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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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Not quite entirely out of the woods yet.

"Two days," Weiler said suddenly, the moisture clogging up the bathroom air making his voice echo against the tiles. "We should set up a regular check-in schedule of two days. And if either of us misses it, then the other should extract themselves and lay low."

"Sounds reasonable," he said. "Two days."

"Until then, you'll just have to keep yourself company with your right hand," said Weiler, without missing a beat.

Locke rolled his eyes. "Back at you."

Cheerily, "I've got other outlets."

"What other- actually, I'm not sure I want to know."

"You can use your imagination for that."

The sound of a faucet shutting off cut the white noise from Weiler's end of the line short.

"While you cart off your General to bed."

"We'll see how that goes," he said, not without a sigh that said he was not looking forward to it.

A hum of amusement, and before the line cut off: "Two days then, Herr Locke."

Their interaction for the day should've ended there. As the night progressed, though, Locke and Gearhorn managed to get themselves properly wasted. The general had found herself someone to go home with, and she started insisting and teasing that Locke go to his own lover. While drunk, Locke thought that perhaps it'd look suspicious not to go over for his day off the next day. It was rather late, though - going on one in the morning.

Locke decided to start with a drunk dial, first.

Given the hour and the sudden unexpectedness of the call, of course the first thing Weiler said upon scrabbling for the transmitter was a breathless, "What's wrong?"

"I'm really drunk," he answered.

Weiler was still half in bed, half sprawled over the top of his bedside drawer. He held the receiver to his ear and said nothing for a very long time, blinking blearily at the digital display on the wall beside him, indicating the hour and all the much-too-low numbers incorporated in it. His forehead dropped onto his forehead with a very audible 'thump.'

"Are you. Doesn't that kind of...you know, defeat the purpose regarding what you were trying to do? What good is it if you don't remember anything in the morning?"

"Tha's why I'm coming over to tell you," he said drowsily. Locke had gotten a little information out of her, and he wasn't sober enough to be sure no one was listening.

Weiler lifted his head from the crook of his elbows, but rested his chin on his forearms nonetheless. "Oh?" he prompted, sounding surprisingly good-natured considering the fact that Locke was disturbing his sleep to drunk dial him. "A late night visit at this hour? What will people think?"

There was the sound of a car door slamming shut - Locke getting into the cab. He mumbled something to the driver before answering.

"Nothing they don't already, honey."

Honey?

"Mein Gott, you owe me one, Avery," Weiler muttered, groaning as he began the laborious process of climbing out of bed before abruptly cutting the transmission. Pulling on a shirt, Weiler slipped out of his room and downstairs, toward the front entrance. Curiously, a sliver of light escaped from Wallabin's study down the hall, and when he looked, the Senator was peering out of it curiously, eerily backlit by the interior lighting.

Weiler put on an easy smile. "My apologies, sir. A friend of mine had a little too much to drink, and he single-handedly decided that coming here was easier than going home. I'll be sure not to cause any trouble or make any noise."

Wallabin 'hmphed' loudly and retreated back into the study with a curt set of parting words: "See that you don't, Milo."

The Senator could get into odd moods once in a while, especially when stressed or boggled with work, so Weiler didn't think much of it, other than the passing thought that he needed to get Wallabin some 'stress relief' sooner rather than later (but he could see about arranging that tomorrow). He had more pressing concerns now and apparently no time to spare - the cab was pulling into the expansive driveway of Wallabin's pseudo-estate just as Weiler exited the door.

Locke stumbled out of the back after paying, waving a shaky hello at Weiler. The cab left, leaving Locke without anything to balance on, but he managed to straighten himself up well enough.

"Hi," he said, digging his hands into his jacket pockets as he approached. Locke seemed tickled by the situation in his state. "Bad time?"

"Not the best," Weiler replied, shrugging a shoulder. He was awake now, even if the absence of sleep was probably going to wear on him tomorrow, should it be a long day. Sometimes, one had to make certain concessions when working with people and consequently, their eccentricities, and if Locke coming here meant that whatever he had earned with his hard-won (lack of) alcohol tolerance wouldn't be forgotten come morning, then Weiler understood. He was a man of reason.

He took the few steps required to put him directly in front of Locke, peering into the other man's flushed face. Weiler still remembered the last time the soldier got this drunk in his company; Locke had been a very cuddly drunk. Did he naturally seek out company when incapacitated?

"On a scale of one to ten, how drunk are you?"

Locke thought on it for a good few seconds.

"Seven and a half," he decided. Along with his flushed face was a wrinkled, slightly undone uniform, and messy hair. (One of the dancers had gotten particularly friendly.) Locke leaned in by Weiler's ear. "This a bad place to talk?"

Weiler grinned at that. Threading one hand into Locke's hair and the other into the fabric of his wrinkled shirt, he pulled the two of them behind a pillar that he knew was a blind spot for any of the security cameras on the premises.

"Depends on how quietly you talk," he whispered back.

His forearm braced himself against the pillar, leaving him and Weiler at a close proximity. Locke gave a cursory glance around despite the precaution Weiler had already taken.

"Very," he whispered back. "It's Foster. Gearhorn hinted at him receiving some important information soon. I think it's coming from the Circle, but I'm not sure which, or how."

"Foster," Weiler murmured, frowning into the dark driveway. "Isn't that the name of the new doctor, as well? Any relation there?"

"Brothers," he confirmed. Locke had gotten that out of Gearhorn as well. "He doesn't know the doctor's with us, though. He's been searching."

"Then there must be a breach on our end," Weiler muttered, fingers tightening in Locke's shirt."The Seventh. Damn - it's like spilling water into a bucket with holes."

He sighed, straightened. "But if Gearhorn and Wallabin haven't made a move yet, then it can't have trickled too far down. Maybe we should make an emergency report and inform them of a mole."

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