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elrhiarhodanTitle: y0u11b3s044y p3t3r (You'll Be Sorry, Peter)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~750
Summary: Set sometime between “On Guard” and “Countdown,” Peter snoops and finds something he wasn’t meant to see. Or maybe he was?
A/N: Happy birthday to my very dear friend,jrosemary (aka miri_thompson). I wrote this for you in some long-ago promptfest, and never published it on my journal. I wanted to give you something new and fresh, but my brain is still refusing to turn over. I didn’t want your day to go uncelebrated, so I found this and I hope it brings a smile to your face.
Also: Let's mark this for the "Humiliation Square" on my H/C Bingo Card.
__________________
Peter hated doing it, he knew that the data he collected would be legally inadmissible, and when he installed the keystroke logger on Neal's laptop he felt like he had just killed a puppy. And a kitten. And maybe some cute little baby bunnies.
But he had to know, he had to find out what Neal was planning.
It wasn't that he couldn't get a warrant, but a warrant meant questions, meant an open investigation, meant a paper trail, meant Neal could go back to jail if he found something. So, no warrant. And even if he could argue that Neal, as a felon on work-release, had a significantly diminished expectation of privacy, the data from the keystroke logger would still be inadmissible. In fact, that Peter used the software for his own - quite possibly nefarious - purposes could get him a disciplinary action or even a suspension.
The first night afterwards, Peter sat alone in the living room and sweated in the dark. The email that contained the data from Neal's laptop was unopened, and in a moment of determination and self-disgust, he deleted it and then cleared the trash. He did the same on the second and third nights. The fourth night he went to see Neal, with every intention of dousing the laptop with beer or wine or any liquid he could get his hands (his suddenly clumsy hands on). But there was no sign of the machine, and it wasn't like he could ask where it was and then destroy it.
The fifth night - a Saturday night - he was out with Elizabeth, got home late and deliberately avoided looking at his own laptop or even the email on his smartphone. But Sunday - that was a day for temptation. Peter looked at his email inbox and considered going to confession for the first time in thirty years. Briefly. The logging program provided a digest of each days collected data. Everything he had deleted was there again for his edification.
Monday morning brought a whole new set of headaches. The Russians were making noises - rumors about a recovered submarine were sending diplomatic channels crackling. Peter was keeping his mouth shut, but he knew it was only a matter of time.
Ignoring the sour taste in his mouth, Peter opened the email from Sunday. There wasn't much - he followed the links to various websites, nothing suspicious or incriminating. And no emails. Curious, Peter following the link to the Amazon page - it wasn't for books. It was for a cloud-based file storage system.
The sour taste it got stronger. The captured data included an email address - N0t4y0up3t3r@gmail.com and a password, y0u11b3s044y. Peter didn't even pause as he entered the data. There was a single file in the storage folder, rather banally labeled "EscapePlan.doc."
No - no - this had to be a trap
But still, Peter had to open it. He had to read it.
Over and over and over again.
He blinked and closed the file and wished to Gwrod and all of the plaster saints that there really was something called Retcon and he could just go to the Duane Reade and get a dose. Or two.
His smartphone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Neal. "Next time, P3t3r, it won't be so tame."
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~750
Summary: Set sometime between “On Guard” and “Countdown,” Peter snoops and finds something he wasn’t meant to see. Or maybe he was?
A/N: Happy birthday to my very dear friend,
jrosemary (aka miri_thompson). I wrote this for you in some long-ago promptfest, and never published it on my journal. I wanted to give you something new and fresh, but my brain is still refusing to turn over. I didn’t want your day to go uncelebrated, so I found this and I hope it brings a smile to your face.Also: Let's mark this for the "Humiliation Square" on my H/C Bingo Card.
Peter hated doing it, he knew that the data he collected would be legally inadmissible, and when he installed the keystroke logger on Neal's laptop he felt like he had just killed a puppy. And a kitten. And maybe some cute little baby bunnies.
But he had to know, he had to find out what Neal was planning.
