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Wallabin's frankly boring visits were starting to become commonplace at the Gladsheim base; to the point where even Locke was getting dirty looks from the fellow soldiers. When he slanted his glance their way, they usually shut up their gossiping and returned to what they were doing, though. One would think they'd be used to it by now, but they didn't cease to find amusement in Locke running the duo around. (They always silenced themselves when Gearhorn turned up, though.)

Luckily for Weiler and Locke, they were allowed a break from Wallabin while he met with Gearhorn and several other officers. (More demands to be met, more money to be donated and the like, Locke was sure.) There weren't many safe places to talk on base, unfortunately. He didn't even trust his own quarters.

There was only one place that he knew would be safe, due to the sheer loud volume of it; the cantina. It was less than glamorous, and the drinks they had to offer were definitely not as exquisite as the bar they had gone to. The company even less so. It was with a little reluctance that Locke suggested it.

"We could kill some time at the cantina," he had said, "but I don't think you'll like it."

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Locke looked impressed by Weiler. He didn't seem to falter at all in the presence of this type of crowd. In fact, if he didn't know better, Weiler seemed amused. Regardless, Locke's step fell a bit closer next to the other man's.

"They don't like anyone but themselves," he answered, and stopped him at an empty table closer to the back of the canteen. "This group's especially rowdy, though. They just got back from a mission. Looks like they were promised drinks."

"The last thing this bunch needs is a drink and lowered inhibitions," Weiler commented quietly, smiling politely despite the glowers he was being given. He was used to handling people, all types of them, and though this particular kind was of relatively short supply, he knew enough to know that the best way to proceed here was not to draw attention, to remain humbled and quiet and never haughty. A rowdy canteen fight was the last thing he wanted - he barely knew how to throw an effective punch.

It wasn't unexpected in the least, this antagonism. He would have hated it too, if he were a man from a planet who was used to a policy where power was rewarded to the strong. That a weak-statured man made of largely hot air like Wallabin, throwing around his title like it was a mace, could pull rank here was probably infuriating, even if Wallabin kept to his posh accommodations most of the time. As his personal assistant, Weiler was guilty by association and much, much easier to get to, considering he hardly held as much clout. The only reason he hadn't had his throat slit yet might have been because of Locke's presence alone.

Sitting down on the far end of the table bench, Weiler swept his eyes up to Locke. "I feel like I'm in grade school recess again," he laughed, though the sound was cut short when a loud clatter came from the other end of the table.

A small group of men had set their dismal-looking trays, carrying even more dismal-looking food that was decidedly not the drink they had been promised, loudly upon the table, turning up their noses at the other occupants. The band couldn't all fit given the limited seating and they eyed Weiler and Locke like they were pieces of trash, about to be kicked out of the way any given moment.

Since the last thing he wanted was to get kicked, Weiler stood up.

Locke had kept a conscious eye on the people in the canteen, knowing full well that drink and lowered inhibitions were indeed a dangerous thing. There were rules on base, of course, about fights and how you shouldn't start them else a higher rank will discipline you as they see suitable, but it largely went ignored. The men and women alike of the military were aggressive, and most officials couldn't be bothered to keep them in control.

Technically, Locke was of higher rank, but often he was teased for it. 'The General's lapdog', 'Gearhorn's bitch,' and other such fond nicknames made their way into his reputation. Implications about how he got the position were often made as well. Fortunately, they usually shut up with him in their presence, as he also had a reputation for being ruthless. (The truth about that rumor, though, was that it was spread by another undercover Circle member to keep trouble from nosing about his business. It worked well, and so far, he hadn't had to prove the rumor true.)

But truly, as a Circle member, one had to have a little street smarts. Locke would hardly call himself ruthless, but when push came to shove, he certainly wouldn't call himself nice. It was unfortunate for the loud band of soldiers that they had never seen Private Nicholas Avery.

He gave the ruffians a disinterested glance before nodding at Weiler.

"Milo, sit down."

Weiler looked unconvinced, glancing over his shoulder at the group. "I don't really want to start anything here."

"You really don't," one of the men agreed, muttering under his breath, quietly enough so that everyone in the vicinity could hear, but it seemed as though Locke's reputation was good after all - no one actually made a move to push them away.

Locke's back straightened, and he looked at the group. About six of them total, no one particularly daunting, but their expressions could certainly scare. All bark, no bite, he figured.

"You're not," he said, only seeming loud because the immediate area around them had quieted, clearly waiting for a fight to break out. "So sit."

"Bow-wow, yes master," Weiler said quietly and, with a resigned sigh, he sat back down at the end of the bench, hands sliding into his pockets as he leaned back against the table.

All bark and no bite was right, though. Other than the occasional muttered allusion or dirty look, none of them actually had the gall to start anything. They didn't even manage to talk directly to Weiler, keeping largely to themselves as they huddled into their own exclusive little group at the other end of the table.

Weiler beckoned to Locke, motioning for him to bend down so that he could speak.

