Hello, all! I have recently become very addicted to FMA, and love the similarities to my own reality (and also all the philosophical questions that make me question my own ideas and assumptions). I have far too much homework to do and should not have written this when I did, but… you know how it is. Inspiration from this is partly from FMA, partly from real life – everyone, it seems, has a hatred of paperwork. Especially the useless variety.
Colonel Roy Mustang flopped into his chair, a dejected sigh falling from his lips. For the third day in a row, he'd done nothing but paperwork.
And there were still mountains of the stuff on his desk.
His staff seemed to find his predicament amusing. Falman, Breda and Havoc had been placing bets on how long it'd take him to fill out all the forms, while Fuery had taken to avoiding the Colonel at all costs, lest the notorious Flame Alchemist's temper got away with him and he began creating sparks. Hawkeye, on the other hand, had continued to pile more paperwork on his desk as the day went on, to the point where Mustang couldn't even see over the massive piles of papers. There wasn't an inch of space left on the desk now, and Mustang had begun seriously contemplating lighting the stuff on fire just so he had a space to work.
He looked up as he heard the door to his office swing open, hoping desperately for a distraction from the never-ending monotony of paperwork, only to let his gaze fall back down to the half-completed form in front of him.
Hawkeye would not appreciate his procrastination of these forms any further, and she had just brought in another stack of them.
The lieutenant paused after placing the newest batch of papers on his desk. "Sir?"
Mustang barely looked up. "Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Perhaps you should stop hiding your paperwork." Mustang could hear both the amusement at his predicament and the underlying exasperation at his work habits in her voice.
This time, Mustang met her gaze, a slight smirk on his lips. "Perhaps you're right," he said good-naturedly as he glared at the stacks of paper covering his desk. "It would certainly be easier to do it in stages rather than letting it pile up like this."
Hawkeye had known him far too long to miss his fervent wish to burn all of the papers on his desk. "Don't even think about it, Sir."
Mustang played along, looking confused. "Think about what?"
"Torching the paperwork. Try it, and you'll be doing them in triplicate this time."
The Colonel suppressed a shudder at her tone, and gave her a pleading look. "But there's already so much of it–"
"That you'll never get it done. I've heard this argument before, Sir, and it's not going to work."
"But Lieutenant, I—"
"It's due at noon, Sir, and you have an appointment with General Grand at 1100 hours. I suggest you hurry." And she spun neatly on her heel and was out the door before Mustang could say another word.
Mumbling under his breath, Mustang returned to glaring at the piles of paperwork before him. Hawkeye's right, I'll never get all this done. He sighed as he picked up a pen. Surrendering to Hawkeye was always a smart move; it meant you lived another day without a bullet somewhere in your body.