Chapter Text
Undercover /ˌəndərˈkəvər / adjective - (of a person or their activities) working secretly within a community or organization, especially for the purposes of police investigation; engaged in securing confidential information under a false appearance.
Major Juliet O’Hara had expected some resistance to her mad plan, of course, but the negotiation had quickly devolved into a shouting match of epic proportions.
“No way! Absolutely not! You can’t make me!” the boy yelled, fists clenched at his sides. His little brother was all but wringing his hands behind him, amused and anxious in turns.
“I assure you that I can; it’s called a direct order,” his superior officer replied coolly. “Would you rather face court martial for insubordination, Fullmetal? Refusal to follow a direct order will get you a dishonorable discharge at best - assuming they don’t decide to make an example out of you and toss you in prison. Either way, you could say goodbye to all those military resources you’ve had unlimited access to,” he added, handsome features twisting in a sneer.
Juliet knew Roy wouldn’t really carry out his threat, but judging by how quickly the color drained from his face, Edward certainly believed it.
“I’ll go above your head, old man!” he cried, voice wavering just the slightest bit.
“You can try,” Colonel Mustang retorted. “But I happen to know the General quite well. He’ll be far too amused by the whole idea to have any sympathy for you, bean sprout.”
“DON’T CALL ME A TINY INSIGNIFICANT SPECK OF DUST TOO SMALL TO BE SEEN WITH THE NAKED EYE!” Edward screamed, his face glowing scarlet with the force of his rage.
“I did no such thing,” Mustang said, primly.
It was at this point that Juliet realized Roy was taunting Edward on purpose. The little beast was actually fighting back a smile, and his men were exchanging rolled eyes and stifled snorts of amusement behind Ed’s back.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” O’Hara muttered. Time to interject. “Look, Edward. I know I’m putting you on the spot with this, and I understand that you’re not comfortable with the mission parameters, but please. Will you at least hear me out?” she asked.
The boy eyed her warily. Roy leaned back in his chair and smirked. That ass—he’d been waiting for her to interrupt! Good cop/bad cop, was it? Fine, then.
O’Hara put on the sweetest, most sincere, doe-eyed-altruist expression she could muster up and fired her opening volley.
“Maybe you think these beauty pageant contestants are a bunch of silly, empty-headed fools who don’t deserve military protection when they could simply quit the pageant,” she began, shaking her head slowly as if deeply disappointed by such an assumption.
“I didn’t say that…” the kid started to protest.
“But these are hard-working women and girls,” she interrupted earnestly. “And most of them wouldn’t be able to attend University at all without the aid of this scholarship program. If you agree to this undercover operation, you’d be helping us to save dozens of innocent lives – maybe hundreds!”
“Hundreds?” Edward echoed, looking stricken.
Easy now, O’Hara reminded herself. I mustn’t lay it on too thick.
“Each of these girls will have family members and friends present for the duration of the pageant activities,” she explained. “People who love and support them, who want to see them achieve their goals. And some of whom are relying on this prize money to fund those goals.”
Ed had gone very still. Major O’Hara sensed impending victory.
“And then we have to consider the various tradesmen whose livelihoods are being threatened: make-up artists and hairdressers and dressmakers and seamstresses. The pageant employs a few dozen people in addition to whomever the contestants wish to employ privately as part of their entourage,” she went on, pressing her advantage. Edward was looking guiltier with each word. She nearly had him. “Then there are talent coaches and tutors – musicians and dancers and singers, and ALL of them innocent bystanders who haven’t done anything to deserve being blown to smithereens by some nut job who doesn’t like the guy footing the bill!” she cried.
“But –” Ed said in a small voice.
“Forget about military duty and-and direct orders and court martials, for just a moment,” O’Hara said, with a disdainful little gesture in her former foster brother’s direction. Turning the full force of her beseeching baby blues on the kid, she went straight for the jugular. “Won’t you at least consider it, Edward? Not for me, and not for Roy or the military. But for the sake of all of those innocent civilians?”
“Damn, she’s good,” one of Mustang’s men whispered from behind her.
“You should see the woman who trained her,” Hawkeye murmured back.
