Time and Paperwork Wait for No Man
The sleek military limo pulled to a stop in front of 27 Thunderbird Lane. The passenger, a trim, serious-looking young woman in the uniform of a first lieutenant, her blonde hair gathered up in a clip, aimed a slightly reproachful smile at the driver.
"Thanks, Jean. You can light up now. See you this afternoon."
Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, and replied grumpily, "Thanks for the permission, Your Majesty. Sheez, ten months ahead of me, and you pull rank."
Riza Hawkeye assumed her usual stern demeanor, bur her reddish-brown eyes retained a bit of humor. "Twenty minutes without a smoke isn't exactly torture. You ought to quit, anyway, for your own good."
"Uh huh. I happen to be as healthy as a horse, and Colonel Mustang, who abstains as righteously as you do, is practically at death's door."
"He's got the flu, Jean. It has nothing to do with lifestyle habits."
"Yeah, well, I AM going to light up now, so you'd better get out or risk keeling over from the deadly fumes."
"I'm out of here. See you later."
Riza got out of the car and started up the walk, listing a bit to the left from the weight of a heavy briefcase. She paused for a moment to admire the house; she'd only been here a few times before, and never in broad daylight. It was one of the nicer houses in one of the more posh neighborhoods of East City. Diamond-paned windows adorned the imposing gray stone structure, set well back from the street by an expansive lawn bordered by a cast-iron fence. The flagstone walkway wound through well-kept flower beds and mature trees that hid the house from public view.
"Just a few more promotions and maybe I can afford a place like this," she thought to herself.
The walkway led to an enclosed porch in front of a massive mahogany door set with frosted glass. Though she would rather have had all her teeth pulled out than admit it, Riza was looking forward to having Roy Mustang all to herself for a few hours. Not that cajoling him to do paperwork while he was ill was a particularly romantic situation, still… She set the briefcase down gratefully and massaged her left arm before ringing the doorbell.
A stoutly-built woman in her fifties in a floral print housedress covered by a starched white apron answered the door. Her salt-and pepper hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the scowl in her deeply lined face told Riza that she wasn't pleased by the unexpected visit. Her scowl changed to a tight little smile as she recognized the younger woman.
"Good morning, First Lieutenant. What brings you here?"
Riza became uncharacteristically apologetic. "Good morning, Mrs. Fleer. I have some paperwork for Colonel Mustang – it's been building up over the last few days, and simply can't wait any longer."
The housekeeper rolled her eyes and sighed. "That poor man, not a moment's peace with all these visitors! Very well; his room's up on the second floor."
She stepped aside to let Riza into the spacious marble entrance hall and indicated a wide spiral staircase to her right. Gilt-framed oil paintings lined the walls all the way upstairs. Riza caught a glimpse of the formal parlor off to the left where Mustang entertained his officers when at home. It was the only room in the house she'd ever seen. She felt a naughty little thrill at the thought of going up to his bedroom.
"Uh, where upstairs is…"
Mrs. Fleer interrupted. "You'll find it; trust me."
As Riza started slowly up the steps, lugging the heavy briefcase, the din of a commotion from upstairs met her ears.
"Come on, Roy sweetie, you like a nice massage, don't you?" simpered a syrupy female voice.
"An alcohol rubdown is NOT a nice ma-a-ah-chooo!"
"Roy, love," cooed an even more sickly sweet voice, "let me help you—"
"Get that thing away from me!"
"Aw, honeybunch," came a high-pitched, girlish voice, "you must be—"
"I'm freezing is what! So just—" the man's voice was cut off by a fit of coughing.
Mrs. Fleer had been right. The bedroom was easy to find; Riza had only to follow the noise. She entered a sumptuously appointed suite. At least at ordinary times it must have seemed sumptuous. At the moment, though, the luxury bedclothes were in complete disarray, the floor around the bed was littered with crumpled tissues, and the bedside table was crowded with spoons, glasses, and bottles of medicine. Riza walked in just as the door to the bathroom banged open. A wild-eyed man in pajamas burst into the room screaming, "Aaaaaaaaaaa!", dove into the bed, and burrowed under the covers. The mound of blankets started shivering violently.
Three especially well-endowed young women followed timidly into the room. Riza's eyes popped in horrified dismay. So much for having Roy all to herself. She turned to the trembling pile of bedclothes. Drawing herself up to her full height, she summoned her most imperious military voice:
"Colonel Mustang!"
The heap started in alarm, and the dark-haired head of an extraordinarily handsome man emerged. Roy Mustang was twenty-nine, but his boyish looks, dark eyes and tousled black hair that was too long for a senior field-grade officer made him look even younger. The higher-ups at Central Headquarters referred to him, sometimes disparagingly, sometimes in grudging admiration, as the Teenage Colonel. At the moment, the symptoms of a flu in full bloom had taken some toll on his good looks. He gazed blearily at Riza.
She kept her eyes on him, but pointed accusingly toward the bathroom. Her voice gave ample expression to her fury.
"If you're sick, sir, you should be resting, not cavorting with a bunch of bimbos!"
"Bimbos!" echoed the three women indignantly, still lined up next to the bathroom door.
"Lieutenant Hawkeye," rasped Mustang slowly, in a tone one might use with a particularly dim-witted student, "for your information, I am in no condition to 'cavort'. However, the next time I have four gorgeous women in my bedroom, I plan to be. So maybe YOU should be resting."
"Then what are THEY doing here?" growled Riza, glaring in disgust at the other three women.
"I," said the blue-eyed curly-haired blonde haughtily, "am Dr. Krystal Amoré, MD." She was the one with the sickly sweet voice.
"And I," the green-eyed redhead intoned languidly in her syrupy voice, "am Brandi von Buxon, RN."
"And I," squeaked the hazel-eyed woman with the waist-length, light-brown hair, "am Dawna Delafleur, licensed dietician."
It was true that the three were nominally dressed in professional attire; but the length – or lack thereof – of their skirts suggested that, although Mustang had yet to become Fuhrer, he had at least managed to impose his dress code on the medical profession.
Mustang glared at them as he struggled to sit up, and waved a hand lazily in their direction.
"Yeah, they apparently figured that a throbbing headache, sinuses stuffed with three pounds of soggy cotton, eyeballs replaced by red-hot steel ball bearings, a throat lined with hundred-grit sandpaper, muscle aches from top to toe, and a 103 degreefever weren't making me miserable enough. So they decided to add painful shots, nasty medicine, alcohol rubdowns, the worst chicken soup in world history, and an ice-cold bath."
"Oh, Roy, lovey, it wasn't ice-cold!" cooed Dr. Amoré.
"It was just tepid, Sweetums," purred Nurse von Buxon.
"To bring down your fever, Yummikins," chirped Miss Delafleur.
Mustang snorted irritably, and turned to Riza. "And what brings YOU here, Lieutenant? Come to put a bullet through my head, I hope."
Riza turned up her nose in contempt. "I'd love to, sir," she sniffed, "but it probably wouldn't penetrate the soggy cotton."
"And it might ricochet off the ball bearings!" added Dr. Amoré enthusiastically.
Mustang glowered at her. "Oh, shut up!" he snapped.
Riza regained her composure and business-like tone. "I'm afraid there's quite a bit of paperwork here for you, sir. It really is urgent."
She opened the briefcase and withdrew a huge stack of papers, folders, and envelopes.
Mustang's eyes bugged out and his shoulders slumped. "Oh, is that all?" he demanded sarcastically.
Riza's eyes took on a look of genuine sympathy. "Actually, no, sir. There's quite a bit of top-secret material that also needs your attention."
"So why didn't you bring that, too?" grumbled her boss.
"I'm not authorized to carry top-secret, sir," she answered, as she took a seat beside the bed, pointedly turning her back to the medical professionals. She handed him the first of the folders. "Headquarters is sending it by special courier."
Mustang peered unfocusedly at the sheaf of papers in the folder and took the pen that Riza proffered. "Special courier, huh? Oh, goody. Who is it?"
"Major Elric."
"Oh, double goody."
Jean Havoc's second trip to Mustang's house that morning was considerably more pleasant than the first had been– for him, at least. The superior officer he was chauffeuring around didn't know he had the authority to prohibit smoking in the car, and Havoc wasn't about to tell him. He had obligingly opened the rear windows to allow his passengers to breathe, and continued puffing happily away.
Hardly anyone ever addressed Edward Elric as "Major" anyway. He was, after all, only fifteen, and of diminutive stature. In fact, the military didn't even make uniforms in his size, a fact that Mustang, his commander, had more than once gleefully pointed out. That was fine with him; he detested being a "dog of the military", but it came along with the advantages of being a State Alchemist. Besides, it meant that he could wear his own civilian clothes – black shirt and pants and a red cloak - and keep his blond hair in a long ponytail braid.
A disastrous alchemy failure four years before had in fact set the stage for him to become the youngest State Alchemist in history. It had also claimed his right arm and left leg, since replaced with top-of-the–line automail. His automail had earned him the military code name Fullmetal. The same accident had taken his younger brother's entire body; only quick thinking on Ed's part had kept him from dying. The soul of fourteen-year-old Alphonse Elric now resided in a gigantic suit of armor.
The contrast between Al's physical form and his personality could not have been greater, and many people were taken aback by the gentle behavior and sweet, kind voice emanating from the ferocious-looking steel hulk. His personality contrasted just as much with that of Ed, who had a hot head, quick temper, and plenty of attitude.
The brothers went nearly everywhere together, and today was no exception. They sat side by side in the back seat of the limo.
"Big brother," began Al, "why did you volunteer for this dumb bureaucratic chore, anyway? You don't even like Colonel Mustang."
He pointed to the briefcase perched on Ed's lap, attached by a strong chain to his wrist.
Ed appeared the very picture of calm reason. His amber eyes widened innocently.
"Al, we all have to do our part. After all, the poor guy's sick, he's suffering, he's in pain…" Suddenly, he grinned nastily. "…and that I've just GOT to see! Heh, heh!"
"You're evil, Ed."
Mustang progressed slowly and reluctantly through the pile of paperwork, kept to the task by his conscientious subordinate. Still, he was glad to have Riza there. Every coughing fit or sneeze brought the approach of the Angels of Mercy, Dr. Amoré with a menacing syringe, Nurse von Buxon with a bottle of hideous green tonic, Miss Delafleur with foil-wrapped packages of "healthy snacks". One scathing glance from Riza, however, would send them scurrying back to the far corner of the room. There they would sulk, watching jealously as she adjusted his pillows or supplied him with cold washcloths.
The colonel was laboriously marking off boxes on a checklist, comparing them with items in a companion document, when Riza pulled out an envelope sporting a bright orange "Extremely Urgent" sticker from the Investigations Division at Central HQ. She showed it to him. Mustang looked over at it and let out a bored sigh. It took more than an "Extremely Urgent" to get him excited about any paperwork; he gestured impatiently to his lieutenant.
"Open it, will you, and tell me what it says."
Riza slit open the envelope, and extracted two sheets of paper.
"Hi, Roy," she read from the first, "I told Elysia you were sick, and she drew this picture for you. That little girl is not only the cutest thing in the world, but as you can see, she's also an artistic genius. Get well soon. – Maes."
Riza unfolded the other sheet, which turned out to be a preschooler's crayoned drawing. It featured a stick figure with a tangled black blob on top of its head. Numerous multicolored lines emanated from its circular red mouth. The caption, each letter in a different color, read, "UCLEROY". Riza took one look and actually laughed out loud. She waved the picture in Mustang's face.
He drew back abruptly. "What in blazes…!"
"Hee, hee! I think it's supposed to be you throwing up. She did a good job drawing the hair."
"Very funny," harrumphed Mustang hoarsely. "That nincompoop Hughes is going to get himself busted down to second lieutenant if he keeps sending stuff like that through official channels, as EU yet!"
Riza resumed her serious look with some difficulty. "True, sir." A little smile broke through in spite of her efforts. "Still, such colorful vomit."
Mustang's cranky mood remained. "If you like it so much, you can have it. I have enough of that lunatic's kid's artwork to paper the entire office."
