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“Do you think that he knows we have to read his expense reports?”
Havoc peered over at Fuery’s desk to see what he was sorting through. The office was always quiet on a Wednesday, and it had become tradition for them to deal with the bulk of the paperwork together. Not strictly Fuery’s job, but he knew better than to complain about helping out, especially when it kept Hawkeye happy. The offending document was one of Ed’s. His monthly expense report.
“What’s he put on it this time?”
“Other than nearly sixty train tickets, a list of hotels in towns where he could crash in military housing, and more food than could ever fit in his stomach?”
“Have you seen him eat?”
“I still don’t believe that he isn’t hiding half of it inside his shoes or giving it to the poor or something.”
“Believe it,” Breda said from his corner of the room, where he was flicking rapidly through the foreign intelligence briefings for the week, “I’ve got a nephew who is about the same age as Ed, and that brat eats just as much as our brat.”
“C’mon Breda, he’s not that bad.”
A snort is the only reply Fuery gets to that, before Breda turns back to his work. Apparently that’s all he’s going to say in defence of their nominal superior. Which, Fuery thinks, is still just weird. He’s not got used to a teenager technically outranking him. He’s not sure he will ever get used to that. The whole thing is weird.
“Nah, the real weird shit this time is the absolute fortune he paid to some girl in central. Doesn’t say why. Just authorises a fuck-off massive payment to her.”
“Bit young for that, isn’t he?” Havoc said, wandering over to look at the receipts that Ed has sent over to them, “I wouldn’t think that he’s interested yet. Certainly never shown an interest.”
“He’s fifteen isn’t he? About time he started taking one.”
“Sixteen, I thought.”
“Not yet,” Falman says, “but soon.”
“Either way.”
“That’s old enough, either way. Age of consent is twelve in Amestris. Old enough to sign up, old enough to vote, old enough to buy a hooker.”
“This is an expensive hooker though.”
“We judging our superiors for their kinks now?”
“I’m just saying that-”
“-we have a strict don’t ask, don’t tell policy in the Amestrian military,” Falman says, his serious tone belying the obvious sarcasm. “I think that probably applies to this as well. Besides, doesn't he have that thing with his mechanic?”
“Ten million cens. Ten million cens!”
That pauses the conversation.
Falman wanders over to the desk to look at the receipt too, stamped and signed with the official Central Command stamp that shows that a withdrawal of nearly ten million cens was authorised by the Fullmetal Alchemist from his research funds. That amount doesn’t even touch the sides of his expense account, of course, and they all know that - they aren’t doing anything but indulging their idle curiosity. But ten million cens .
That’s an expensive hooker.
“Maybe she’s blackmailing him,” Havoc says eventually, not finding any details about what the payment was for on the form.
“What’s the name?” Breda asks, putting the last of his reports in his out tray, “I used to work in Central. Maybe I know them.”
Fuery taps the bottom of the document, “Sheska. No last name.”
Breda shakes his head, losing interest just as fast as he gained interest, and reaches for the next set of documents he’s got to deal with, “Just stamp them with the stamp and put them on the Colonel’s desk. Not our job to worry about what the Elric brothers are up to.”
“You aren’t curious?”
“Why are you curious?” Breda bites back half-heartedly, “Whole thing is weird enough without you trying to make up some shit based on guessing what his expenses might mean.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You thought that he’d bought a house down in Resembool.”
“How was I supposed to know that a tune-up for his automail costs a couple of million?”
“He’s got a Rockbell arm. Of course it-”
“-we’re not all automail enthusiasts,” Fuery gripes, “and I still don’t really understand what’s so special about it.”
Falman throws up his hands, “You’re a heathen, Fuery. I hope you know that.”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s like seeing-”
“-yeah, yeah, you’ve told me before, but-”
“The point is that you make up the most random crap about his expenses. It could be anything. Literally anything. She probably just helped him hide a body or something. You know. Something normal.”
“You think they need help hiding bodies?”
“They’re fifteen! Of course they need help hiding bodies. It isn’t like he’s old enough to drive yet. How is he going to get them out of Central if he doesn't pay someone to drive him?”
“He’s an alchemist. He can just-”
There’s a cough from the door as Hawkeye walks back in, two cups of coffee held in her hand, “is there a problem with the Major’s expenses?”
“It’s just-”
“Is he within budget?”
“Yes, but-”
“Then stop gossiping and stamp it,” Hawkeye says, her demeanour stern, “and then the Colonel can approve them this afternoon, and the auditors are happy, I’m happy, and the Colonel is happy.”
It went without saying that it would be bad if any of those people were unhappy .
“He gave someone ten million cens!”
Hawkeye pauses for a second, her face inscrutable. Then she gives him a look , “And is it within budget?”
Falman sighs, and reaches for the stamp.
Another mystery on the pile that makes up Edward Elric.
One day he’ll be allowed to have real answers.
Clearly, that day isn't today.