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Sergeant Brolly has a quiet job in East City...most of the time. Working as a quartermaster isn't terribly exciting, after all. It's all inventory work and keeping track of who needed what, who could have what, and how much they could have. Simple. She'll make a great salesclerk once she leaves the military.
But then there are the days where it's not comfortably quiet.
She stares at the Second Lieutenant incredulously. "You need a replacement what?"
Lieutenant Havoc gives her a sheepish smile. "Typewriter."
Typewriters are expensive. Typewriters are not disposable. Typewriters, especially ones that she knows have only been in that office for three months, are most certainly not supposed to be broken. She narrows her eyes at him. "Why do you need a replacement typewriter?"
"Uh, well, y'see...." He shuffles his feet. "There was an accident. And while we're on the subject, we're gonna need two phones, too."
"Two phones?" she asks. She's back to incredulous.
He waves his hands dismissively. "Temporarily. Temporarily. Fuery's fixing the ones that got busted, we'll give them back. Without a scratch."
She picks up her pen from where it had slipped out of her hand. "This should not come as a surprise, sir, but I find that hard to believe."
Havoc tries to blink at her innocently, but just ends up cringing. "Oh, really? How come?"
"You broke two phones and a three-month-old typewriter."
He draws back, now trying to look offended. He still looks like he's cringing. "I didn't break them. There was a...an accident."
"You've filled out the proper forms detailing this 'accident?’"
"Yes. Yes, right here." He shoves the paperwork into her hands. She has to juggle it and the pen for a moment, but keeps at least one hand on everything. She flips through the paperwork, ignoring the lieutenant's fidgeting. The description box on the 'accident' is suspiciously empty.
Lieutenant Havoc pulls out a cigarette box, and Brolly shoots him a glare. "No smoking," she growls, pointing at the wall. The sign is prominent, and the reasoning is sound. These are the supplies for the city's entire military compliment. They didn't need some idiot burning it all down.
He slips the box back into his pocket and holds up his hands defensively, giving her a strained smile. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He only manages to wait a few more seconds as she stares at the description box. "So, uh, everything in order?"
She doesn't look up yet. "Not quite." She taps the box in question. "This needs to be filled out, but we can do that right now. What was the cause of the accident?"
His voice sounds panicked. "Oh, really? How could that box have been missed?"
She looks up slowly. Lieutenant Havoc stares back at her, frozen. She smiles at him coldly. He had better be afraid, after the last time he came to her for something. "What caused the accident?"
"I mean, uh, it's pretty hard to believe. Crazy, even. But I swear it happened, sergeant! It was—"
"If the next words I hear are that it was a 'localized earthquake,'" she states. "I will take this pen, and I will stab it. Into your eye. Sir."
He takes a hurried step back. "It wasn't that."
"No?"
He shakes his head vehemently. "No. Not at all."
She taps the sheet, raising an eyebrow. "Then how did a typewriter and two phones get broken?"
"Um...." He's beginning to look around for inspiration from the shelves behind her. He must be desperate. "Ummm...."
"Lieutenant," she says sweetly. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"
"Never!" he vows. His voice cracks a little as he does.
"Because your behaviour seems rather suspicious."
Lieutenant Havoc squeezes his eyes shut. "Alright, fine, there was—"
"Havoc? What's taking so long?"
His eyes grow wide again, with a bit more panic in them. He comes to attention. Brolly does as well, after a moment. A long, pointed moment. "We're just clearing up some confusion on this requisition form," she says easily once Colonel Mustang has responded in kind, sitting down again. She does offer Lieutenant Hawkeye, standing at his shoulder, a genuine nod. When she pointed out that the amount of ammunition allocated to their office had undergone a significant draw, such that half of their monthly allotment had been used up after only a week, there had been an equally significant decrease in unnecessary practice rounds spent. She’d held those numbers more or less consistent for months now. She was relieved to have at least one person consider the importance of regulating supplies.
"It's not that big of a problem, is it? We really need the typewriter, and the phones." Colonel Mustang gives her a heart-stopping grin.
It would have worked two years ago. It would even have worked one year ago. Now? Not so much. No matter how attractive he is. She maintains an unimpressed expression. "It's a big enough problem, sir. We do not have that many typewriters, or phones. They're expensive."
His smile fades briefly, before coming back stronger than ever. "The phones are only a loan," he assures her.
She sets the pen carefully to one side, folds her hands together, and stares. Lieutenant Havoc flinches. "And what guarantee do I have that they will come back intact when two phones have already been broken in your office, sir?"
"I give you my word," he vows.
She gives him a cold smile. "Well, sir, that's part of why this box needs to be filled in," she explains. "So that any dangers to the equipment can be handled properly, preventing this sort of damage from happening again. That way, no one has to give their word or be held unfairly accountable for things beyond their control."
