Smothered Fire

There were good things about having Mustang around, least of which was when one forgot their matches. Havoc's lips were worked down into a low frown, his hands running through the few pockets that the uniform offered him even though he was well aware that he had left all flame inducing instruments in a drawer back in the office. The cigarette waved, bounced, and wiggled at the middle junction of his smooth, thin lips. When he looked up at Roy, the fire was already dancing, already waiting for something to ignite. Dipping in close, it illuminated his face, brightened the shadows that hung beneath the shag of spiky blonde bangs, before sparking the end of the cancer stick in an orange pumpkin glow. Smoke twisted, twirled, a veil wafting up between them, and Havoc sat back on the couch, content with the flood of sweet, addictive nicotine.

"There is no one else I trust."

Havoc knew what he meant, really. There is no one else I trust since Hughes is gone, and that was fine; it was an honor being asked to play Mustang to the troops, an honor that Colonel had come to him of all people. Not that there were a lot of people with his body shape who might not be corrupted by the current twisted political system, but it was still an honor nonetheless. "Just don't get killed," Havoc muttered around his sweetened vice. "Though I don't mind the promotion, I don't think I could wear the wig during sex."

Mustang laughed, a little sarcastic titter that lightened the air in his living room. One hand swirled the double shot of liquor in the tumbler, dark amber that rolled and twirled, licked the lip of the glass before settling once again. In his lap lay the fake hair, simple cut, dark and shimmering in the sparse light, and beside it sat the blue official military hat. Havoc would have a hell of a time trying to fit it around his bangs, and part of him craved to be here to see such an event. And to take pictures.

Havoc took another deep breath from the filter, storing it down in the tight expanse of his lungs before allowing it passage up through his nose. Which one of them was getting into the most danger here? He was going to be sitting on the front lines, but Mustang...he was...

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, then bitterly regretted it. It wasn't the fact that he was questioning a higher-ranking officer's orders; he was questioning a friend. And really, what could they do anymore? The Fuhrer...The fucking Fuhrer...

The wig was dropped into the subordinate's lap, the hat falling a moment later. Havoc gave it a curious glance, before looking up at Mustang, one sunny eyebrow arched.

"Put it on," was the answer to the silent inquiry. Havoc's nose wrinkled, before lightly poking it with his index finger.

"Right now?"


"Now, now?"


Havoc rolled the cigarette to the corner of his mouth without the use of his hands (an old trick he had picked up after boredom on a dull, paperwork laden afternoon), and slowly picked up the wig. He bounced it up, down, up, down by a few strands of dark hair, more than a little amazed at the fluidity, the way the silken lengths all fell and were swept by the movement; was this real human hair? He looked up at Mustang, was about to ask, when a waved hand showed impatience.

See if he did the Colonel any favors again.

After putting it on backwards the first time, Havoc righted it with a slurred curse, dark strands falling into his blue, blue eyes. Confused hands poked at the blond bangs, shoving them underneath the netting, and though he missed some the first four times, on the fifth, he managed to snare it all beneath with a triumphant smile. The face was too long, Mustang knew, but as he snatched the hat up and pushed it down onto Havoc's head, he couldn't help but muse that this might actually work.

Plucking the cigarette from the subordinate's lips, he stamped it out on the bottom heel of his issued boot, ignoring the ashes that dropped down onto the outdated slate shag carpet. Gloved fingers gripped the other's chin, turning the face here, there, left, right, up, down, before reaching up to tilt the brim lower a little more.

"Don't look up. Keep the hat like this at all times. Stop with the constant smoking." There was a pause, weighty, amused, before he whispered out, "We might be able to make this happen."

Havoc's lips curled into a smirk, proud at hearing that small statement, that little comment of encouragement. So, this crazy idea might take off, actually had a chance to truly succeed. They might defy all the odd—

The fingers at his chin tightened, jerking his face to the side, to him. Uncharacteristically soft lips found his, breathed in the smoke that hadn't left the surprised subordinate's lungs from the last intake, took it into himself as his tongue surged forward and beat down barriers. The blue eyes were wide, helplessly open beneath that bill of the hat, even as he tasted his Colonel's mouth, his warm cavern; was this...was it...? A sturdy arm wound around his waist and jerked him closer across the couch cushions, across rough, outdated upholstery. Decorating, after all, wasn't at the top of a military dog's list of things to do.

Severing the marriage of lips in a quick jerk, Havoc stared at his commander with a sunset flush stretched high over his cheekbones. Hurried pants made his chest rise and fall in rapid gunfire, something so fitting as it matched the erratic beat of his runaway heart. A cigarette. He needed a...

"I'm sorry," Mustang purred, pulling his arm back to himself. "When I just see someone that beautiful, I can't help myself."

"I look like you!" Havoc sputtered, offended and strangely, secretly intrigued all at once.

"Exactly." Smirking, the superior officer found his feet and cocked his head towards the hallway, alluding to the bedrooms that were snuggled down in the darkness. "Now, about the sex with the wig on..."