circle7 | The Waiting Room

Entry tags:

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

Locke hummed in thought.

"Maybe spontaneous, uncontrollable lust is more believable." Than actually wanting to be with a crazy assistant to a politician, that is. And not entirely untrue.

"Or," Weiler said, clearly having a great deal of fun at Locke's expense. "You can say that it was a wild night where we met at the bar, and the next thing you knew, you woke up in silk sheets and a collar around your neck with your legs tied-"

"Ahem," he interjected, "too detailed."

Face a picture perfect image of innocence, Weiler blinked down. "No? I thought that one would be fun. Fine, then, Herr Locke," he said, patting Locke on his chest, above his uniform breast pocket. "You choose a story and I will play along."

Locke looked up at the ceiling as he considered, drumming his fingers against the arm of the couch.

"Well, we were both were at yesterday's welcoming ceremony. I suppose it's not out of the question to have met last night."

He canted his head. "No, it's not. We're particularly amorous for such a brief acquaintance, however."

Another hum of thought. In the small bout of silence, he lent his attention to the conversation going on in his ear - still going over numbers. The senator was indeed greedy.

"Were you at that ridiculous parade for the candidates last week, by any chance?"

Focusing on something on the far end of the room, Weiler took a mental check of both his and the Senator's recent activities, like a computer running a search through its files. It was a good skill to have in his line of work - both in personal assisting and in information pilfering, that was.

"Yes," he said after a moment, eyes focusing back on Locke only after a beat. He smiled. "Did our eyes cross there? Did you feel a spark?"

"Fireworks, even," he said, smiling back up. Never mind that there actually were fireworks at the event.

Weiler's upper lip curled back over his teeth. "I obviously wasn't attracted to your stunning sense of humor, then," said the man who was making outdated cowboy jokes not fifteen minutes ago. He paused briefly to check in on the conversation in the other room, but the topic had since digressed to how many full bathrooms would be built into the Senator's new abode, so he figured it was safe to tune out for a few moments longer. Wallabin sounded very invested.

"Very well," he agreed, leaning his elbow onto Locke's shoulder. "We'll say there was a spark, and upon reuniting at the black tie event, we just couldn't help ourselves." Weiler smirked down. "Not that I blame you."

"Please," Locke scoffed, looking seriously unimpressed. "Everyone knows it's the mustache."

Weiler raised a brow, going still. "Why, Herr Locke, are you flirting?"

"Ridiculous. Last I heard we were quite past that."

One corner of his mouth lifted and he leaned back, only to nudge Locke under the chin with a knuckle. "Oh, I guess it might have been the sense of humor after all. Not bad, soldier. This won't be hard to pull off at all. We'll have Gladsheim eating out of hands yet."

Considering he did very little with prior warning, it shouldn't have been surprising at all when Weiler reached out and latched onto Locke's collar. When he proceeded to manhandle the clothes, however, knocking the bandanna and done-up zipper askew, before wheedling his hands into Locke's hair and mussing that up just the slightest bit, it might have caught any sane man off guard.

The door opened again after a beat or three, giving Weiler just enough time to muss up his own suit collar and hook a finger into his tie to loosen it up an inch or two. He even managed to pull a few strands of hair out of their perfectly slicked-back place before standing to greet his boss, making a great show out of smoothing down the clothes he had wrinkled just seconds before.

"Senator," he said, with a perfect millisecond stutter. "Are you finished?"

There was a bit of confusion at first, but if he learned one thing about Weiler, it's that he didn't do things without reason. (Well, most things - some of it seemed a bit unnecessary.) It was only a few seconds before he caught onto the actions, managing to quickly unbutton the front of Weiler's suit, snagging both the earpieces from their ears and shoving them back into his inner pockets.

He jumped to his feet as the two officials walked back in, acting embarrassed to be caught, standing straight.

"General Gearhorn," he greeted, swallowing as he saluted her arrival, naturally a tad more formal in etiquette than Weiler.

Weiler quickly put himself back in order, expertly tucking his shirt and tie back in place with practiced efficiency. For his part, Senator Wallabin hardly batted an eye, still distractedly scanning over the pile of paperwork he was holding in his meaty hands. Gearhorn herself looked much less pleased than he did, but Weiler could understand holding a certain degree of frustrated disdain for a man as ham-headed and self-obsessed as the Senator, especially when said pile was rudely thrust in his face.

"Have three copies of this drawn up and at least five digital backup copies for our files. Hand one over to our Gladsheim friends here by the end of the hour, Milo," said the Senator, unhooking his reading visor from his left ear and shutting it off with a press of his thumb. The digital display phased out with an electric 'bzzt' sound as Weiler dutifully took the papers, pushing the wayward edges inward until it was a perfectly aligned pile.

"Yes, sir. Will you be needing anything else?" Weiler asked, casting a glance at the General. He found her glaring at him with a narrowed, measuring stare and allowed himself to act mildly surprised without losing composure, like he had no idea why she would be so overtly hostile.

"Yes, for now, please show our honored guests to their quarters for the layover period. They won't be leaving until tomorrow morning, so they'll be staying for a modest meal with us. Book reservations at the Callioupe. Make sure they give us a booth," the Senator rambled, clearly with the air of a man who was used to holding power and was not above flaunting it. When he finished, he waved Weiler off with a hand and smiled at the General. "I will see you two for dinner then. If you'll excuse me."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject