The Sting

Or

They were expecting a leggy blonde...

-o-o-o-

A/N: This is a gift!fic for my friend, That Hoopy Frood, the very talented author of Dismantle the Sun. Go read it right now!

I wrote a version of this years ago, based on the prompt "gender bending," but it never felt quite right. Unfortunately, things got even more out of hand this time around.

Thanks to agentcalliope for helping me stick the landing!

-o-o-o-

Havoc sometimes wondered if a higher power had it in for him. Sure, he had his good days, but they seemed more rarities than norms. Perhaps he deserved it - he did sign up for a tough life. He was a part of Mustang's inner circle, a group sworn to take the harder, higher road in the trek towards the top. Besides, he may have done things to earn some bad luck. He was a decent man but he would hard-pressed to describe himself as nice in the way that puppies were nice or Fuery was nice. He smoked, swore, and chased women. He teased his fellow soldiers incessantly (but really, didn't Falman deserve it?). He stood Rebecca Catalina up on their date last night. He didn't send letters home to his ma as much as he promised.

In short, he was long overdue for some karma. He only wished it did not come in the form it did that day.

The mission began normally enough: Just a straightforward sting operation, an in-and-out endeavor without too many bells or whistles. They were to identify and arrest the leader of a local crime syndicate who dealt in illegal merchandise. Mustang's team was chosen specifically for the task because of the goods in question: The criminals sold alchemic arrays, many of them explosive.

The job was simple: Catch one of the dealers in the act, arrest him, then squeeze information from him by whatever means necessary. Grumman was quite offhand when it came to the what this 'squeezing' should entail; as usual, the old general was interested in the ends more than the means. Mustang had already used channels through Madame Christmas to secure an "appointment" with one of their brokers. Hawkeye, impersonating a customer, was to meet the dealer at a predetermined location while the rest of the team waited nearby to arrest the criminal. Havoc was to do the interrogation with a bit of help from the ever-resourceful Breda.

The team relocated to a safehouse near the drop point to organize their supplies. Everything was going smoothly. Kain set up the coms and was excitedly explaining the inner workings of the tiny, portable mics he engineered to a distracted Falman. Breda was amicably reviewing a map with the colonel, pointing to various points on their route, barely discernible under the lieutenant's tidy scrawl. Havoc, having already cleaned and loaded the weapons, chose to lounge near a window for a quick smoke, his thoughts regretfully fixed on his missed date with Catalina. It was all according to plan.

Then tragedy struck.

Hawkeye emerged from the bathroom wearing her costume for the night. She was understandably petulant about the getup: a clinging dress - far shorter than was called for - complete with heels so high she was veritably standing on her toes. When first presented with the outfit, the Lieutenant balked, flat-out refusing to look at the thing, let alone wear it. It took some wheedling and no small amount of begging on the part of Mustang to coax her into the dress. Many favors were offered, many refused, and only one taken up. Havoc was intensely curious just what the colonel promised that ultimately convinced the sniper in the end. He cursed himself for not taking Breda's suggestion that they eavesdrop at the door of the supply closet where negotiations took place. Now the mops knew more than he did.

All five men looked up expectantly as Hawkeye entered the room. Her eyes swiveled self-consciously between her comrades as they gawked at the uncharacteristically barren expanse of her legs.

Havoc whistled appreciatively. "Lookin' good, Lieutenant."

Riza shot him a severe look. Chastised, Havoc looked away, suddenly intensely interested in a nearby chair. He could not help but feel a bit guilty for the choice of dress; he was the one to retrieve it for the colonel, after all. Mustang's orders had been eerily specific, as though the man had waited years for such an opportunity. Havoc tried not to dwell too long on why the colonel knew so many of Hawkeye's measurements.

"I don't understand why I have to wear this," Riza muttered as she smoothed the front of her dress in a vain attempt to elongate the hem.

"It's for the mission, Hawkeye," Mustang said. "You need to be in-character. The dealer's expecting a leggy blonde." Havoc had to admire the colonel's control; Mustang's eyes didn't budge from Hawkeye's face despite the body parts in question being in very plain view.

"And who arranged that, sir?" Hawkeye's cheeks were flushed, and it was decidedly not the pretty kind of blush Havoc desperately sought from his countless lady friends. Rather, the red of her cheeks was more akin to the arched back of a cat: a warning sign of what was to come. Tossing her loose hair over her shoulder, the lieutenant strode to the nearby table to grab her gun, nestled neatly in her favorite thigh holster.

