Fanfic: The Weight of the Paper, Part 1 (Fullmetal Alchemist)

[nebroadwe]

Title: The Weight of the Paper
Fandom: FMA (slightly AU for timing purposes)
Character(s): Falman, Sheska, and Mustang (with cameos from Havoc, Breda and Furey)
Pairing(s): None ... yet.
Rating: G
Word Count: ~2700 in this installment, the first of two
Warnings: None.
A/N: One year ago today, I posted my very first fanfic to LiveJournal and was gratified to discover that a few people enjoyed it enough to comment on it. (Gratified? I walked around for days afterward chanting, "They liked it! They really, really LIKED it!") That piece featured Sheska, so when this one began developing as an encounter between her and Falman, I decided to post it in honor of my first anniversary. Alas, various commitments prevented me from completing it on time, but I did manage to revise the first half into postable shape, right up to the cliffhanger, so here it is. I'll try to get the ending pulled together ASAP. Please note that this doesn't quite fit into the timeline of either the anime or the manga, but I couldn't resist seeing what Hughes might do if his office were only a few floors away from Mustang's instead of half a country. Crossposted from nebroadwe to Höllenbeck (i.e. hagaren_manga, fm_alchemist, fullservicefma, fma_gen, fma_writers and fma_fiction).
Dedication: Specifically, to canarynoir, master of Amestrian office politics. Generally, to everyone who read my work and left a comment over the past year. Thank you so much.

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      Summer had just begun its advance into Central, unfurling leaves on the cherry trees like ensigns over a Remembrance Day parade. The ancients had named this season the time when kings go out to war, Falman knew, but to his colleagues it was the time when Lieutenant Hawkeye takes a fortnight's leave.

      They had survived the first week under Havoc's ostensible tenure as office manager -- in practice, everything landed on Falman's desk while the others debated where the lieutenant might be vacationing this year. Opinion currently favored a resort in the northwestern mountains. Havoc had argued for the beach until Breda pointed out that the nearest sea-bathing was in Creata, whose recently-tightened visa restrictions barred anyone in the Amestrian military from playing tourist there. But the image of the lieutenant in a swimsuit was too compelling to abandon; eventually they'd agreed that she'd probably enjoy a few brisk laps around a mountain lake as much as a lazy afternoon tanning under the Creatan sun. Then Furey discovered that she'd taken Black Hayate with her instead of boarding him at the base kennel. It was decided. A long morning swim, a leisurely afternoon hike, and dinner under the stars while the wind whispered in the aspens behind the lodge: what more could a girl and her dog ask of a holiday?

      The discussion had since moved on, naturally, to the cut of the lieutenant's bathing dress. Furey's sister was proving a fruitful source of intelligence on this topic, though Havoc had been unable to persuade him to invite her to the canteen to present her data firsthand. This morning he'd changed tactics and begun badgering the master-sergeant to borrow his sister's copy of Elegance so they could examine the current modes themselves. Judging by the vasodilation of Furey's ears and the brevity of his refusals, however, Havoc had a tough campaign ahead of him.

      Falman listened to the second lieutenant working his wiles on Furey with only half his attention. After six days without Lieutenant Hawkeye's expert care, paperwork was piling up, but had not yet become a fire hazard. Falman flattered himself that with some ingenious metafiling he could keep chaos at bay until she returned. Colonel Mustang had had a spasm of application earlier in the week and signed off on a series of memos the lieutenant had ghostwritten for him before she'd left, which had eased the pressure on Falman's IN tray somewhat. Afterward, however, the colonel had disappeared on one of his increasingly expansive lunch breaks. R.H.I.P., Breda had muttered, even though everyone's breaks were much more ... comfortable with Havoc keeping the time sheets. A more appropriate proverb, Falman thought, would have been While the cat's away ...

      Truth be told, he hadn't expected to have any difficulty keeping up with the paperwork. Most departments, knowing of Lieutenant Hawkeye's absence, had courteously reduced their correspondence with the office to a minimum. Most departments, but not all: message traffic from Investigations had quadrupled within seventy-two hours of the lieutenant's departure. Not a watch passed now without a barrage of eyes-only memos and classified files addressed to Colonel Mustang from Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes. So far the colonel had successfully avoided reading any of them, pleading everything from inadequate security precautions to a blinding migraine, and everyone but Falman was still giving good odds that Investigations would run out of paper before the Flame Alchemist ran out of excuses.

      Today the Colonel had chosen to duck all contacts by hanging out the "Do Not Disturb" sign as soon as he'd arrived ("I'm not available, Falman: research. You know the drill. I have complete faith in your ability to screen unwanted callers"). If the pattern of creases on what little paperwork Falman had managed to get through the colonel's hands was any indication, Mustang would be spending the day "researching" the Xingese art of paper-folding.

      Falman grimaced at one particularly rumpled example and decided, reluctantly, that it would need to be retyped so he could file a clean set of carbons. Breda could forge the colonel's signature -- this was normally a device of last resort, but none of them could imagine confronting their superior with a report he'd already passed. Havoc's suggestion that it be folded into an airplane and sailed over the transom into the inner office was met with speaking silence. While the second lieutenant twitted the others for their lack of humor, Falman uncovered his typewriter, ratcheted in the necessary paper-and-carbon sandwich, and began to type.

