social link GO?!!!

[aphelionix]

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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[aphelionix]

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?"

[tactician]

"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?"

[aphelionix]

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?"

[tactician]

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.

[aphelionix]

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."

[tactician]

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

[aphelionix]

"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."

[tactician]

"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."

[aphelionix]

"Tomorrow," he said, nodding in agreement. "Day off. I'll take care of it."

[tactician]

"Tomorrow? That's a whole six hours away. What are we going to do until then?" he teased.

[aphelionix]

Locke's forehead thumped onto Weiler's shoulder, his eyes closing. "Sleep, I imagine," he said blearily. "Sorry I woke you up, by the way." He gave a consoling pat to the hand still gripping his shirt.

[tactician]

"You can make it up to me later," Weiler laughed, lightly pushing Locke away from him. The idea of a mole, though always a very real possibility (they were moles too, after all), still weighed on his mind, but Weiler was used to functioning despite knowing unsettling things. He had all the confidence that they'd be able to handle it.

"Come on then, before you catch a cold. Come inside."

[aphelionix]

"M'not cold," he said, pulling away apart from one hand on Weiler's shoulder so he wouldn't fall right over. "Where'm I sleepin'?"

[tactician]

"In the bathtub."

Wallabin did not peek out on their way back in, although the light in his study stayed persistently on as they crept soundlessly toward Weiler's room. The new building had its perks - none of the floorboards or stairs creaked as they set foot on it, so Weiler didn't have to take extra care in order to stay silent, which just meant that was one less thing to remember on top of the other myriad of little details he had to recall for his job.

Once inside, Weiler let go of Locke's sleeve and began picking up the sheets and pillows he had spilled onto the floor in his mad half-scramble for the phone. "Shower?"

[aphelionix]

Locke's brow lifted at the state of Weiler's room, simply waiting by the door as he picked up the linens. He gave the rest of the room a glance over, realizing that he never quite expected to be in here for any reason at all. It was a little strange, and rather ironic, given most peoples' impression of the two.

He looked at the door that he assumed lead to his bathroom. "Wouldn't that make my bed wet?"

[tactician]

Weiler sat back on the far edge of the bed, looking up at Locke who was still lingering by the door. He looked highly amused. "You thought I was serious?"

[aphelionix]

A pause. "Now I'm not so sure."

[tactician]

"I'm a gentleman," Weiler argued, kicking off his shoes. "So you may share the bed."

[aphelionix]

"Oh." Locke hesitated, looking at the bed, before he slowly made his way over to take off his own boots. "Fair warning, though. I tend to steal blankets."

[tactician]

"And I kick, if we really want to go into details, but since it's three in the morning, I'd really rather get to the sleep, wouldn't you, darling?" Weiler chuckled.

[aphelionix]

"Mm," he hummed groggily, setting his boots neatly aside. Locke got back to his feet to edge off the outer jumpsuit of his uniform, down to the black shirt and black shorts underneath. That, too, he folded neatly - even while drunk, impressively - and stacked with his boots. It was a nightly routine he could've done with his eyes closed, with how long he had been part of the military.

[tactician]

The bed, though much more humble than the mattress Wallabin had stipulated for himself, was room enough for two people, so Weiler hardly even thought much about it (not that he was capable of much more thought at this hour) as he crawled under the covers on his end, mindless of whatever Locke was doing.

If he could fall asleep right now, he could still get about five hours and maybe fifteen or so minutes, and then tomorrow, after the nine-thirty review meeting, he might be able to sneak in another half an hour past that...

[aphelionix]

Locke slid himself under the covers - posh and fluffy, as expected, he supposed - with plenty of room to himself. There was a large difference between their beds. His bunk on base was definitely only big enough for one, and rather firm at that, with thin sheets. Locke felt like he was melting right into this bed.

Being rather intoxicated, though, the soldier relented to his own urges. In the middle of Weiler's calculations, an arm snaked around his waist. There was a brush of hair against the back of his neck along with a tired sigh.

[tactician]

A low laugh echoed against Locke's arm as Weiler rolled onto his back, brows raised. "Well, well, well, Mister Cupid."

[aphelionix]

"Don't call me that."