I deleted that other story because it felt a bit forced and Indiran deserves better. Here's approach number 2: more sleepy Roy, more hurty-boos, more team Mustang. Present for Indiran in thanks for a lovely gift she sent me. Likely a great many mistakes. Oops!

This community is well quiet now, innit?!

Fuery answered the telephone on the third ring. He used to be lightning fast; always grabbing the receiver on the first ring, but Breda had told him to chill out. The kid was showing the rest of them up. The sergeant finished the call, scribbling down the message then returning to his work: ostensibly finance in the morning papers, but really scouring the press for leads for the Elrics. Mustang had a roundabout way of looking after those brothers.

'Who was it?' asked Breda, absent-mindedly chewing his pen as he read the same sentence for the twentieth time that hour. Mondays were the worst.

Fuery coughed. 'Oh, just General Grumman's secretary checking if the colonel still planned on going across there this morning.'

Havoc looked up from the thick ledger in front of him, telltale dark circles of a big weekend's boozing under his blue eyes. 'I don't know, Kain. You might want to check with Hawkeye and see if she can move that meeting. The colonel looks pretty beat today.'

'You see him already, Hav?' asked Breda, surprised. The colonel's desk had been empty all morning.

'Yeah, he was here when I arrived this morning. He went out again around eight.'

Breda bit down on his pen thoughtfully. Mustang's staff took turns on the early Monday shift; ready to sign off the week's deliveries and urgent paperwork. Half five in the morning. Just you, the cleaner, and the weirdo self-groping courier who they had the good fortune to get nine times out of ten. If Mustang was here that early, it was likely he hadn't been home which in turn meant he'd probably spent his Sunday at the office. Gross.

'Damn,' mumbled Breda. 'Working or sleeping?'

Havoc shrugged. 'I don't know. Just sitting when I came in. Doing his Big Thinking.' He threw a thumb to the small table near the door where a sizeable stack of paper cups threatened to topple over at any minute. 'He's been keeping Little Fuhrer Coffee Co. in busy though.'

Fuery looked uneasy. He tore the page with the telephone message from his notepad. 'Should I call back and cancel? General Blithe will be with Grumman today, maybe the colonel doesn't want… Maybe I should cancel…'

Falman, who had scheduled the meeting, looked up from his work for the first time. He did not like cancellations or reschedulings, taking them as a personal affront to his organisational powers.

'Nah, let's see what Hawkeye says,' advised Breda, glancing at the clock. 'She's back any minute. I think Mustang wanted to meet with Blithe specifically.'

'Why check with the lieutenant and not the colonel?' asked Fuery. 'I mean, the colonel knows himself best, right?'

There was a beat of silence before Breda and Havoc burst into a small fit of laughter, the latter breaking into a noisy cough. Even Falman wore a little smile.

'Yeah, yeah,' said Fuery, getting back to the papers. 'I get it. I get it.'

OoO

'We're cancelling the meeting with Grumman and Blithe.'

Hawkeye was standing, arms folded, in front of Mustang's desk. In turn, the colonel sat, arms also folded, and mouth turned down in the most petulant pout south of Drachma.

'No,' he said. 'Not happening.' He sniffed noisily and dabbed at his red nose for the one-hundredth time since he returned from his early morning round of meetings. 'I have to take this opportunity to meet with Blithe. I need two generals' statements for the,' he sneezed and groaned, discarding one handkerchief and retrieving another from his pocket. 'For the Crew Foundation sponsorship money.'

'There are tens of generals you could ask,' Hawkeye said, patiently.

'Yeah, but Blithe vaguely likes me,' reasoned Mustang.

'You said you'd never met Blithe before though,' said Havoc.

The colonel answered with a shrug. Exactly.

Unlike Falman and Fuery who worked with oblivious diligence in the tense atmosphere, Breda and Havoc observed the stand-off quite openly. Hawkeye was cool and seemed particularly certain that she would win this bout. Mustang on the other hand looked terrible. Havoc's hungover dark circles were nothing compared to Mustang's bruised looking and reddened eyes. The colonel's hair was unkempt, clinging to his neck and forehead which was damp with sweat. His skin was grey. Not in the 'oh he looks grey' way, but in the literal sense: grey. He already looked like he was going to vomit several times, and when he coughed it sounded pained and like he'd had it all weekend.

Whatever, right? People get sick; especially over-worked, over-thinking, over-achieving people like Mustang. Breda wouldn't have been quite so concerned only this was the third time he'd been in this condition in as many months. The brass were riding him hard; harder than they'd ever done so before, and it seemed like when they put the pressure on, Mustang put twice – three! – times as much on himself. The Elrics weren't helping matters. Mustang's last meeting with Grumman was interrupted when an urgent call came through saying that Fullmetal had destroyed a train station, and would East City HQ be able to kindly release repair funds at their earliest convenience, thank you very much. In an attempt to save his own budget (and reputation as Fullmetal's superior), Mustang went to the provincial station himself. Armed with chalk, he alchemically repaired the building almost single-handedly. Al called to apologise. Edward did not.

'Colonel, if it's a good impression you're interested in, then today is not the day to meet with Blithe and ask for monetary support. You look awful and sound like a spoiled brat. Snotty nose and all.'

Breda smiled into his coffee cup. Hawkeye was awesome.

Mustang sighed and hung his head for a moment. The room was very quiet. Only Falman's scratching pencil hurt the silence. After a time, Mustang turned his hands over so the palms lay open between them. When he looked up at Hawkeye, his face was open. Helpless.

'We need the money, Hawkeye.' He looked off to the side. Behind him, the East City sky looked about as miserable as he did. Those dark clouds threatened rain. 'If we don't get this special funding I'll need to crawl on my knees to Central begging for a budget revision. Fullmetal's killing me.' He leafed through some of the thin claim slips in front of him. 'These damages...'

There was that look again. The helpless one. The one that said, Please don't make this harder for me, Hawkeye. I can't bear your worry too.

The lieutenant nodded once.

'Fuery,' she said, turning and smiling warmly at the young sergeant. 'Bring the colonel some coffee, would you please?' She walked towards Breda's desk, releasing a breath in one long, resigned sigh.

'You'll go along with him, Breda, won't you,' she said. She touched the edge of his desk with the forefinger of each hand. 'I want you to be the detail man. Do as much of the talking as you can. See if you can make "alchemical damages" sound a little more attractive.'

Breda 'bopped' her fingers with the top of his pen. 'Making the unattractive sound attractive is one of the key requirements of being Havoc's wingman. I've got this, Hawkeye.'

'Aw now. Come on,' Havoc complained, as the first lieutenant smiled her thanks and made her way back to her desk.

The office fell into a quiet lull again, save the industrious scratching of Falman's pen, and the tired sniffing and coughing of a poorly colonel.

One more chapter on its way!