[fic] white collar - $63,666 - g - neal + peter (+ hughes + diana) gen

Aug 18, 2010 20:54

GUYS I JUST WROTE THE SECOND GREATEST WHITE COLLAR FIC EVER.

Title: $63,666
Fandom: White Collar
Characters: Neal, Peter, Hughes, Diana
Rating: PG
Length: ~1000
Summary: In which Peter and Neal are wasting the Bureau's money. Frequently.
Notes: Craaaaaaaaaaaack. That seems to be all I write in this fandom. SERIOUSLY, GUYS, THIS IS PRETTY MUCH JUST AN INSIDE JOKE DISGUISED AS A FIC.

Peter is glaring before Neal even gets off the elevator. That's never a good sign. It's even worse when Neal can't think of anything he's done recently to warrant such a glare. It's hard to be prepared to defend yourself when you're not sure what you're defending.

"Morning, Peter," Neal says, nodding and tipping his coffee cup in greeting. Peter's frown deepens.

"Hughes wants to see us," he says. "If there's anything you want to confess to now...."

Neal has committed dozens of crimes in his lifetime, but most of them are old news, at this point. He can't think of anything he's done recently that would make Peter make that face, let alone capture Hughes' attention. The innocent look he gives Peter isn't faked, but it's a testament to how good he is at faking innocent that Peter doesn't believe him anyway.

"We've talked about this, Neal!" Peter says, hisses, really, leaning close as if he's not talking loud enough for a bemused Jones and Diana to hear anyway.

"I swear I didn't do anything!" Neal insists. "If we're in trouble, it's not my fault!"

"What, are you saying it's my fault?" Peter asks. Neal shrugs. He doesn't say, You said it, not me even though he kind of wants to. "It's never my fault," Peter says. "It's always your fault."

Neal would protest that, but when he looks up, Hughes is standing in front of his office with his arms crossed, beckoning them upstairs with a look. He and Peter glance at each other in mutual apprehension before Peter leads the way up the stairs.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Hughes says once they're in his office with the door closed behind them, cutting off any means of escape. Neal and Peter cautiously take their seats. Neal is reminded, distantly, of being called to the principal's office, forced to stare down a suspiciously neutral looking authority figure and having no idea what he did to end up there.

(That's not to say that Neal didn't get in trouble in school--it just wasn't the sort of trouble that could be pinned on him.)

"Gentlemen," Hughes said, "do either of you have any idea how man cases Neal has gone off his anklet for?"

Neal has to think for a moment, but Peter is ready with the answer immediately.

"Twenty-seven, sir," Peter says. "That's counting the jade elephants, when it was against his will, and during the Fowler debacle, when it was against ours."

Neal has to give Peter credit for not using that as an opportunity to glare angrily at him.

"And how much does one of these anklets cost?" Hughes asks.

"The anklet itself or the whole tracking system?" Peter asks.

"Just the anklet," Hughes says.

"$2,358," Neal says.

Hughes and Peter both look at him at that. He shrugs. What can he say? If something's going to be attached to him twenty-four hours a day, he's going to learn everything he can about it.

Hughes recovers first and nods at Neal.

"Neal's right," he says. "Each anklet costs just under twenty-four hundred dollars." He pushes his chair away from the desk and reaches underneath it, pulling out a cardboard box. He stands, and empties the box onto the table.

Twenty-seven electronic tracking anklets cascade onto the table, bouncing and clattering across the surface. Neal pushes his chair back and just misses being hit by one. Peter doesn't move fast enough, and one lands neatly in his lap.

"Now," Hughes says. "Can either of you tell me how much of the Bureau's money is scattered uselessly over my desk?"

"$63,666," Neal says, poking the ragged cut of the anklet that's teetering on the edge of the desk.

"And can either of you tell me why you've felt the need to destroy a twenty-four hundred dollar piece of equipment twenty-seven times instead of, I don't know, disabling it electronically? Using a key to unlock it?"

Neal raises his hand.

"Yes, Neal?" Hughes asks.

"In my defense, the first time I cut it, I was ordered to by a woman holding a gun to my head. The second time I was relatively sure it was going to be the last time."

Hughes rolls his eyes. "Agent Burke? Anything to add?" he asks.

"Well," Peter says, "Disabling it electronically usually takes time we don't have." He clears his throat. "Also, I didn't realize it had a key."

Neal didn't either, and he files that information away for the future.

Hughes tosses a small metal key to Peter.

"The next time one of these things gets cut, it's coming out of your paychecks," Hughes says, glaring at both of them. "Now get back to work."

Peter is still staring at the key resting in his palm. Neal is on his feet and nearly out the door, pausing only to yank at Peter's shoulder on his way out. Peter rushes to follow him.

"There was a key this whole time?" Neal asks. He's surprised he didn't see anything about it in his research.

"Apparently," Peter says. He goes to put it in his pocket, but Diana has suddenly joined them on the landing and grabs Peter's wrist before he can complete the motion.

"Sorry, boss," she says, holding her other hand out expectantly. "Hughes wants me to be in charge of the key. I think he doesn't trust you guys with it."

"He'd better trust us," Peter mutters, "because if $2400 is coming out of my paycheck, I'll be out on the streets. If only because the other option is my wife murdering me."

"You could always stay with me," Neal says. Then he remembers the last time that happened. "June has plenty of other guest rooms. In places that aren't my apartment."

"Hopefully you won't have to worry about it," Diana says, tossing the key up and catching it before slipping it into her pocket. "I'll keep this somewhere safe." She smirked at them, and then headed back down to the coffeemaker, where Jones was watching them and shaking his head.

"You really didn't know it had a key?" Neal asks.

"Shut up," Peter says.

"And," Neal continues as they head down the stairs, "you have to admit--this time it kind of was your fault."

"I can send you back to prison, you know," Peter says, but Neal knows it's a hollow threat. Peter's gonna need somewhere to stay, after all, the next time they inevitably cut the anklet without thinking.

fic: crack, fic: wc

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