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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."
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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"Were you at that ridiculous parade for the candidates last week, by any chance?"
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"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?"
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"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."
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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?"
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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.
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"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."
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Locke had since rearranged himself as well, straightening his uniform out as he returned to the general's side, and one step back. He nodded dutifully at the senator, his brow dipped apologetically. After all, the incredibly nice room was his, and him and Milo had the audacity to defile it.
"Apologies, general," he said as the senator left.
"Explain later, Avery," she sighed irritably, clearly in no mood to discuss it after having spent a good hour already discussing things. Her sharp gaze fell upon Milo again. "Mr. Eberstark, if you'd please show us along."
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"Of course, General," he answered amiably, dipping slightly at the waist before tucking his papers under one arm and turning for the door. As he passed Locke, he ran his hand down the outside of Locke's arm from elbow to wrist, a gesture that was toned down enough to not breach the edge of inappropriate, but familiar and obvious enough that Gearhorn would most likely take offense regardless. "Please follow me."
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Her steps fell heavy and stern down the hall, even along the carpet. Locke's steps were lighter; possibly since he was not angry in the slightest. He just kept his eyes on the back of Milo's head as they walked through the building, silent and serious again.
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"Especially since we'll be working quite closely together from now on, feel free to consider this place as if it were part of your own," Weiler finished as they finally reached the elevator chute. Just as the chute reached their level with the quite sound of displaced air, he threw a pointed smile in Locke's direction, where Gearhorn would surely see.
"After you two."
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Locke's hands clasped behind his back, and he admired the upstairs almost as much as the downstairs. The mini chandeliers lining the hall, ornate sconces and rich colored carpets... Upscale things like this weren't common on the military base at all, even with his upper position as the general's confidant and bodyguard. Different sort of indulgences came with that job; such as nicer, solo quarters away from the rest of the soldiers, and premium English-style tea that he fancied. That was about as sophisticated as his accomodations got.
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"The Senator invites you to retire in these rooms for your stay, however brief. The kitchens are down the hall, should you find yourself hungry before the meal. I'll come fetch you when it's time. Do you need anything else?"
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"No, thank you. We'll see you at dinner, Mr. Eberstark," she said curtly before turning on her heel. "Avery, see me in ten." She disappeared into her room. His nod was customary, even if it went unseen.
Locke turned to Weiler, offering a polite smile.
"You like to upset her, don't you?"
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"Kinky Gladsheim bastards, the lot of you."
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"You can call me 'Sweetie-pie Darling,'" he answered, without blinking an eye.
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"No."
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