Drabble: Siege Mentality (ADAD #27)
Title: Siege Mentality
Author: QWERTYfaced
Fandom: White Collar
Wordcount: 300
Rating: G
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Genre: Drabble, gen, humor
Notes: For my A Drabble A Day personal challenge, and whitecollar100's Challenge 108 - Year. Thanks, reve_silencieux!
Summary: Neal exacts a terrible revenge. (Part 7 of A Battle of Wits.)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a gold-plated tortilla press yet.
It's so on.
Peter chuckled, gloating over the early-morning text from Neal. El shook her head at him.
"I hope you know what you're getting into, hon."
By the time he got to work, his imagination had really had time to stretch itself.
Everything looked peaceful...but then, it would.
Neal was already there. His head swiveled to follow Peter's progress. Peter inspected his usual mug carefully, then waited until a clerk tried the coffee first.
Neal was still watching him avidly.
Somewhat disturbed, Peter went upstairs. His office also appeared normal. Standing well back, he opened each drawer of his desk in turn-with his foot. Then he checked his chair thoroughly before sitting down. Contrary to his expectations, it didn't immediately sink to the ground or pitch him onto the floor.
By noon, Peter had tested each of his pens, verified that nothing in his office was super-glued down, and severely puzzled a probie by forensically dissecting the donut she brought him. His desktop background hadn't been changed to anything embarrassing. No mysterious packages or visitors arrived. His lunch was exactly what he ordered.
But Neal kept studying him, every time their paths crossed.
Peter went to the restroom and examined himself minutely for any stains, signs attached to his back, or sudden outbreaks of pink ribbons.
By quitting time, he felt he'd aged a year since getting up. He was wearily feeling around in the trunk when Neal materialized behind him, silent and unexpected as a ghost. Peter hit his head on the trunk lid.
"Gotcha." Neal grinned smugly.
"What? What did you do?!"
"Nothing. Making you this paranoid was today's prank."
Neal raised his hat, then turned and walked away, whistling.
Peter groaned, rubbing absently at the bruise on his forehead.
El had been only too right.
Author: QWERTYfaced
Fandom: White Collar
Wordcount: 300
Rating: G
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Genre: Drabble, gen, humor
Notes: For my A Drabble A Day personal challenge, and whitecollar100's Challenge 108 - Year. Thanks, reve_silencieux!
Summary: Neal exacts a terrible revenge. (Part 7 of A Battle of Wits.)
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. All characters and settings belong to their respective copyright holders, not me. Which is why I don't have a gold-plated tortilla press yet.
It's so on.
Peter chuckled, gloating over the early-morning text from Neal. El shook her head at him.
"I hope you know what you're getting into, hon."
By the time he got to work, his imagination had really had time to stretch itself.
Everything looked peaceful...but then, it would.
Neal was already there. His head swiveled to follow Peter's progress. Peter inspected his usual mug carefully, then waited until a clerk tried the coffee first.
Neal was still watching him avidly.
Somewhat disturbed, Peter went upstairs. His office also appeared normal. Standing well back, he opened each drawer of his desk in turn-with his foot. Then he checked his chair thoroughly before sitting down. Contrary to his expectations, it didn't immediately sink to the ground or pitch him onto the floor.
By noon, Peter had tested each of his pens, verified that nothing in his office was super-glued down, and severely puzzled a probie by forensically dissecting the donut she brought him. His desktop background hadn't been changed to anything embarrassing. No mysterious packages or visitors arrived. His lunch was exactly what he ordered.
But Neal kept studying him, every time their paths crossed.
Peter went to the restroom and examined himself minutely for any stains, signs attached to his back, or sudden outbreaks of pink ribbons.
By quitting time, he felt he'd aged a year since getting up. He was wearily feeling around in the trunk when Neal materialized behind him, silent and unexpected as a ghost. Peter hit his head on the trunk lid.
"Gotcha." Neal grinned smugly.
"What? What did you do?!"
"Nothing. Making you this paranoid was today's prank."
Neal raised his hat, then turned and walked away, whistling.
Peter groaned, rubbing absently at the bruise on his forehead.
El had been only too right.