He looks calm and collected, as does his aide, but the Second Lieutenant is panicking more than ever. She wouldn't expect the Hero of Ishval or the Hawk's Eye to crack under the contained wrath of a sergeant, so she's judging the success of her argument off of Lieutenant Havoc. Based on him, she's winning. "If you please, sir," she says pleasantly, tapping the box with her still-folded hands.
The Colonel...hesitates. She's definitely winning. But his smile is back to full strength in an instant, and his baritone is practically a purr. He sits on the edge of her desk, leaning in just far enough to tantalize. "Sergeant Brolly. Surely we don't need to go to the trouble, just this once," he insists. "The issue has already been dealt with. This won't be a repeated incident. I promise."
She keeps her head by reminding herself of how many times she's heard "just this once" from this man and his insane office. "We need some wire, just this once. Like...a hundred yards?" "We need more pens, just this once. I don't know, how many do you have?" "Do you have more requisition forms? There was a...freak rain storm. No, they're completely ruined. We need more, just this once." "Another chess set, just this once. You don't have chess sets? Well, you can get one, can't you? Quick?" "We need a new filing cabinet, just this once. Um...there were...mice. Yeah. Hey, you busy tonight?"
She'd stone-walled the chess one and the filing cabinet one, obviously, especially since the Colonel's signature had been so sloppily forged, but neither was her favourite. That dubious honour now went to the request three months ago, from the Colonel himself: "How could another typewriter get broken in anything less than a year? It was a freak accident. It doesn't really matter how it happened, just this once. It won't happen again, I promise."
She picks up her pen very, very deliberately. Lieutenant Havoc squeaks, earning himself a confused look from his superior. "Sir, how did the typewriter and phones get broken?" she asks, ready to write down his response.
He doesn't answer for a moment, and for that moment she's afraid. He is a Colonel, after all. The military's darling Flame Alchemist. He could threaten her job and get away with it easily; no one would believe a word she said about him, calling her a "jilted lover." She never thought that was something Colonel Mustang would do—
"Localized earth—"
"He got in a fight with Major Elric, don't stab him or me!" Havoc shouts.
The Lieutenant's words echo through the warehouse, making Brolly glad that everyone else is gone for the moment, drawn by the call of cafeteria spaghetti. It's awkward enough with four people. The Colonel is glowering at Havoc, who's apparently rethinking his life choices. Brolly is feeling quite self-conscious at having her threat come to light, but the Hawk's Eye is looking at her with approval, and at her Colonel reproachfully by turns.
With a breath, Brolly gathers her nerve. "Colonel?" she asks calmly.
Mustang twitches. It's definitely not a flinch, but it's something. He stands up and looks at her from the position of a superior officer once more. "Yes, Sergeant?" he asks, equally calm and mature. Dignity could be his middle name.
"Am I to understand that the typewriter and phones were broken in the course of an altercation with Major Elric?"
"That—" he pauses "—is a—" he pauses again "—an oversimplification of the situation."
She doesn't look away, even as the Second Lieutenant goes for his cigarettes again. She snaps her fingers, and he freezes. "Please. Enlighten me, sir."
Colonel Mustang looks put out by her control over his Lieutenant. The Hawk's Eye, from her peripheral vision, looks impressed. "Some aspects of it are classified," he insists. "I can't go into detail."
"I don't require a detailed explanation, sir. Just an explanation." She taps the box again. "What can you tell me?"
Mustang stares at her. He spares his aide a brief glance, asking for help, but gets nothing in return. "Not much," he tries again. "As I mentioned, it is classified."
She stares at him for a long, long moment. He stares back, unwavering, until—
Yes, he snuck a glance at his watch! She pounces on his inattention. "Was there an altercation with Major Elric?"
"...Yes."
"Did this altercation involve physical violence?"
His eyes narrow. He is certainly intimidating. She swallows, but gives him a smile. "I'm sorry, is that classified, sir?"
"No, Sergeant. It did involve some violence," he admits stiffly.
"Did it involve alchemy, sir?"
Silence. She waits, and stares. She'll wait him out if it's the last thing she does.
He stares back. He's a Colonel, after all, and he's not about to back down.
"Sir," his aide mutters.
He grunts unhappily.
"Sir."
"Yes," he snaps. "It involved alchemy! Happy now?"
"Just one more question, sir," she answers, cheerful. This is actually working! "Was this altercation in the service of a mission?"