That's when it happened.

Perhaps it was the tall shoes, perhaps the unwelcome attention of her fellow officers, but before anyone could intervene, Hawkeye had tumbled to the floor, her feet tangling awkwardly in the legs of a nearby chair.

Havoc was first to reach her. "Hawkeye – you okay?" He hastily unbuttoned his jacket and laid if over her lap to give her some semblance of modesty. The skirt had ridden quite high in the struggle.

"It's my ankle."

Soon the others were gathered round.

"Can you stand?" Breda asked as he tried to help her up.

"Mmph," she groaned as she put weight on her right leg and quickly sank back down. "No."

"It must be sprained," Mustang said loudly. "Here, let me." He elbowed the other men out of the way to wrap an arm around Hawkeye's waist and help her into the offending chair. He gingerly eased her down to the seat. His eyes met hers searchingly until she nodded and gave him a reassuring smile. Seemingly satisfied, the colonel knelt at her feet to peel off the impractical shoes. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he worked around her injured ankle.

"Thanks," she said. Pink tinged her cheeks again – this time a more pleasant color.

An awkward silence fell over the room. It became suddenly clear that a mission was looming and their primary player was no longer up for action.

Havoc scratched his head. "Well, Colonel, what're we gonna do? She can't walk."

"We're going to carry out the mission," Mustang replied firmly. His face took on a grim sort of determination, and Havoc saw there would be no arguing with him. Even Hawkeye knew not to push when the colonel's lips pressed into a line like that.

"But the dealer is expecting a woman, colonel," Breda said. He spread his hands to either side and looked from one end of the room to the other. "In case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly flush with ladies, here."

"We'll need to improvise."

"If we could buy a little time, maybe we could convince Maria Ross…" Breda began, a faraway look entering his eyes. Watching his friend, Havoc couldn't help but smile. It was funny, really: That bright and hopeful edge to Breda's tone whenever he talked about the lieutenant. The redhead needed to work harder to hide just how much he liked her.

"No time," Mustang said firmly. "We promised a leggy blonde at eleven o'clock sharp. It's a quarter-to now."

"Well, what are we supposed to do, Colonel?" Havoc said. "Where are we gonna find a leggy blonde on such… short…" His words slowed as he felt five pairs of eyes swing in his direction. He did not like the smile that was growing on Breda's face. He did not like it one bit.

"What do you think, Colonel?" the redhead drawled. "It seems to me…" The lieutenant's eyes dropped, scanning Havoc from hip to ankle and back again. "…Havoc has some mighty fine gams."

"Yes," Mustang replied, now eyeing Havoc speculatively as though seeing him for the first time. "Yes, they just might do, Breda."

"No." Havoc squeaked. "Absolutely not."

The Colonel's grin was positively sinister. "Grab him."

Before Havoc could react, Breda and Falman had each of his elbows in a viselike grip. They dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the bathroom.

-o-o-o-

Ten minutes later, Havoc strode down an abandoned alleyway, his gait ungainly from the mile-high shoes that now adorned his feet. He tried his best to ignore the muffled snickers that emanated from Falman and Breda's hiding place, just behind the wooden crates to his right. Mustang and Hawkeye were holed up in an empty room that overlooked the alley, hidden from sight behind some wispy curtains. The trap was set - all that remained was to meet their query.

"Looking good, Lieutenant," Hawkeye's voice teased through the earpiece hidden under one of Mustang's scarfs, currently wrapped artfully around Havoc's head to hide the fact that his hair was in a decidedly masculine cut. Havoc was sure he did not imagine the vindictive tinge to the lieutenant's tone.

"I never noticed before, Havoc," another voice - this time Breda's - buzzed. "But you've got a great ass."

"Shut up," Havoc muttered into the tiny microphone tucked deep into the front of his dress. They had to improvise a bit on the breasts – there wasn't much on hand that was round and firm enough to really do the trick. They ended up with what they could find: two sweaty socks stuffed hastily into Hawkeye's bra. Havoc had to be tied into the thing with an extra length of twine. He shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable in the new confines of his brassiere. He wondered idly just how women stood wearing such an archaic torture device. His fingers tugged fitfully at the hem of his dress. The thing was short on Hawkeye, but for Havoc – a full five inches taller – the garment was positively risqué.

