A/N - Not particularly wrathful. Not particularly RoyAi. Um. Warnings include a nasty Riza and a kinky bit of undergarment, as well as a lame (I mean positively limping) sense of humour. Perverted!Roy makes a return too... Kinda. I had fun writing this. In fact, I had so much fun that it turned out to be more of a one-shot than a drabble... Beware the rambling and runny sentence structure. Inspired by a certain scene in Rush Hour 2. Comment and criticise as you please. Thanks.

Disclaimer - I'm too irresponsible to possibly own anything as cool as Full Metal Alchemist.

Thanks to - Su-chan for taking the time, Aznsnowflake for putting up with a grumpy me, as well as Hola-Meg-a-Cola, K. A. Maples, Tsunade-Chan, saffiremoon21, ElasticBobaTurtle, C.A.M.E.O.1 and Only and ooOAnimeChildOoo for being vewy, vewy wonderful and reviewing my stuff. Cookies for y'all!

Sinners

Six: Wrath

Upon a belated reflection, Roy has to admit that this entire episode has been in extremely bad taste, and judging from the expressions on the faces of his fellow comrades, he's pretty sure they'd agree.

A bet was how it had all started; A challenge based on "manly" courage and boyish pride. Hughes, Falman, Fuery and Armstrong had wisely decided to exclude themselves from the potentially disastrous wager, and watched on with a vague sense of amused dismay as the Colonel, Havoc and Breda shook on it.

A suicide mission with the promise of financial compensation for the successful; Motivation, unknown.

No one had even considered the fact the idea would be executed, and everyone had been prompted to suspect whether the substance Second Lieutenant Havoc lived off was actually tobacco.

If there ever was such a terrible trio in the Military history of Amestris, none would have surpassed these three: Mustang the Mastermind, Breda the Driving Force, and Havoc the Agent of Practice.

The usual quiet afternoon atmosphere became charged with a surge of prickly anticipation, suppressed smirks, chortles and schoolboy giggles, stifled behind a gloved hand, a cigarette and a newspaper as the entire sector united to wait breathlessly for the result to this unadvisable folly.

Seconds ticked by with a leaden hand, slowly gesturing to the Roman numerals stamped silver on the huge timepiece hanging in the office, the sound forming a bubble of nervous apprehension.

At last, footsteps up the corridor, pounding a dreadful drum roll as the victim of their practical joke charged into the room, beside herself with rage, and began hunting out her pistol.

As one, Roy and Havoc embarked on a frantic search for handkerchiefs.

For there, in full view, bent over and rummaging up a storm of files, documents and stationary in her drawer, was Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.

In a miniskirt.

A pause.

"WHICH ONE OF YOU BASTARDS SWITCHED MY CLOTHING?"

"I'm not entirely certain, Lieutenant," The Colonel replied as nonchalantly as he could from behind a growing scarlet stain on a blue-checked handkerchief, "but I must bear in mind to give him a handsome raise,"

He barely managed to duck in time to avoid the impact of a particularly hefty paperweight to his head.

The thunderous ransacking continued as Riza endeavoured to turn the entire office upside down.

Maes gestured frantically at Roy. If you want to survive long enough to become Fuhrer, I suggest you start running now.

Inconspicuous as ever, the three responsible for this heinous crime against morality began to inch towards their nearest exit.

There was a cry, like the wail of an incomplete chimera that sent violent chills down Roy's spine, and the full scheme was revealed: Havoc had not only hidden her blue uniform trousers, he had proceeded to hide her guns, too.

Smart lad.

But there was a slight flaw in his precautious meditation - a miscalculation: Lieutenant Hawkeye was more than capable of taking them down with her bare hands.

They could hear the clock ticking again, each resounding clack intoning doom.

Riza stood, incredibly, horribly still, one hand rested on the desk beside her, the other over her chest. She was the very image of feminine perfection, blonde hair still damp from her shower, miniskirt barely brushing the level of mid-thigh. Almost free of the room, Roy's inner pervert couldn't resist pausing to gawk at her.

Then she smiled.

And he was very, very scared.

"Start praying, gentlemen. Because only God can save you now."

Havoc and Breda had suffered heavy bruising about the face (mainly in the form of a black eye on Havoc) and a couple of missing teeth (from Breda). Roy merely sustained the after-effects of a severe tongue-lashing, as, much to his good fortune, he does happen to hold the rank of a Colonel, and as his Lieutenant, Hawkeye dared not strike a superior officer.

Havoc was rewarded liberally for his efforts, and it seemed that the incident had largely been laid to rest.

After locating her proper attire (and prized weapons), Riza was surprisingly quick to forgive, and Roy was placed on the receiving end of the silent treatment for a mere four days, in comparison to the usual week-and-a-half he's accustomed to when she becomes particularly annoyed by something he's done.

Needless to say, he was on guard when she offered a round of drinks at the local bar on the following Friday evening and demanded to learn of the motivation behind the sudden display of generosity.

"To prove I've no hard feelings, Sir."

Roy thought about this. Apparently, none too thoroughly.

"Fair enough," he had said.

"Crushed sleeping pills," Havoc announces, his last and only cigarette twitching, unlit between his lips. "Who'd have thought she'd spike our drinks?"

"Obviously," Breda's voice is placid with defeat, "not us."

Roy surveys the tremendous distance from the parked car behind which they are ineffectively hidden, down the sloping road, across the square and two blocks to the gates of the Eastern Headquarters, and prays that they aren't locked. He isn't sure he won't burst into tears if they are when he gets there.

The paperboy strolls past with his load, spots the wretched threesome and wolf whistles, blowing a taunting kiss in their direction.

It's all Roy can manage, to make a rude hand gesture and refrain from strangling the boy on the spot.

"Easy, Colonel. It's probably the first time he's seen leopard-print on a guy. I must admit though, it's kinda a turn-on."

Roy swears he can feel the muscles in his arm spasm in an effort to keep from removing Havoc's cigarette from his mouth and shoving it up the smoker's nose.

"That's enough, boys." Breda hitches up his cactus-print boxers, the bulge of his stomach jiggling as he scratches it. "Let's get back to HQ so I can get something for breakfast."

Roy is sorely tempted to claw his own eyes out with his nails. Good grief. Stuck in the middle of the city, hung over and stripped down to nothing but your underwear, and all this idiot can think of is food?

Blinking to stop the involuntary twitching in his eye, Roy takes a deep breath, rising from his crouch by the back door of the car. "Right, men. On the count of three: ... Three!" And with that, all dignity is abandoned in a mad bolt for their what might be left of their dismally battered pride.

Hopefully, they won't be arrested for indecent exposure.

It's not over yet, though. Because back at Headquarters, Riza has employed the services of a certain amber-eyed, blond boy and armed him with a camera.

Hell hath no fury...