“GAH!” the kid said, covering his ears as if to stop the flow of persuasion from getting into his brain. “Okay FINE! I’ll help! But you have to promise me that Colonel Bastard won’t be involved,” he demanded, whirling on her. “I don’t want to look at his stupid smirking face another second!”
“Deal,” she said easily. Too easily. Ed glared at her, suspicious, and opened his mouth to protest. “What about Lieutenant Hawkeye,” O’Hara said quickly, heading him off. “Would you have any objections if I were to ask for her help with a few things?”
It would definitely be beneficial to have a standby handler who was already familiar with the asset, O’Hara thought. Hawkeye had always had that calm, soothing sort of aura about her, and both Elric brothers appeared to trust her already.
“No,” Edward said sullenly. “Hawkeye’s all right. But none of these other jerks!”
The rest of Mustang’s men cried out in faux indignation, ruffling the kid’s hair and protesting at the favoritism shown to their Lieutenant. O’Hara rolled her eyes. Kid had a lot to learn, clearly, about exposing his weaknesses. She turned to the younger Elric brother, who had been talking quietly with Hawkeye.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay behind, Alphonse,” O’Hara said gently. ”I’ve been forbidden from bringing in civilian consultants, which is how we got into this mess in the first place...and since you aren’t officially a member of the State Alchemist program or the military, I can’t risk the brass finding out you’ve been involved in any way.”
“And you’re too young to enlist and volunteer, so don’t even think it,” Mustang added darkly. Al’s face (helmet?) promptly fell.
“I understand,” he said, sorrowfully. “Does this mean I won’t be allowed to see my brother at all until the mission is over?”
“No, no; of course not,” O’Hara hastened to assure him. “You just can’t be there behind the scenes with the other contestants during the various events of the pageant.”
“You’re too recognizable,” Mustang put in. “If someone saw you in the audience or hanging around back stage or wherever, they’d know Fullmetal was involved somehow, and his cover would be blown before he even got started.”
“Right,” O’Hara agreed. “It’ll have to be after hours. We’ll sneak you in to the hotel or something, and make sure you’re never seen together publically. All right?”
“Okay,” Al agreed in a small, sad voice.
“Don’t worry, kid! You can hang out with us in the meantime, huh?” Havoc offered, patting Al’s shoulder. “I’ll teach you to play poker, and you can try and beat this guy at chess,” he said, pointing to Breda.
“Ah, sure. Thank you, Second Lieutenant,” Al said softly. His older brother, who had been staring into space with a sort of vacantly horrified expression, suddenly grabbed Al’s hands.
“Al, I need you to promise me something,” he said in a deadly serious voice.
“Of course, brother, anything!” Al cried, instantly distressed. “What is it?”
“Granny and Winry can never find out about any of this!” he cried. “Please, Al, if you love me!”
“I promise, brother!” Al swore. They embraced, thumping each other’s backs and tearfully swearing to take each other’s shameful secrets to the grave.
O’Hara choked back a laugh. She wasn’t the only one.
Once the boys had calmed down a bit, she stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Ed’s shoulder.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Edward,” she said. “It won’t be easy. You’ll have to get your hair done and apply makeup daily, and you’ll have to wear dresses and high heels without letting your discomfort show. You’ll only have a few days to learn to walk and talk and act like a young lady. I know it’s daunting, but I swear, I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were any other way.”
He sighed, and turned to face her. All traces of tears and laughter vanished as he squared his shoulders with an air of determination.
“I understand, ma’am. I won’t let you down!”
Precious little thing! Why on earth was Roy always complaining about him? Juliet just wanted to tuck him in her pocket and take him home with her.
By the end of the first day of ‘How to Act Like a Girl’ training, Juliet had revised her opinion somewhat.
To absolutely no one’s shock, Ed submitted to the indignities of waxing with extremely poor grace. He’d very nearly kicked the aesthetician in the face when she tore the first strip away, and in the end everyone was grateful that he had only the one organic leg to worry about. O’Hara very carefully did not mention anything about the bathing suit round of the competition or the likelihood of a bikini wax in the teen’s future. Oh gods, she hadn’t even considered the necessity for tucking…that was going to be an awkward conversation. Well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.
