweed as well; it was growing on him.

  “I don’t need a damned tailor, Dufault! I like my clothes!”

  Arthur sighed, turning back around. “Believe it or not, so do I. But you’re twelve months shy of being promoted to acting Director of Operations.”

  “Your point, you raging asshole?” He punctuated his irritation with a well-timed stab to Arthur’s sternum.

  Arthur didn’t wince, but it was a near thing. To phrase this delicately, or— “Quirky college student isn’t quite the look that gets bureaucrats to sign off on your budget requests. Not to mention how they’ll treat you in joint staff meetings.” The fight went out of him in a rush and Arthur felt a pang of guilt at being the source of it.

  “...they won’t take me seriously.” God, he looked vulnerable. He considered if he could escort him to every meeting for the remainder of his tenure, glaring anyone stupid enough not to respect this brilliant man into submission, but discarded the thought immediately. Syler could fight his own battles; Arthur was here to give him the right armor, not infantilize him.

  He reached out to tuck a stray curl behind the other man’s ear. “Darling, wear whatever you like in the labs. Everyone there is rightfully in awe of you and they’re the ones who matter. This is just for dealing with the stuffy suits. Trust me, I’ve been playing the game longer than you’ve been alive.”

  Syler huffed. “You’re only seven years older than me.”

  “You called me a dinosaur the other night.”

  “You called my car a monstrosity.”

  “I stand by that, although it’s growing on me at approximately the same pace as the tweed. Might have something to do with the owner,” he grinned. “Come on now.”

  “Fine, but you’re not putting me in black. It makes me look like a fucking vampire at a funeral.”

  ---

  The bells over the shop door chimed merrily as they entered. Syler considered if he could still make a break for it, but he knew Dufault was right. His brain would be irrelevant to the higher ups that had pull over both the agency and his department if he showed up in one of his oversized cable knit sweaters.

  “Is that a 1940s vintage?” A short, portly man appeared from the back room, brown eyes locking onto him immediately, silver mustache twitching enthusiastically as he spoke. “My god, look at that wool weave! They just don’t make them like this anymore! Just needs a bit of taking in and—”

  Syler found himself being tugged at quite without his permission, bowled over by the enthusiasm of the older gentleman he presumed must be Gerald. He shot a pleading look at his agent, who looked entirely too amused.

  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 automatica
lly. 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 waved, heading towards the door.

  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 ambush.

  “You can’t have just two decent suits, Syler! And I’ve got it on good authority that the rest of your lovely finds need just as much taking in so don’t think I’m not expecting you to deliver them once this is finished.” Syler nodded, utterly resigned. At least it wasn’t black.

  “Well don’t you look handsome.” Syler turned towards the lilting voice of his agent, surprised. He hadn’t heard the shop bells chime.

  “Francesca, darling! How are you?” Gerald dropped his measuring tape and turned to greet the slim woman. She pressed an indulgent kiss to his cheek, red lips stretched into a fond smile, long dark waves spilling gracefully over her left shoulder.

  “Lovely, thank you. I’ve just returned from Peru.” She glided over to Syler, coming to rest behind him, running her hands lightly up his shoulders as she did. “And look what you’ve
done with our dear Deputy Director. The color suits you well.”

  “Hello Agent Garcia. No trouble, then?” He felt his cheeks flush despite himself, embarrassed by the attention.

  She smiled fondly. “None beyond finding a partner for the evening. I don’t suppose you dance, Mr. Perrin?”

  “Terribly.”

  Her laughter was like a gentle wave, as soothing as the hands working over his shoulders. The casual display reminded him of why she was one of their most skilled political infiltrators. Syler wondered at this being a coincidental meeting. “I’ll teach you over sangria. Salsa is always especially entertaining on All Hallows Eve.”

  “It’s the 30th.”

  “Not for much longer. Come on, cariño, Arthur has kept you all to himself for entirely too long. Time you got to know the rest of us,” she teased, her soft accent washing over him, lulling and cajoling in equal measures.

  He huffed. “Yes, alright, fine, but don’t be shocked if I step all over you.”

  She grinned, victorious, before turning back to Gerald. “When you’re done with our darling director-to-be, might I trouble you for my new dress, Gerald? We’ve got a town to paint red.”

  ---

  Several hours later, he found himself in the corner booth of an upscale night club, sandwiched between Francesca and Miranda, pleasantly buzzed. Across the table, Maria was engaged in a whispered conversation with the agent, their Spanish distinctly conspiratorial. He turned to Miranda, writing them both off.

  “Jason has the department for the weekend, right?”

  Miranda rolled her eyes at him, long braids swaying as she shook her head. “Yes, so no more shop talk. It took enough planning to get you out here tonight.” She pressed another glass of wine into his hand, expression daring him to argue.

  “You sent Francesca, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, cariño, it’s called having a life outside of the office,” the agent responded, apparently done plotting with Maria and leaving him with three sets of eyes focused intently on him. When these women inevitably informed him of their intentions to take over the world, he decided, he was going to step aside and let them.