Mustang's voice came over the line. "Quit fidgeting. You'll blow our cover."

"Oh, that's what will blow our cover, Colonel?" Havoc hissed into his mic. "Fidgeting?"

"If you'd only let us shave your legs, Havoc," Breda bemoaned. "You'd make a much more convincing woman."

"I think the tights look nice," said Hawkeye.

"You wouldn't think so if you had to stuff him into those things."

"I know perfectly well how tights work Lieutenant," Hawkeye said sweetly. "By the way, you have lovely calves, Havoc." She paused. "In addition to the ass."

The com was filled with the sounds of pealing laughter.

"Alright, alright," Mustang muttered, sounding much less annoyed than he had right to be. Havoc prayed the low-pitched huffing sound the colonel made was just interference. "Swing your hips more when you walk," Mustang instructed, his voice choked. Not interference, then. "You look a bit stiff."

"Or drunk," Breda supplied unhelpfully.

Havoc grumbled, but attempted to comply. He'd made a study of such things – of woman and their backsides – and he was sure he could manage. He sashayed forward, his hips moving in what he hoped was a becoming, womanly manner. His efforts were rewarded by the sound of more laughter.

"Whoa there cowboy," Mustang snorted.

"That was…" Breda was breathless. "I don't even know what that was."

"Most diverting," said Falman.

"Listen, sir," Havoc hissed. "I'm doing my best here. This isn't exactly my skillse –"

"Quiet!" Hawkeye's voice broke over the line, its new crispness pulling the team to attention. Their laughter stopped as quickly as it started. A shadow had appeared at the end of the alley, blocking the light of a nearby streetlamp. "Contact sighted."

Havoc squinted at the dark figure, apprehension curling in his gut. How was he going to do this? The deal had to go down before Mustang's team could act. According to Amestrian law, they needed proof illegal goods were being dealt before they could make an arrest. Havoc kept to the shadows, shifting nervously from foot to stilettoed foot, thanking whatever god was watching that it was dark enough to mask most of his features. Hawkeye's hasty makeup job wasn't enough to hide the fact that Havoc was, indeed, a man. But his face wasn't the only problem. There was no concealing his height - quite atypical for the average Amestrian woman, and very much exacerbated by the heels. Havoc fingered the cool edge of Hawkeye's pistol, secreted in the beaded clutch tucked under his arm, as he watched the man approach. Things could get messy.

"Got a cigarette?" the man said, low and gruff. He was a full foot shorter than Havoc. A deep green overcoat did not cover the round expanse of his belly, and the shine of the faraway streetlamp reflected off the perfectly smooth dome of his head.

"That's the code," Hawkeye buzzed over the radio. "The affirmative response is: 'Sorry, I don't even have a light.'"

Havoc swallowed, hoping his adam's apple did not visibly bob in the darkness. "I…" He cleared his throat, aiming for a higher octave and praying his voice did not crack like a pubescent teen. "I don't even have a light."

The man's face split into a smile. "I got you." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and patted it against his palm until one pulled free. He held it out to Havoc, who shook his head. The lieutenant was not one to refuse a smoke, but it would not do well for the dealer to see his man-hands.

"Your loss." The portly man pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it with studied nonchalance. He took a long draw, his eyes wandering over to take in Havoc's legs from top to bottom. Pulling the cigarette from his lips, the man whistled appreciatively.

Havoc shifted uncomfortably, suddenly presented with the foreign experience of being ogled. He needed to apologize to Hawkeye later - assuming, of course, he made it out of this alive.

The man chuckled indulgently. "Well, they told me you would be leggy, but…" He whistled again. "Oooh, baby."

Unsure of what else to do, Havoc giggled in a high falsetto. He wasn't surprised to hear choking sounds over the radio. He also imagined he heard one of the boxes shifting at the end of the alleyway. And they said I was going to blow our cover, he thought. Keep it together, Breda!

"What's your name, honey?" He leaned closer to peer at Havoc's face.

Havoc turned to hide his features. He hoped it looked like he was just being bashful. "Jacqueline."

"Such a sweet name. Bet you're a sweet girl."

"Maybe."

"Maybe," the man aped, his lips curling into a leer.

Havoc suppressed a sigh. "Depends on if you got what I want."