      Three lines down the ink faded from black to pale gray to invisibility. Falman pried the ribbon off its spindles and chucked it into the wastebasket under his desk. One of those days. He crossed to the supply closet behind Breda's chair and rifled it systematically from top to bottom. Perhaps sensing Colonel Mustang's desire to create a paperless office, the box of spare ribbons had migrated to the back of the lowest shelf and was covered with a quarter-inch of dust. He blew it clear and reemerged, coughing, to find himself alone in the workroom.

      He blinked, then swore under his breath and yanked the closet door wide again. Before he could barricade himself inside, however, the outer door swung open and a dark-haired woman wearing square glasses and a harried expression peered in from the hall. "Excuse me -- oh, Warrant Officer Falman!" she said, brightening. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes says he really must have this form signed ... is Colonel Mustang in?"

      Sheska had joined the Investigations Department as a civilian contractor not long after Central Library's first branch had burned to the ground, taking with it the records of countless courts-martial. She had once been employed by that branch as a clerk; the scuttlebutt whispered that she was some sort of genius (or, less kindly, an idiot savant) who was reconstructing the incinerated case files from memory. Falman wasn't certain that even an idiot savant would be capable of that -- at the very least, it argued having spent far more time reading depositions , evidence reports and proceedings than seemed possible for such a young woman. Then again, he didn't know her well. The early-warning system Breda had arranged with the offices at either end of the hall allowed them to calibrate the level of busyness in the workroom according to the importance of an approaching visitor: a drop-dead-gorgeous secretary cleared desks faster than an impending audit, but an ordinary clerk was normally greeted with bent heads and scratching pencils. It was a testament to Investigations' advantage in the war of nerves, Falman reflected bitterly, that Sheska's approach had cleared the room.

      Personally, he had nothing against the girl. She seemed intelligent, hard-working, loyal and conscientious -- all qualities he approved. But she was also disconcertingly earnest and, not to put too fine a point on it, gullible. She had confided shyly to Havoc (who had in turn informed everyone in the office) that she hoped her association with the military would allow her access to information about the alien spacecraft the war in Ishbal had really been fought to possess. She was the perfect proxy for Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes; Falman could only wonder why he hadn't sent her before.

      "Which form, Ms. Sheska?" he asked, eliding a sarcastic now with some difficulty.

      "Form AUW-6125," she answered, removing it from the manila folder she carried, "a request to expedite end-to-end metrics for parallel policy programming among department heads. If I could just have a moment of the colonel's time?"

      End-to-end metrics? Falman took a deep breath. "I'm afraid the colonel isn't available," he said, "but if you leave the paperwork with me, I'll see that it gets back to Investigations with the proper endorsements." Eventually.

      "Oh, no!" Sheska protested, then covered her mouth with the yellow flimsy. "I mean, that's all right," she mumbled. "I can wait."

      "I wouldn't want to trouble you -- " Falman began.

      "It's no trouble!" Sheska slipped form AUW-6125 back into its folder, tucked it under her arm and glanced around the room. "I'll just borrow a chair ... "

      Falman quickly interposed himself between Sheska and the workroom's lone visitor's seat -- a hard, narrow steno chair personally selected by Lieutenant Hawkeye to discourage loiterers. (Its utility was questionable: fellow-staffers had learned to perch on desks and the colonel's admirers were more than willing to sacrifice comfort for propinquity.) "The thing is, the colonel's schedule today is rather tight," he explained mendaciously. "It may be some while before he can attend to your request." Sheska's mouth opened, but the thought of what Colonel Mustang would say to anyone interrupting his morning to expedite parallel policy programming spurred Falman to override her. "Leaving the form with me would be a far more efficient use of your time," he went on. "In fact, I'm surprised the lieutenant-colonel didn't send this down by interoffice post."

      Sheska shook her head. "He wanted it hand-delivered. We've been having some problems with the interoffice post -- important letters being delayed or lost." She lowered her voice. "Just between you and me, Mr. Falman, something very odd is going on in the mail room. When I went down the other day to speak to them about the missing items, they didn't seem concerned at all, and as I was leaving, I could swear I heard them snickering."

      "I'm sure it had nothing to do with your complaint," Falman felt compelled to reassure her. "Just the usual bout of spring fever, probably."

      "You'd think they'd have more pride in their work." Sheska brooded for a moment and Falman wondered whether he could twitch the form out of her grip while she was lost in thought. He almost had his fingertips on it when she clutched it to her breast; he hastily crossed his own arms, but fortunately she didn't appear to have noticed his ploy. "I suppose they hear a lot of complaints," she said.

      "Indeed," Falman agreed. He held out a hand again, edging into Sheska's personal space at the same time. If he could maneuver her over to the door, he'd have the psychological advantage, if nothing else. "As I said, if you leave the request with me, I'll see that it's attended to."

