circle7 | The Waiting Room

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The Waiting Room

Being led to the waiting room was more akin to being brought on a full-scale tour of the floor than any beeline route. The layout of the Senator's office was linear in nature, with one winding passage through the space that passed by nearly every single room in succession, designed probably with the mindset that a person could follow only one path and turn off into their desired destination sooner or later. It was aesthetically and theoretically sound, but architecturally and practically wasteful, making it perfect for a politician.

At the very end, two large polished doors, painted to look like archaic mahogany (if that species still existed in this day and age). They glistened with the evidence of a very good cleaning crew and swung inwards to reveal a square, stately room, lit in the center by a low-hanging crystal chandelier. An ornamental rug lay on the ground, covering most of the floor space, and upon it rested two plush couches and a low coffee table, adorned with a contemporary vase of some sort. The couches, made of black leather, shone dully in the warm light, and atop one of them was the Senator's secretary, sitting cross-legged with a cigarette hanging from two of his fingers.

Weiler looked up as the doors opened, raising a brow minutely when he saw who entered. He then put out his light on the nearby ashtray and swept himself to his feet in one fluid motion. "General," he greeted, voice smooth despite the vice. When addressing military personnel, it was best to be militant - being to-the-point would suffice. "The Senator is waiting for you in his personal office space. He assured me that you would appreciate the privacy."

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Weiler grinned. The conversation droning in their ears only consisted of inane chatter regarding compensation and numbers. No doubt the figures would be a nightmare later when tax season came around and it came to sweeping illegal transactions under the rug, but that was a good five months away. "Everyone hates politicians," he said, "But the question is: is she worried that the dirty secretary is going to swindle her poor soldier's heart or money?"

"Money, information," Locke said with a shrug. He leaned forward, putting out the stub of his cigarette in the fancy, glass ashtray on the table.

Suddenly, Weiler pulled himself to his feet, hands slipping into his pockets easily with the air of a man with something to hide - the air of a stereotypical politician, of course. He smirked at Locke over one shoulder. "Information tells me," he said, "that Gladsheim doesn't have much money to swindle."

The soldier smiled back up, allowing himself to relax now that another man wasn't nestled up against him.

"Another large reason we're here."

He turned on his heel.

"Then your master shouldn't have anything to worry about, Herr Locke. What could she possibly suspect about me?"

"Master?" He quirked an eyebrow at him.

Weiler lifted both brows back. "Dodging the question."

Locke shrugged. "I don't know what goes on in her head."

Weiler's eyes narrowed and all the easy, sleazy grace in his body seemed to suddenly cut short into something abrupt and hard-edged, like someone took an image in motion and then snipped every blurry edge out. "But," he said, voice low and devoid of any joking tint. "It's your job to."

Because this was important - if he was going to be in such close proximity to an influential figure like the General, he couldn't afford to be viewed as a potential threat for too long. He couldn't afford to be in such limelight, couldn't afford to be under such scrutiny. It would put a damper in all of his responsibilities, both true and acted, and there was nothing Weiler liked less than proverbial speed bumps. The last thing he needed was an enemy officer breathing down his neck.

"Would she feel better if we weren't theoretically involved?"

"Not quite what I meant." Locke's slapped his hands on his knees, pushing up to a stand, where he stepped close enough to speak quietly and still be heard.

"She'll like it better if it seems I trust you. I don't trust easily," he continued. "But the general will probably worry about you tagging along everywhere with the senator on Gladsheim. She doesn't like people knowing or seeing too much who don't have to, so she may try to alienate you from him. Also..."

Fingers tugged Weiler forward by the belt loops of his pants.

"We're being checked on," he whispered by his ear, having noticed the sound in the earbud going silent.

Out of sight and entirely without sound, Weiler's face twisted into something vicious. It lasted only a split second, barely long enough for the eye to recognize, but it was such a stark change from his easy-going half-smile that the contrast was striking. As quickly as it had flashed onto his face, it slid off the next moment as his brain apparently got with the program and his arms wound up to loop across the back of Locke's neck, fingers playing with the hair on his nape (a nice touch, if he did say so himself).

(Really, had he been so concerned with his possible standing in Gladsheim that he hadn't noticed the lull in conversation? Had he really been so preoccupied that he had to have this bumbling buffoon of a soldier pick up his slack? That was mortifying - what else did he pride himself on, if not the timing and the acting and the steadfast delivery of potentially damaging information? Had he really been so careless?)

"Voyeurs," Weiler whispered, mouthing the word against Locke's throat so that it may as well have been a word shared between lovers instead of fellow spies in an underground organized crime association.

"I suppose that eases your fears, General," Wallabin's voice said over the listening device, followed by a short, embarrassed cough to clear his throat.

"Apologies, senator," the general said sternly, and Locke couldn't help but grin. The stiffness in her voice gave away her embarrassment.

"And you say Gladsheim is kinky," he mumbled.

"I should've known better. It's not the first time he's done that," she continued, exasperated. "Excuse me. You were saying?"

And then Locke fell silent, his face turning red, almost matching his hair and mustache.

Weiler glanced up briefly.

And then he glanced up again before promptly muffling his laughter in Locke's shoulder. "Red," he was mumbling into the Gladsheim uniform. "Mein gott, you pull a man against you and then turn as red as a Orlescian Tomato."

"I didn't think she'd say that," Locke grumbled, glaring down at Weiler, even if he couldn't see it.

"What are you so uptight about?" Weiler pressed on, mercilessly. He didn't bother stepping away, but he did lean back at the waist that he was no longer pressing his face against Locke's chest. Waving a hand in the direction of the door, he dropped his voice and reminded, "Apparently this isn't even your first rodeo."

So apparently Weiler was a big fan of archaic turn of phrases.

And he once again lost Locke in the middle of his talking. His brow dipped.

"I'm not even sure what that means."

"She said it wasn't your first time," Weiler replied off-handedly. "I was surprised - I thought that kind of thing was somewhat less common in the military."

"This... particular scenario is new," he admitted. "And it isn't common. Granted, most soldiers don't have someone who need them around all the time, thus rounding them up at inconvenient times."

Weiler's grin turned positively dirty, even as he glanced over to his forgotten cigarette, which had been dropped in the ashtray upon standing, where it had consequently burned out and died. "So she needs you around all the time. I see, I see - that puts things in perspective."

Locke frowned down at him.

"What's that look for?"

Weiler patted him again on the cheek. "You should work on your conversation comprehension skills, Herr Locke. But for now, would you mind?"

He smiled and lightly tapped Locke's knuckles, where his hands were still resting on Weiler's waist, keeping him there, albeit not with much force.

"Unless you're that inclined to keep me here."

At that, Locke stepped back, and settled back on the couch again, looking like he had never been flustered at all.

"I need a story to give her," he said, still cautiously quiet. "About us, I mean."

Despite his insistence on separation, Weiler followed shortly after, perching on Locke's knee (although this time, thankfully, he wasn't straddling him). "She won't believe our whirlwind romance led on by a torrent of spontaneous, uncontrollable lust?"

"If I had gotten drunk, maybe," he said, sighing as his knee was occupied. "Disorderly conduct, though, for this kind of occasion." Locke looked him up and down. "This might even be disorderly conduct."

Weiler beamed, putting one hand on the back of the couch for support and leaning in. "I'm perfectly in order."

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