Filing Cabinets

Arthur walked into the office, the heels of his leather shoes clicking against the floor. "Mr. Kirkland, a call for you," said someone, and he was handed a telephone.

Arthur stopped and nodded his thanks before holding the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Arthur, I wanted to know how your work with that American agent has been going."

"Oh, it's going well, I think. They had a lot more information on several of the cases than we expected."

"How has it been working with him? I hear he's an ex-field agent, like you."

Arthur absently curled the phone wire around his finger. "He's nice. Er, cooperative," he corrected quickly; he supposed his superiors didn't particularly care about how friendly Alfred was and how he always made an effort to make Arthur feel at ease. "He's also very . . . enthusiastic about his job, but that's good, I suppose." He sighed. Alfred's constant energy wore on him sometimes.

"He won't be a problem?"

"No."

"Good. I'll leave you to it then."

"Goodbye."

Arthur handed the phone back and walked the short distance to his own office. They had given him a nice one, complete with bookshelves. He had already moved in a selection of books, though they were mostly for appearances. Everything he truly loved remained in his home.

He closed the door and sat down at his desk. Alfred was supposed to initiate the call this time, so Arthur opened a file of paperwork with a sigh. He browsed through it, dropping the things that could wait into the metal filing cabinet.

Fifteen minutes later, Alfred still hadn't called.

Arthur frowned at the phone on his desk. It was black, like all the standard-issue ones were, and glossy and new. Arthur knew it was plugged in because he always checked, just out of habit. Give it half an hour before you worry, he told himself. Arthur was famous for his instinct, but Alfred set him off balance. After their first phone call, Arthur had been sure Alfred was fresh out of basic training and too green to be placed in such an important position. After he had asked, his boss had gotten back to him and informed him that Alfred had "several years of serious work in the field" under his belt, which was about the most they could tell him. Arthur also knew he had a tendency to underestimate the CIA, and it was very possible someone had recommended him for the job because it might correct his biases – or at least make sure he didn't raise the alarm unless it was something truly important.

Arthur drummed his fingers on the table. He supposed he might as well get a report or two done, so he picked out one and started on it. Barely five minutes later, the phone rang, making Arthur nearly jump out of his chair.

"Hello?" Arthur demanded, even now expecting the worst – one of Alfred's superiors telling Arthur that he had been killed, or fired for betraying state secrets –

"Hey Arthur," came the apologetic voice. "Sorry I'm late. I kinda lost track of time."

"Well, don't next time," Arthur snapped. He pressed a hand to his forehead and tried to calm down.

"Jeez, you don't have to overreact. It's not like the world's going to explode or anything." There was a sound of shuffling paper.

"Don't joke about that. When agents don't report on time, in my experience they're usually dead."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. "Oh," Alfred said quietly. "Um, I'm sorry. I won't be late again."

There was a pause that Arthur hoped would translate correctly as his thanks. He cleared his throat. "Do you have the next file?"

"Yeah, right here."

"Let's get to it, then."