      But Sheska stood her ground. "I know it's an imposition, Mr. Falman, but Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes said he needs this form signed by noon at the latest. He gave me the assignment himself right after the morning briefing. He said it was a matter of the utmost importance and --" her hands pinched the folder so tightly it began to bow around her thumbs -- "and that I should regard it in that light."

      Falman frowned. "In what light?"

      She bit her lip. "In light of its importance," she hedged.

      "Ms. Sheska -- "

      "He was very emphatic!"

      "Ms. Sheska," Falman repeated patiently, "exactly what did the lieutenant-colonel tell you?"

      "He said ... " One shoe scraped across the floor as she bent the folder into a right angle. "He said I should come back with my shield or on it."

      Falman relaxed. "I'm sure that's merely a figure of speech."

      "It's a quotation from Plutarch," she informed him. "But it's not just what he said, it's -- it's how he said it."

      Her preoccupation seemed both ominous and inexplicable. Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes was the utter opposite of a martinet, but his mind doubled back on itself with the agility of a hunted fox. Perhaps Sheska, despite her nose for conspiracy, was too straightforward to follow his lead. "And how did he -- ?"

      "He was holding my pay envelope," she admitted in a rush. "In his right hand. And -- and tapping it against his left palm. Rather like a riding crop," she added, using the file folder to demonstrate.

      "I see." And he did, clearly, though it wasn't the lieutenant-colonel he envisioned, but a grizzled noncom in the motor pool at basic training. Private, get me a new set of spark plugs for this thing ...

      He blinked to banish the image from his mind and Sheska followed suit. Only when a tear trickled down her cheek did he realize it hadn't been a contagious response. Horrified, he took an involuntary half-step backward. "Ms. Sheska?"

      "I'm sorry, Mr. Falman," she said thickly. Clearing her throat, she pulled a rectangle of rumpled cloth from her sleeve and unfolded it into a square almost large enough to picnic on. "Please excuse me," she continued as she blotted her eyes. "I -- I know this is unprofessional."

      Falman forced back an automatic and meaningless Not at all because weeping on duty was certainly unprofessional; the snickerers in the mail room would laugh themselves silly if this got out ... (Spark plugs for a diesel? Nah, the Second Cavalry cleaned us out last week and Supply says we'll get more when we get more.) But what else could he do? He couldn't pull rank on a superior officer and demand that he stop wasting everyone's time with practical jokes. Sheska had her own handkerchief and he still didn't dare offer her a seat. If only she'd surrender the form, perhaps he could find some excuse to send her back to Investigations without it. (Tell you what, though, you ask Corporal Redman over with Two-Cav and maybe he can slip you a few. Tell him I sent you ...) "Ms. Sheska," he said, "perhaps if you -- "

      "You see, I really, really need this job," she interrupted as if she hadn't heard him. "My mother -- " She broke off and blew her nose; then she crumpled the handkerchief and shoved it back up her sleeve, where it left a bulge Falman's fingers itched to smooth away. "They were right to fire me from the library for reading on duty, but here I have so much work to do that I'm not even tempted." She looked up at him, determination reddening her cheeks like the heat from a boiling kettle. "And everyone ... well, almost everyone ... that is, most people are so friendly and helpful that I truly want to do my best. It's not just a matter of money; it's about self-respect ... Mr. Falman?"

      "Hmm?" Sergeant Hawkins sent you, eh? Well, I'd like to oblige, but I ain't got none to spare. Charlie Minkus up at the P/X might be able to put you in the way of a couple, though ...

      "Mr. Falman?" Sheska fanned the form tentatively in front of his nose.

      Falman started, surprised at how clearly he could picture the laugh lines around Corporal Redman's eyes now, when he hadn't noticed them at all back then. "Yes, Ms. Sheska?"

      She twisted the folder again; it was developing a decided crease. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to bore you with my personal ..." Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

      "No, no, Ms. Sheska, my apologies," he replied with a quick bow. "I was just considering the colonel's schedule and -- "

      -- and remembering how many different offices and workshops and garages he'd visited that day, how many excuses he'd swallowed, how many straight-faced offers of help he'd accepted before it had dawned on him that he was being hazed. The noncoms never caught him off-guard again: he'd memorized the manuals and kept his head down and eventually another green one-striper showed up to play the butt --

      "-- and I realized I may have given you a mistaken impression," he said, ignoring the gooseflesh breaking out all over his body at the thought of what he was about to do. "Colonel Mustang isn't out of the office; he's just engaged in some, uh, necessary but tedious research. I wouldn't interrupt him for a minor matter, but since this is a priority request ... "

      "Are you sure?"

      Sheska's eyes searched his face, but Falman didn't hold his own in the office poker games by counting cards. "Absolutely," he replied, taking her arm and steering her toward the inner office. A residual sense of loyalty (or possibly self-preservation) made him knock twice and pause just long enough to allow someone to pull his boots off the desk, should they happen to be resting there, before he threw open the door and announced, "Ms. Sheska to see you, sir."

To be continued ...

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[Acknowledgments: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix); the anime of the same title was directed by Mizushima Seiji and story-edited by Aikawa Sho. Copyright for these properties is held by Arakawa Hiromu, Square Enix, Mainichi Broadcasting System, Aniplex, Bones, and dentsu.]