"So eager – I like that." The man took another draw from his cigarette, his face illuminated by the red glow. His features were knobby; Havoc decided he looked like a bald, fat gargoyle. "How 'bout this? You give me a little something, and I return the favor."

"Humor him." Mustang's voice buzzed over the line. "We don't want to lose this deal."

Easy for you to say, colonel. Havoc cocked his head to the side, aiming for coy. "What do you have in mind?" he said wispily.

"How's about we start with a kiss, baby?"

"Oh you," Havoc simpered, batting his eyes. "Give me what I want first, big boy."

"A bit over the top there, Havoc." Mustang warned.

But the dealer did not seem to notice. "A woman who knows what she wants. I like it." His hand dove into the recesses of his coat. He pulled out a stack of papers. "As promised."

Eager to be done with things, Havoc reached out and snatched the pile out of the man's hands. Ignoring the dealer's indignant cry, he turned to leave. Mission accomplished.

"The fuck?!" The man shouted. Havoc felt a meaty hand fall on his shoulder. "Where d'ya think you're going? My kiss? My money?"

Havoc turned back to face the dealer, no longer afraid of being discovered for the man he was. His painted lips curled into a smile. Sure, he'd give him a kiss. One he'd never forget. Havoc inclined toward the man suggestively, as though leaning down for a smooch. "As promised," he said in his high falsetto.

After a moment of confused hesitation, the man leaned forward. His face met Havoc's fist. He crumpled tonelessly to the damp street, utterly unconscious

"Well," Falman remarked over the com. "That was… somewhat unconventional."

"Par for the course for one Lieutenant Havoc," Mustang chuckled.

A round shadow rose from behind the alley crates. "You okay, Havoc?" Breda called.

"Fine, fine," Havoc muttered. "Help me get this guy up."

Breda jogged closer, frowning as he took in the gargoyle-man's bloodied nose. "Imagine kissing that."

"I'd rather not, thanks."

Breda chuckled, then bent down to take hold of the dealer's ankles. "Let's get this guy inside."

-o-o-o-

"I don't understand."

"What's there to understand? I forgot them."

"That's what I don't understand."

There was a long pause. "…It was an accident?"

"This was not a fucking accident, Breda. You 'forgot' them on purpose."

"Havoc," the lieutenant's voice was filled with false affront. "I'm wounded. You know very well I would never –"

"Stuff it, pal," Havoc said, ripping the scarf from his head. "I'm not interested in made-up excuses."

Breda was only marginally successful in hiding his smile. "Okay then. I'm sorry I forgot to bring your regular clothes, Lieutenant Havoc."

"No, you're not."

The redhead paused, his mouth open in what Havoc was sure would be another invented excuse. Instead, Breda's face broke into another grin. "…I'm really not."

The team worked efficiently in the wake of the deal. Within a few minutes, Falman pulled up in a rented car, ready to transport their new hostage to the warehouse where the interrogation was to take place. Breda and Havoc wasted no time in schlepping the dealer into the trunk and piling into the back seat. By that time, their mics were already dead; Fuery had packed his equipment and was moving back to the office to start in on their report. Mustang and Hawkeye gathered up the remainder of their supplies and were transporting them back to the safehouse. Breda and Havoc were left to squeeze some intel from the dealer while Falman stashed the car.

Their captive was tied to the chair in the center of a largely empty warehouse, his bald crown illuminated by a single, naked bulb that hung from the ceiling. His head lolled loosely to one side; dried blood flaked off his mouth and chin. Havoc had to admire how wonderfully cliché it was. A smile spread over his lips for the first time that night.

Then he remembered the dress and the threatened kiss from gargoyle-face, and his mouth fell back into a frown. "I knew it," he muttered to himself. "I knew something bad was going to happen tonight."

Breda laughed. "You knew you'd wear a dress?"

"No!" Havoc said, kicking off his shoes. He stretched his feet, reveling in the comfort of a flat surface against the soles. "I just… I think... I think I have bad luck, Breda."

"What?"

"Y'know…" Havoc clawed the air, struggling for the right words. "Bad juju. Karma."

Breda looked amused. "I didn't take you for a superstitious guy, Havoc."

"Well, I –"

Both men stopped as a strange choking sound emanated from the chair at the center of the room. Their captive was awake - and far sooner than they anticipated. Havoc turned to see the crag-face looking up at them, his eyes glittering with vindictive amusement. Then he began to laugh, his voice garbled as a new trickle of blood spurted from his nose. High-pitched, mocking laughter. Laughter that echoed off the walls.