They worked in silence for some time, Mustang from time to time glancing hopefully at the gradually shrinking stack of paper. Finally he sank back against the pillows with a deep sigh. "Is that really it? We're done?"
Riza smiled kindly, stroked his forehead, and began gathering up the papers and folders. "That's all the work I brought sir. You should be able to rest for a while."
He hunkered down under the blankets and pulled them over his head. "Thank heaven. Now maybe you people will let me die in peace."
He had a sudden mental image of a tombstone at a fresh grave. The flower urns had been replaced by in- and out-boxes, and the inscription read, "Here Lies Roy Mustang. He Finished His Paperwork."
He didn't get to Rest In Peace for very long. Minutes later, the bedroom door burst open with far more force than necessary. The four women jumped slightly and gasped. Mustang nearly hit the ceiling.
"Morning, Colonel!" boomed Edward Elric as he strode exuberantly into the room, followed closely by his considerably less noisy brother and a panting Mrs. Fleer, who attempted to protest the intrusion. Mustang grimaced in pain; Ed's greeting had done nothing to help his headache. And the place was starting to look like Grand Central Station.
"Young man!" admonished Dr. Amoré, in a voice hardly quieter than Ed's, "Please keep it down. Colonel Mustang needs peace and quiet."
"Yeah, sorry to hear you're sick, sir," continued Ed in joyous tones, "but maybe this…" - he plopped the briefcase, still attached to his wrist, down on the bed – "will help take your mind off it."
"Ow! Not on my foot!" Mustang sat up, glared at him sullenly and sneered, "Just what I need, another microbe!"
Ed's gleeful expression gave way instantly to red-faced fury. "Who are you calling a teensy little bug that can crawl around in the cracks in the sidewalk!" he shouted.
He made to go at his commander, but Al caught him under both arms and restrained him easily. "Brother, cut him some slack. He's sick, you know."
"Fine," grumbled Ed sulkily. "Let's get this over with."
Miss Delafleur noticed the briefcase attachment. Instead of being a regular handcuff, it was a solid metal ring fitted closely to Ed's wrist.
"Oooh, how are you going to get that off?" she asked. The doctor and nurse seemed equally puzzled. No one else showed any curiosity.
Ed grinned smugly and tried to look casual. "The same way I put it on. Watch this."
He placed his palms together, and immediately jagged blue light surrounded the ring on his wrist. In seconds, the ring's diameter had doubled, enabling Ed to slip it off easily.
His little feat certainly impressed the medics. Amid the oooohs, aaaaahs, and wows, Nurse von Buxon exclaimed, "But I thought you had to have a wand or cast a spell or something to do that!"
Mustang groaned, covered his eyes with one hand, and shook his head in despair. When he lowered his hand, he looked thoroughly annoyed.
"Brandi, how many times do I have to tell you," he croaked, in a voice barely above a whisper, "Alchemy is a sci—" another paroxysm of coughing interrupted him.
"A science, not magic," finished Edward smoothly. He turned to Al, and in an aside that he clearly intended to be overheard, remarked, "I guess a woman's gotta be that dumb to fall for a grouch like HIM."
Mustang recovered somewhat. "Subtle and charming as ever, aren't you, Fullmetal?" he growled. "Alright, as you said, let's get this over with."
Ed took Riza's seat beside the bed and opened his briefcase. Riza took up her post on the other side of the bed. This brought her a lot closer to where the other three women had stationed themselves.
Dr. Amoré leaned over and addressed her with venom in her voice.
"If your work is done here, Sergeant, shouldn't you be getting back to the office?"
Riza's eyed widened in indignation and she turned and fixed the doctor with a witheringly derisive stare.
"I'll be returning with Major Elric and not a moment sooner, not that it's any of YOUR business." "Pill-pushing floozy!" she muttered under her breath.
"Prissy Amazon!" hissed Amoré.
Mustang ignored the catty exchange, but it seemed to unnerve Miss Delafleur. She consulted her watch.
"Oh, my gosh! It's almost lunchtime. I'd better make some more chicken soup!"
She scampered out of the room and hurried downstairs.
"I'm not eating that sewage, Dawna!" Mustang called after her.