Locke's elbows planted on the table, and he leaned forward.

"What is it?"

"Thanks for standing up for my honor, weißer ritter. I'd kiss you if it didn't net me a black eye, but for now, I'll give you the honor of serving as my shield," he said laughingly, patting the space next to him.

Locke couldn't help a laugh.

"Are you that afraid of them?"

Honestly amused, Locke lifted himself from the seat just enough to pull Weiler into meeting him the rest of the way across the table, locking lips with him. Before he acknowledged any reaction Weiler might've had, he pulled away, tilting his head to look at someone behind Weiler. The someone in question was one of the men out of the group, who thought he was being sneaky in creeping up behind the politician's assistant while the two were off guard.

There was a click by Weiler's ear, where Locke's gun had been comfortably propped onto his shoulder and pointed at the man behind him. Locke was smiling pleasantly up at him.

"Problem?"

Weiler knew how to take a cue.

Pulling gently away from Locke (really, the man had no sense of timing - in the cantina and across a lunch table, of all places), Weiler twisted himself around. He seated himself on the table, crossing his legs on the bench he had been sitting on, and let Locke's still-raised gun hover reassuringly between his right arm and chest.

"Hello," he greeted cheerfully, smiling at the man who had all but stopped in his tracks, so caught off guard that his hands hadn't forgotten to unclench from fists. Weiler reached up to Locke's hand and flicked the safety back into place, but only so that he could ease the weapon from Locke's fingers and into his own.

He flicked the safety off again as he cocked the barrel right between the man's legs. "I'm not a very good shot," he admitted. "But I don't think even I can miss at point black."

Half the canteen now was quiet, the other half whooping cheers at Weiler and Locke. The group quickly became the quieter half of the room, likely embarrassed through their friend's failure in not being caught.

The man stumbled back a step, his arms slowly dropping back to his sides. His fists didn't open, balled up out of anger now.

"You're lucky your boyfriend saved you this time," he growled (though it wasn't clear to which one of them), staggering his way back to the other end of the table. By the time he sat, it was slowly becoming like the event hadn't happened, everyone going back to their business. Things just weren't as interesting if someone wasn't really being shot.

A hand reached up and clicked the safety on the gun again, slipping it from Weiler's hand. Locke was pleasantly surprised by the turn of events, actually, looking as much.

"Have you ever fired one of these, Milo?" he asked, now that the din had returned and concealed their conversation again.

"No," said Weiler, with a smile that said, 'yes.' "We don't have much use for those kinds of things in politics. We're...civilized men, or so we like to think."

He looked up after watching Locke put away the gun, brows raising at the other man's pleased expression. "You're in an awfully good mood considering what just happened."

"Happens all the time," he explained. "But I'm impressed. Not bad, for a civilized man."

Weiler settled back in his seat (although not before brushing it clean where his shoes had scuffed the seat), leaning on his elbows toward Locke. "Oh, you liked that, did you? Into a bit of gunplay?"

"Hmm. I wasn't before, but now..." he trailed off, looking thoughtful.

A finger flicked Locke lightly on the tip of his nose, Weiler's other hand preoccupied with cradling his chin. There was a heavy-lidded but highly entertained look on his face. "Too bad, soldier. I'm not into sticking guns where they don't really belong. Unless you ask very nicely."

Locke smirked, even as he wrinkled his nose. One of his knees bumped against Weiler's.

"I won't ask, but thanks for the offer."

Weiler's face fell into a look of utter disappointment, too quickly and too finely-tuned for it to have been real, but a good show of it nonetheless.

"I'll let you stand up for my maidenly honor?"

"Haven't I already done that?"

"You seem to enjoy it, so I thought I'd offer if you promised to ask someday," Weiler responded, grinning.

"Well, if you insist, I suppose I can."

"Wunderbar! I'll hold you to that!" He clapped his hands together once with a laugh. Hands still palm-to-palm, Weiler then lowered them into his lap, voice dropping lower in the way it did whenever he spoke about something that he didn't particularly want others to hear.

"But you know, I would not have thought you'd be so quick to jump to my defense. Being involved with me is not so great for the image you've got to uphold out here in the wild, no? That's risking an awful lot for little ol' me," he mused, ending in an exaggerated twang of another archaic accent that was difficult to place.

Locke gave him a baffled yet amused look for both his outburst and the accent, but upon answering the actual question, he looked elsewhere.

"I don't mind," he said, simple enough.

One brow raised and the other dipped at Locke's obvious aversion. "You don't?"

Locke glanced back at Weiler, looking him over in consideration. He could have left Weiler to his own devices, or not have defended him so aggressively. It was a little odd, he supposed, putting that much at risk over someone he'd only known for about two months. He hadn't really thought about it.

"No," he affirmed. "I look out for my own. The ones I like, at least." Locke smiled. "What would you have expected me to do?"

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insert troll face here

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I'm making up an amount of time they've known each other now ok