"What's so funny?" Havoc said.

It took some time for the dealer to regain his composure. He seemed to revel in the full spectacle of Havoc's getup before he spoke, his eyes filled with all the scorn he could manage over his bloodied nose. "K- Karma's a bitch!" He dissolved into laughter again.

"Hey," said Breda, frowning. "That's not very nice."

Havoc smoothed the hem of his dress self-consciously. "Besides, you're the one who fell for it, asshole."

"You were very convincing," gargoyle-face coughed. "You must practice a lot."

"Fuck you!"

"Look," the dealer continued, "I'm not gonna judge how you live your life. but..."

Havoc rounded on the man, furious. "This is not how I live my life!"

"Sure," the bald man shrugged. "Okay."

Breda placed a steadying hand on Havoc's shoulder to keep his friend from further dissolving and potentially ruining their chance of getting any useful information. "Why don't you let me take care of this one, Havoc?"

"No way," he said, leaning down to scoop up one stiletto before striding up to his captive. "Now this guy's got it coming. First he tries to kiss me, then he mocks me to my face. I'm not gonna stand for this." He placed one foot on the arm of the chair, his knee at the level of the man's chin. He lunged forward, placing all his weight on the elevated foot. His hand lifted, holding the shoe like a dagger.

The dealer leaned back in his chair, trying to distance himself from Havoc as much as possible. "Mind not putting your junk in my face?"

"I do actually," the Havoc said. He leaned closer, watching with some satisfaction as gargoyle-man turned his head to the side to avoid any contact. "Now -"

A door slammed shut to Havoc's left and the sound of booted footsteps reverberated off the walls.

"Lieutenant!" Hawkeye's voice called out from the other end of the warehouse. "I brought you some spare clothes. It seems Breda forgot to pack them in the car."

"See?" Breda said. "I forgot!"

Havoc looked up gratefully as Hawkeye's form coalesced from the darkness, Mustang strolling at her side. The colonel had his hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering everywhere except in Havoc's direction. "Thanks, Riza, I…" He stopped as something caught his attention. Something out of place. Something that didn't quite match with what happened earlier that evening. It was then he noticed the deep, steady cadence of Lieutenant Hawkeye's bootsteps.

Havoc licked his lips, his mouth opening and closing several times before he managed to ask the question that zinged through his brain. "...Hawkeye?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Havoc?"

"Is it just me…" he licked his lips again. "Or did your sprained ankle miraculously heal over the last hour?"

Hawkeye's head cocked to one side, her face quizzical. "What sprained ankle?"

Havoc froze. "...The sprained ankle that…" Suddenly he knew all too well what deal went down in the supply closet. His eyes slid over to Mustang to fix him with a thunderous glare.

The colonel put his hands up in a placating gesture. "She made me do it!"

Havoc's eyes darted back to Hawkeye, whose expression was neither guilty nor malicious. Rather, it was calm and matter-of-fact. Havoc stared wordlessly at her for a long moment before he managed to speak. "I… shouldn't have stood Catalina up on our date, should I?"

Hawkeye's pursed her lips thoughtfully. "That was probably not the best idea, no."

"Wow," Gargoyle-face muttered from the chair below Havoc's foot. "You guys really are a piece of work."

Havoc only managed a look of contempt before he heaved himself off the chair and stalked toward his commanding officers. Without meeting their eyes, he snatched his clothes from the calm, steady hands of one Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. She smiled at him sweetly before he turned away. Havoc heard Breda's voice echo through the warehouse as stepped behind some cargo canisters to change.

"Wow, you weren't kidding, Havoc," the redhead called. "You really do have some bad juju."

In the end, extracting information from their captive was much easier than anyone anticipated. Falman, being uninterested in gawking over the relative disaster that was their sting operation, quickly discovered their dealer had quite the criminal record: One more arrest and he was almost certainly headed to prison. Once that little detail was uncovered it was a simple matter to convince ole' Gargoyle-face to cough up the intelligence they needed.

Havoc limped away - both literally and figuratively - from the evening, his ego bruised beyond repair and feet aching like never before. In retrospect, he should have known. He should have realized sooner that his time of reckoning would come. That he was due for some well-deserved retribution. That what goes around comes around.

That karma really was a... bastard?