It wasn't that he couldn't get a warrant, but a warrant meant questions, meant an open investigation, meant a paper trail, meant Neal could go back to jail if he found something. So, no warrant. And even if he could argue that Neal, as a felon on work-release, had a significantly diminished expectation of privacy, the data from the keystroke logger would still be inadmissible. In fact, that Peter used the software for his own - quite possibly nefarious - purposes could get him a disciplinary action or even a suspension.
The first night afterwards, Peter sat alone in the living room and sweated in the dark. The email that contained the data from Neal's laptop was unopened, and in a moment of determination and self-disgust, he deleted it and then cleared the trash. He did the same on the second and third nights. The fourth night he went to see Neal, with every intention of dousing the laptop with beer or wine or any liquid he could get his hands (his suddenly clumsy hands on). But there was no sign of the machine, and it wasn't like he could ask where it was and then destroy it.
The fifth night - a Saturday night - he was out with Elizabeth, got home late and deliberately avoided looking at his own laptop or even the email on his smartphone. But Sunday - that was a day for temptation. Peter looked at his email inbox and considered going to confession for the first time in thirty years. Briefly. The logging program provided a digest of each days collected data. Everything he had deleted was there again for his edification.
Monday morning brought a whole new set of headaches. The Russians were making noises - rumors about a recovered submarine were sending diplomatic channels crackling. Peter was keeping his mouth shut, but he knew it was only a matter of time.
Ignoring the sour taste in his mouth, Peter opened the email from Sunday. There wasn't much - he followed the links to various websites, nothing suspicious or incriminating. And no emails. Curious, Peter following the link to the Amazon page - it wasn't for books. It was for a cloud-based file storage system.
The sour taste it got stronger. The captured data included an email address - N0t4y0up3t3r@gmail.com and a password, y0u11b3s044y. Peter didn't even pause as he entered the data. There was a single file in the storage folder, rather banally labeled "EscapePlan.doc."
No - no - this had to be a trap
But still, Peter had to open it. He had to read it.
Over and over and over again.
Neal wondered when a simple spanking became a threat to his, ahhh, virtue.
“Neal, come here.” Peter patted one of his thighs. “The longer you draw this out, the worse it’s going to be.”
“I guess this is a good time for me to cowboy up.”
“Yes, it would.” He patted his thigh again, and in a maneuver that should have qualified Neal for the American Ballet Theater, he draped himself across Peter’s lap, trying not to squirm and arouse the sleeping beast.
Peter started a running dialogue for Elizabeth’s benefit, describing Neal’s body in elaborate and embarrassing detail, from the softness of his skin (as he was gliding his fingers down Neal’s spine), the ticklish spots at his waist, the tiny line of freckles along his left shoulder blade.
Neal wanted to interrupt and remind Peter that he wasn’t auditioning for a soft-core porn audio book and get on with it when Peter starting to tell his wife about his ass.
“You wouldn’t believe how perfect it is, a pair of white marble bubbles.”
“Better than mine?”
“Not better, different. Your ass is like a perfect peach. Neal’s is like a pair of little apples – hard and firm.”
“Neal, come here.” Peter patted one of his thighs. “The longer you draw this out, the worse it’s going to be.”
“I guess this is a good time for me to cowboy up.”
“Yes, it would.” He patted his thigh again, and in a maneuver that should have qualified Neal for the American Ballet Theater, he draped himself across Peter’s lap, trying not to squirm and arouse the sleeping beast.
Peter started a running dialogue for Elizabeth’s benefit, describing Neal’s body in elaborate and embarrassing detail, from the softness of his skin (as he was gliding his fingers down Neal’s spine), the ticklish spots at his waist, the tiny line of freckles along his left shoulder blade.
Neal wanted to interrupt and remind Peter that he wasn’t auditioning for a soft-core porn audio book and get on with it when Peter starting to tell his wife about his ass.
“You wouldn’t believe how perfect it is, a pair of white marble bubbles.”
“Better than mine?”
“Not better, different. Your ass is like a perfect peach. Neal’s is like a pair of little apples – hard and firm.”
He blinked and closed the file and wished to Gwrod and all of the plaster saints that there really was something called Retcon and he could just go to the Duane Reade and get a dose. Or two.
His smartphone buzzed with an incoming text. It was from Neal. "Next time, P3t3r, it won't be so tame."