A good deep-conditioning mask and a judicious trim took care of Ed’s hair, and his unexpectedly flawless complexion made the makeup artist’s job fairly simple. There was some swearing and some tears when it came to the eyeliner and mascara, but Ed did apologize handsomely to the young woman, and even he admitted that he looked like a different person once she had finished.
With his superficial appearance dealt with, they then had to tackle the more practical concerns.
O’Hara had brought along a treasure trove of cast-off women’s clothing and shoes and accessories for Ed to practice with, some of them her own old things and some borrowed from her former foster sisters. It hadn’t been difficult to find a few different skirts and dresses that would fit Ed, and the shoes had only stymied him momentarily. He’d simply chosen a pair and alchemically altered one of them to fit his automail foot, much to O’Hara’s bemusement.
Walking in them was another matter.
“All right, let’s try something else,” O’Hara sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. The teen glowered at her and kicked off the hateful shoes with more violence than was strictly necessary.
“I don’t understand how you DO this!” he cried, frustrated.
In spite of his initial unwillingness, it was the fact that he was failing so badly that was really bothering Ed most at the moment. O’Hara tried to hide her smile, knowing that she could count on that very pride to keep the boy in line.
“If I might make a suggestion?” Hawkeye interjected gently.
Ed turned to her, immediately attentive.
“I think you’re going about this from the wrong angle,” Hawkeye said. She paused for a moment, considering. “You’re trying to walk how you think a girl should walk. I think you need to focus instead on having a better awareness of your own body, and how it moves,” she said finally.
“Huh?”
“You already know what I mean, although you utilize it in a very different way,” she explained with a faint smile. “When you walk into a room full of men who are older than you, who outrank you, how do you act?”
Ed blinked.
“Show us,” O’Hara suggested, catching on to Hawkeye’s intent. “Pretend you’re walking into some big important meeting or something, full of generals and colonels and such.”
Ed frowned but took a few tentative steps forward. Clearly still thinking hard, he straightened his shoulders, tossed his head defiantly, and stomped down the little catwalk, all arrogance and brash confidence; a little bantam rooster taking charge of the whole farm yard.
“There,” Hawkeye said. “You see? Consciously or not, you hold yourself a certain way to project a certain persona. You stand straighter; move with more confidence than perhaps you feel.”
Ed didn’t bother to deny it, although they all knew he would’ve done had Mustang been in the room with them.
“So using that same principle, you have to think of yourself as being...softer, I suppose. Lighter,” Hawkeye went on.
“Try to move like you’re walking on air,” O’Hara offered. “A sort of gliding. Or floating.”
“In those fucking torture devices?” Ed protested, waving a hand at the heels he’d abandoned. Hawkeye just smiled.
“Yes. Here.” She bent and quickly unlaced her boots, tucking her socks into them neatly as she stood. “May I?” she asked, gesturing towards O’Hara’s trunk.
“Of course,” Juliet replied. “Try the red stilettos.”
Hawkeye wasted no time slipping into the tall shoes. To Ed’s shock and...yes, to his admiration, too, she glided regally down the runway without even the slightest wobble.
“How are you doing that?” he demanded, pouting a little. Juliet bit her lip hard and wished for a camera.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Hawkeye said with another faint smile. “Try changing the way you distribute your weight with each step. Rather than walking heel to toe, as you normally would, put your weight on the ball of your foot initially, and then follow with the heel. Try it barefoot, first.”
He did, and found to his surprise that it made his steps all but silent. It also shifted his pelvis and hips slightly, and he suddenly found himself taking the same silent, stalking steps as Juliet and Hawkeye had.
“Huh,” he said again, surprised.
“Sway your hips just a little bit, with each step,” Juliet suggested. “Not like you’re a cheap whore, for heaven’s sake...there, yes! Just like that!”
“This is weird,” Ed mumbled, flushing.
“Don’t think about it too hard,” O’Hara said. “No one is really expecting perfect elegance from a teenager, so it’s okay if you aren’t quite as graceful as Hawkeye, here. It just needs to look believable, and we can always use your automail as an excuse if you slip up or stumble.”
“What? I’m not going to use my automail as an excuse!” he snarled.