He and Edward started to tackle the stack of top-secret business. They proceeded amicably enough, and had worked for about half an hour, when Mustang suddenly sneezed violently. The sneeze caught Ed full in the face. Horrified, Ed leaped up, knocking over the chair as he did so, and backed away from the bed.
"You &#$ jerk! Cover your mouth already! I don't want to get what you have!"
The few remaining traces of Roy Mustang's good humor evaporated. His bloodshot black eyes blazed dangerously, and his upper lip curled over clenched teeth.
"That does it, Fullmetal," he breathed ominously. "I have had it up to here with your disrespect and insubordination."
His sudden seething wrath terrified the healers; even Riza paled a bit.
Ed, too, seemed taken aback by his boss's ire, but he still protested. "How is it insubordinate to object to having flu germs spewed all over me?"
"You need to learn a lesson," continued Mustang, reaching over to the bedside table for a pair of curiously-embroidered white gloves. "And I have just enough alchemy in me to teach it!"
Riza was shocked. "Colonel, NO!"
But Edward's attitude had returned. He turned slightly away from Mustang, crossed his arms over his chest, and sneered, "Aaah, let 'im at me, Lieutenant. I am so-o-o scared!"
Mustang was just pulling on the right glove when Dawna Delafleur's high-pitched voice floated up from the foot of the stairs.
"Roy, sweetie! Would you like some lunch?"
Mustang's eyes never left Ed. "Sure," he snarled. "How about fried shrimp?"
Ed's eyes bugged out. Face nearly black with rage, he turned back toward the colonel, clapped his hands together, and yelled, "Hoo, boy! You think you're hurting NOW!"
"Alphonse!" pleaded Riza.
"I'm on it, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he replied calmly.
Moving with surprising agility for his size, Al sighed and interposed himself between the two combatants, just as a writhing blaze of blue light flew from Ed's hands and a flash of flame erupted from Mustang's. Krystal Amoré and Brandi von Buxon screamed in alarm.
The alchemic energy bounced harmlessly off Al's steel body. Exhausted from the effort, Mustang sank back onto the pillows with a heavy sigh. Riza turned on him.
"Well, that was just childish!"
Ed, fists held rigidly down at his side, likewise turned on Al. "Why did you have to interfere?"
"Are you trying to get yourself court-martialed?" retorted his brother.
The idea seemed to appeal to Mustang. He opened his eyes and turned to Riza with a sly smile. "Hmm…what WOULD it take to court-martial that snotty little twerp?" he asked.
Riza was still annoyed with him. "About forty pounds of paperwork, sir," she answered curtly.
Dismayed, Mustang appeared to think it over before muttering in disgust, "Ah, forget it."
Al and Riza stood guard over Roy and Ed while they finished their paperwork in poisonous silence. As Riza and the Elric brothers prepared to leave, Mustang was once more overcome with a spasm of coughing. The medics, emboldened by the imminent departure of the others, closed in.
"Royums," trilled Dr. Amoré sweetly, brandishing a syringe, "time for a booster shot!"
"Lovey Plum," sang Nurse von Buxon in her syrupy voice, a bottle of vile green medicine in her hand, "you need something for that cough!"
"Roykins," squeaked Miss Delafleur, "your chicken soup is ready!"
Mustang shrank back in horror. "No! Riza! Ed! Al! Don't leave me!"
But they were already heading out the front door.
Colonel Mustang showed up for work earlier than usual Monday morning, full of good cheer and good health. With a spring in his step, he approached Sergeant Major Kain Fuery, who was already busily sorting the folders in a large filing cabinet.
"Welcome back, sir. What can I do for you?" asked Fuery, a little startled to see the boss in the office so early.
Mustang smiled pleasantly, and rocked back and forth on his heels. "I want you to give me anything and everything that has even the remotest connection to our beloved, bed-ridden Fullmetal Alchemist."
The entire office stopped dead in their tracks, and complete silence fell. Colonel Roy Mustang, THE Colonel Roy Mustang, asking for paperwork? Maybe he should have stayed in bed a few more days. When the astonished Fuery hesitated, Mustang, still grinning happily, repeated the request. The young sergeant, shaking his head in disbelief, loaded down his boss with a twenty-inch stack of file folders. Mustang headed to his private office, followed by a small crowd of curious subordinates who gathered outside the door.
