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DISCLAIMER: See profile
WORDCOUNT: 660
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: Seventh of TWELVE FICLETS. procrastination: The one where males have no survival instincts, except maybe Roy.
A.N.: Written to the prompts from 12_fics (LJ Comm).
FEEDBACK: :) Pretty!
Written for cornerofmadness, at the Christmas Requests.
WARNING LABELS
07/12 - procrastination
by Leni
He's been waiting for the day to end ever since he arrived. Around him, Fuery, Havoc and Falman don't seem to be doing any better.
"It's too hot," Falman complains.
Roy would be moved to nod in complete agreement, if he felt like moving at all.
"I don't even feel like smoking," Havoc says with the saddest sigh.
The door opens, and a courier takes a look at the four of them, drops yet another letter on Roy's desk and after a quick salute "Colonel!", he rushes away, as if afraid that procrastination was contagious.
Another half hour passes, and the most use the waiting files get is when Fuery and Havoc starts fanning themselves with the documents. "I should try to fix that ventilator," Fuery says for what seems the hundredth time today. So far, he's poked at it from the outside and not even asked for his tools.
If he were at least minimally interested, Roy would bring some order to this office. But the last few days have seemed longer than ordinary, and he has the feeling that nothing he does will make it better.
The door swings open again, and this time Roy doesn't even bother to look up. One more piece of correspondence for the growing pile.
"What's the meaning of this?"
At the first word, all men in the room opened their eye widely (scaredly), and by the time the question was finished, three of them were standing straight beside their chairs. Roy turns to the annoyed blonde at the door. "Lieutenant," he greets her.
The arch of her eyebrows warns him not to say another word.
His men, obviously, need to get better acquainted with a woman's moods. "Hawkeye!" Havoc's face lights up with a grin. "Are you feeling okay? You shouldn't be out of bed. Why -"
"We missed you," Fuery is saying, stepping forward as if to catch her in a hug. Roy actually winces in sympathy. "I'm -"
Falman doesn't get to say anything, before three quick raps are heard. Then, in unison, "Ow!"
He raises an eyebrow when he sees Hawkeye turning toward him. She doesn't hit him with the back of her knuckles, though. Instead she stands straight and brings her hand to her temple. "Lieutenant Hawkeye. Ready to return to duty." If looks could kill.... "Sir."
Roy nods and waves toward her empty desk.
She looks pointedly at the surface of his own desk, specifically at the twenty-inches-high pile that is already tilting dangerously over the edge.
"Wasn't it the flu? We didn't expect you back so soon," he says as an explanation. To him, it makes perfect sense.
It obviously doesn't have the same effect on her. "I see," she says, lips pursed. "We better start quickly, or we'll be here for the whole weekend."
None of his men dares to groan in protest.
She walks toward her desk and, before she sit, she glances around the office as if she's looking for something. "Why isn't the ventilator working?"
Fuery shoots to his feet and practically runs to the broken appliance. "I'm on it!"
With all his subordinates concentrated on their work, Roy gives himself license to smile fondly at the scene. He really likes that he didn't need to lift a finger to improve things. But if Hawkeye can catch them unaware like that - he chuckles at the memory - then they all need to work on their reaction time. Desperately. "Can't take the weekend. I've scheduled extra training."
It's funny, but he could swear three male voices mutter in protest.
Hawkeye shrugs. "Then we stay here until midnight."
Falman buries his head in a folder. From the corner comes a whine, and they all pretend it comes from the ventilator rather than Fuery. Despire his earlier misgivings, Havoc fishes for a cigarette and lights it.
"It's good to have you back, Lieutenant."
Hawkeye flips open a long overdue report and merely hums in response.
cont. 08/12 storms
30/12/08