Juliet put her hands up defensively, bewildered by Ed’s sudden fierceness.
“Edward,” Hawkeye said gently. “Major O’Hara isn’t saying you can’t do it on your own. But learning to walk again with an artificial limb is very difficult. Even people who’ve never had to learn that the hard way can understand the concept. If something were to happen, they would be sympathetic, and unfortunately you would have to play on that sympathy so your final score wouldn’t suffer. Do you see?”
He mumbled something, avoiding her eyes.
“No one will think to ask who your mechanic is, and even if they did, you have no obligation to tell them,” she said. “No one will malign Ms. Rockbell’s craftsmanship, I promise you that.”
“Well, I still don’t like it,” he grumbled.
“I don’t either. It feels too much like cheating, doesn’t it?” she asked quietly. Edward nodded, feeling silly. “I know it’s hard, Edward,” Hawkeye said. “But you have a role to play, and if it came down to it, your automail limbs are just another tool for you to utilize. Another weapon in your arsenal, so to speak.”
He looked up at her finally, wry amusement on his face.
“You’re a scary lady, Hawkeye,” he said with a faint smile.
“And don’t you forget it,” she returned, winking.
With fresh determination, Ed retrieved the shoes and slipped them back on. His next pass was still a bit shaky, but there was a marked improvement all the same. At least, he looked a lot less like a duck with a stick up its ass trying to walk on stilts.
Juliet sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening for the impulse that had made her ask Riza to sit in on the training today.
“So! What are we doing for your talent?” she asked lightly as Ed sashayed past her again.
“Can we have him use alchemy?” Hawkeye asked. “I mean, obviously not the circle-less stuff; that’d be a dead giveaway of his true identity. But what if he drew the circle out and made something simple? Something a novice would know how to do?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Juliet mused. “Edward, what do you think?”
Ed’s face had gone pale. You made this all by yourself? You’re his sons all right!
“I don’t want to do alchemy,” he croaked. The two women exchanged surprised glances. “I can…I can learn to juggle. Or, or throw knives at a target or something. But I’m not doing an alchemy demonstration for an audience,” he insisted, face darkening.
“Hmm…well, there’s already a knife thrower…” O’Hara mused.
“What, really?” Ed asked, surprised out of his defiant glower.
“Yeah, a Xingese immigrant,” she explained. “Something of an art form in certain provinces over there, or so I understand.”
“Any rule says there can’t be more than one of a certain talent?” Hawkeye asked. “Surely there’s more than one girl singing or dancing or what have you.”
“No, but if this other girl is really good at it, then he might not score high enough to get into the final rounds, and the pageant organizers were pretty clear that our undercover operative had to get though on her own merits,” O’Hara sighed.
“There’s a practice session at the end of the week, right?” Hawkeye said, frowning. “Maybe you can get some ideas from the other competitors.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ed replied, subdued.
“Don’t worry, Ed,” Juliet said gently. “We’ll figure something out. The more immediate issue is going to be gathering intel without drawing suspicion. You’ll need to talk to these girls; draw them out and get them to talk about themselves and hopefully give us more to go on than their official bios.”
Ed frowned and glanced over at Hawkeye again. He’d seen her do it once or twice before - slip into a different persona like putting on a coat. It couldn’t have been easy for her, he knew. Someone as quiet and reserved as she normally was obviously wouldn’t like drawing attention to herself. But she was really very good at it when she wanted to be.
“How in the hell am I supposed to get a bunch of girls to tell all their secrets to a complete stranger?” he sighed, slightly exasperated. “Didn’t you say a lot of them already know each other from other competitions?”
“I have a few ideas about that, actually,” Juliet assured him. “But for now, let’s work on your runway walk some more, okay?”
For the next hour, the two women watched Edward stalking up and down the catwalk at Riza’s side, unwavering resolve all over his young face. He improved a bit more with each pass, and Juliet dared to hope that this whole insane idea of hers (well, and Roy’s -and Carlton’s, too, although he’d been joking when he’d suggested it) just might work after all.
And when Edward balked again, Juliet thought with a very Mustangian smirk, they’d simply have to discuss the bathing suit potion of the pageant in more detail. As incentive, of course.