Mustang was in such an expansive mood that he actually whistled as he staggered to his desk with his burden. Setting the mountain of paper down on the desk, he sat down, picked up his phone receiver, and rang the switchboard operator.
"Put me through to Major Elric."
He rifled idly through the folders and hummed a carefree tune as he waited.
A hoarse whisper answered on the line. "Hello?"
"Fullmetal!" crowed the colonel cheerfully. "This is Mustang!"
"Ow! Sir, could…could you please keep it down? I have a splitting headache."
"Oh, certainly!" replied Mustang lowering his voice not in the least. "Alphonse called you in sick, said you have the flu. Oh, my, what a shame. Fever 102.7 degreesand rising, eh? Well, well, it's nothing that can't be controlled with plenty of tepid baths."
"G-g-g-g-g-gh! Colonel, don't even say that!"
"Anyway," Mustang went on cheerily, "never let it be said that Eastern Headquarters doesn't take care of its own. I am personally sending you the same team of medical experts that saw me through my recent illness."
"Wha-a-at! N-No-o—" Edward started coughing violently.
Mustang leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. "No need to thank me, Fullmetal. Anything to help you get better. And these experts are guaranteed to motivate a speedy return to good health. Why, Miss Delafleur's chicken soup alone is to die from, uh, for."
"P-please…"
Mustang put his feet down again and leaned forward. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Just between you and me, Fullmetal, they really are gorgeous women. Much as I'd love to keep them all to myself, I guess I wouldn't mind if, for the duration, you understand, you were to have some, heh, heh, non-medical dealings with them!"
"Oh, right, as if!" croaked Ed.
Mustang resumed his loud, jolly tone. "Oh, and there's just one more tiny thing. I don't like to bring it up when you're not feeling well, but you know what a stickler I am for paperwork."
Loud guffaws came in through the open doorway.
Mustang picked up some of the folders Fuery had given him. "Seems there's a backlog in a lot of your military documentation. Let's see…trip reports, travel vouchers, expense reports, quarterly assessment inputs, annual fitness training, promotion planning and tracking, alchemy research update, security training, security logs, small arms training, diversity seminar, quality assurance class, uniform questionnaire, awards and decorations inputs, standards evaluations, evacuation procedures, inclement weather procedures, terrorist awareness training, attack simulation, bomb threat procedures, chemical threat practice, inventory control, the Fuhrer's birthday card, new documentation and reporting formats…"
Mustang continued in this vein for several minutes. He finally concluded by affecting a tone of sympathetic concern.
"Dear, dear, I'd hate to dump all this on you the minute you get back to the office, Fullmetal. So, since you have nothing else to do right now, I'll bring all this stuff by to your place today."
"Are you kidding? How am I supposed to—"
"I'll be right there the whole time to help you," Mustang assured him brightly. "I promise not to leave until every t is crossed and every i is dotted."
Ed nearly choked before he could reply. "Colonel, I don't WANT you to – hold on; someone's at the door." He suddenly realized with a panic who that someone probably was. "Oh, no…Al! Don't answer the door!"
Unfortunately for him, he couldn't raise his voice enough for Al to hear him. Mustang could hear in the background the sound of a door opening, followed by familiar female voices.
"Edward lovey!"
"Eddiekins!"
"Eddums!"
Edward came back on the line. "Colonel," he hissed, "how could you?"
Mustang tried without much success to conceal his glee. He replied in an unctuous tone, "Oh, so sorry, Fullmetal. I shouldn't keep you on the phone when you have company. See you later! Oh, and Fullmetal? Get well soon!"
Ed swore and slammed down the phone. Before Mustang could hang up, Jean Havoc poked his head into the office.
"It's good to have you back, sir. How are you feeling?"
Mustang looked up at the younger officer and grinned broadly. "Thanks, Lieutenant Havoc. I'm feeling better."
He hung up the receiver, leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and smirked maliciously. "Much better!"
END