And, well...she knows that he knows why she said "a mission," rather than "the military" or “the Fuhrer.” The funny thing about running inventories is that you become intimately aware of who uses what, which leads to whys. Why had Sergeant Fuery needed a hundred yards of wire? Why had his team needed shotguns, with heavy-duty shot? Batteries, camouflage gear, vehicles, more radio parts than half the Communications Division...even when he was using his grant money to fund it, which made it much easier to give the wrong count, it added up to something. He was supposed to be responsible for State Alchemists in the East, as well as some police work in East City. What he actually did was very, very different, and everyone currently in the warehouse knew that.
He deflates slightly when she asks that, and gives her a look that's almost contrite. She'll take it. "An ex-girlfriend threw them at me," he mutters, nodding towards her paper. "I'll cover the cost."
She dutifully writes down the explanation, notes that the phones are a loan only in one of the other boxes, but hesitates. "Quartermaster" has already been checked under the "payment for damages" heading, "accident" under "cause"—
Mustang pulls it from her hands and snaps his fingers. "Start a new sheet, Sergeant," he says softly as the fine ashes rain to the ground, ignoring Havoc's grumbling about "no cigarettes, but flame alchemy, sure."
"Sir," she tries, then hesitates again. He is damn intimidating when he wants to be.
He's not intimidating now. He's giving her a wry smile that lets her relax somewhat. "Permission to speak freely, Sergeant."
"You know there's a limit to how much I can cover up from Central," she murmurs. "Why would you risk that on a typewriter you and Ed broke in a fight? Again?"
He sighs. "Because you're too good at your job, Brolly," he says conversationally. "So good, in fact, that you made me forget the risks I put you under. For that, I apologize."
That warms her. "Thank you, sir."
"Are you absolutely sure you won't be moving to Central in the future?" he asks with a smile.
It's a nice smile, but not that nice. "Yes. I am sure."
"That's such a shame."
"You get to Central, you're on your own," she says, wagging a finger at him. She doesn't want to try to explain how all the rules will be different, the risks will be higher, how she won't have the luxury of knowing her coworkers. He'll be better off with an already-established quartermaster, and he won't have trouble getting one.
He still smirks to hide his disappointment, she thinks. That’s the thirty-third time he’s asked her that, and the smile gets nicer every time.
"I take partial blame," Lieutenant Hawkeye adds suddenly.
Everyone stares at her in shock.
"While I have been regulating my firearm usage strictly, it is obvious in hindsight that the use of a few bullets in the moment would have saved the much more valuable typewriter. I will act more immediately in the future, Sergeant."
Brolly blinks twice. Havoc looks weak at the knees, and the Colonel looks a little pale. "You maintain the office...with the gun," she clarifies.
Hawkeye blinks back, surprised. "On rare occasions. If absolutely necessary. But I needed to save all possible practice ammunition for the firing range."
Brolly lasts two seconds before she's lunging for the past six months of counts. She flips through them frantically, writing down a list of numbers. "Okay," she says, tapping each number in turn as she runs differences and sums in her head. "...Okay. We can at least double your allocation, if you send out a memo that each office should think about more firearm training. Even if they don't ignore it, which they will, I can't imagine that they'll do it more frequently than an extra once a month. We can spread out your usage, balance it a bit, although your office will still have high usage, and that will leave all the numbers in a proper range for Central."
"Oh crap," Havoc moans. "Brolly, please—"
The Colonel claps a hand over his eyes and sighs heavily. He mutters something to himself involving the words “should’ve known.”
Hawkeye smiles slightly. "Thank you, Sergeant."
She smiles back. "Not a problem, Lieutenant. Let me know if there's ever anything else you need. We here in the Supplies Division live to serve."
The Colonel claps his other hand over his eyes, too.
"I'll fill out the requisition. Take what you need and scram before the others get back," she says, waving at the shelves behind her. They're not allowed to touch them, technically, but they're running out of time, even though it's spaghetti day. "Phones in aisle 3C, near the back, typewriters in aisle 17O, over there." She points at the front corner. "And if you try to take the booze you pass on the way to the phones, Havoc, I will follow through on that threat."
He shudders.
"No need to worry, Sergeant," Mustang replies, straightening his cuffs. "Havoc will be bringing the typewriter up to the office. The lieutenant and I will bring the phones."
Havoc grimaces, which Brolly understands. Typewriters are heavy.
Brolly fills out the form properly, Colonel Mustang signs it on the way out, and Havoc trails behind him and Lieutenant Hawkeye, wheezing. "Don't get a hernia," she calls after the Second Lieutenant cheerfully.
She never has forgiven him for trying to distract her from the mess with the filing cabinet by asking her out when she knew for a fact he was dating someone else at the time. Sometimes, she has to wonder where his brain goes. Where any of their brains go with some of these requests.
Good thing Lieutenant Hawkeye would have enough bullets to keep things running smoothly now.