AN: It's been a long time ago now, but at some point, Gerhuvn pointed out that one of the boring bits of reality the show conveniently ignored is that tracking anklets have to be recharged to keep working, and she thought someone should write a fic about that. Over time, we had a few conversations about this suggestion, and ultimately decided it would be fun if we each wrote our take on the idea, like our own private challenge. As you might expect, there are some similarities, but they still ended up as very different tales. So, if you haven't yet, be sure and find the time to read her Batteries Not Included, and let us know what you think of our challenge.
Static Charge
Cheride
"Caffrey! Get up here!"
Neal stiffened and tightened his grip on the pen in his hand. He wondered if the notes he was taking on the current mortgage fraud case would be a good enough excuse to ignore the bellow from above.
"Now!"
Apparently not.
He glanced around the bullpen and saw that people were watching him, waiting to see how he'd respond. He hadn't been working for the FBI long, but long enough to know that even though Peter Burke was generally an easy-going kind of boss, no one liked to get in his way on the days when he wasn't. That seemed a sensible approach to things, but apparently today, Neal wouldn't be able to avoid the man.
Still, image was everything in Neal Caffrey's line of work, so he deliberately relaxed his shoulders, placed the pen neatly aside, and pasted a decidedly unconcerned expression on his face as he rose and moved toward Peter's office.
As he passed Lauren's desk, she said, "What have you done now, Caffrey?" at the same time as Jones muttered, "Good luck."
He gave them an easy wink and a grin and ascended the stairs.
When he reached the office, Peter was standing, staring outside through the large window, not turning around when Neal rapped on the doorjamb.
Neal didn't let it diminish his grin. "I gathered by your cheerful greeting that you wanted to see me?"
"Close the door and sit."
That diminished the grin a little, but Neal did as instructed, then waited silently. He didn't have to wait long.
"You want to tell me why," Peter began as he whirled around, "I just got an alert from the marshals that the battery on your tracker hasn't been charged properly?"
"I don't know what—"
"And don't play innocent with me, Caffrey. I know the marshals explained it all at the beginning, and I didn't get any battery alerts during the Dutchman case or while I was on vacation, so I know you know how it works."
Peter narrowed his eyes and locked his hardened gaze on the younger man. "This is not the time to be testing the system. Or testing me."
Neal snapped his mouth shut. Testing the system—but not Peter, not really—was exactly what he'd been doing. He wondered fleetingly if he'd become that transparent lately, or if Peter was just that good at reading him. Neither option was a particularly good one.
But he pushed that aside and thought about the test. Peter had shouted down from on high mere seconds after he himself received the low-battery warning, so the system seemed to be working pretty damn smoothly. He'd hoped to see how long the battery would last after the warning, and maybe even find out what happened if the battery actually died. Based on Peter's anger, though, he thought maybe he didn't really want to find that out at all.
"Sorry, Peter."
The lack of justification deflated his handler almost immediately, and Peter sank into his chair. "Dammit, Neal." He shook his head and breathed out deeply. "I know this has gotta be an adjustment for you, but you can't afford to be pushing at things like this, okay?"
Neal still didn't argue or attempt to justify. "Okay."
"Okay. Find a place to recharge right now."
"Umm . . ."
"What?"
"The charger's at home."
By this point, Neal actually felt bad about his ill-advised plan, but he didn't back down from Peter's now-murderous gaze.
"It's not my fault the marshals didn't give me a spare I could keep at work, Peter."
"Go. Home. Neal." The words barely escaped through Peter's thinly pressed lips. "Charge the battery. Do not go anywhere else until you come back to work tomorrow."
Neal nodded somberly as he got to his feet, but then he brightened suddenly. "Now that I think about it, it only seems fair that I should be allowed time off work to take care of the charging, since it's a required condition and all. So, half a day off every few days then?"
"I wouldn't plan on that, no."
"But—"
"Caffrey. Listen to me: The next time I get a battery alert, I'll start putting you in lockup for the recharge cycle. If you can't handle the required conditions of your probation on your own, I'll put you someplace where someone can handle it for you. That half day off every few days might not seem so appealing from inside a cell."
Neal swallowed his next argument. This plan had totally backfired. "It won't happen again."
Peter softened slightly. "I'm sure that it won't. I'll see you tomorrow, Neal."
By the time Neal made it back to his loft, he'd all but forgotten his fear of being sent to lockup, though his guilt over angering his handler had intensified. But when he picked up the charger and remembered how annoying it was, guilt gave way to frustration.
The cord supplied with the anklet was barely over a foot long, and—naturally—the power port used a proprietary connector, so he couldn't just replace the cord with something longer, and the damned instructions had specifically said not to connect it to any sort of extension cord. Neither he nor Mozzie had figured out any reason for that prohibition (except maybe sheer sadism), so that had been next on his list of things to test. After today, he thought he might wait awhile for that.
But the end result of the short cord was that for the roughly sixty minutes it took to recharge the damnable tracker, Neal was forced to sit unnaturally still, very close to a wall outlet. And, even worse, the stupid thing had to be charged every couple of days. The instructions said charge every forty-eight hours, but today he'd learned it was closer to sixty-five before the alarm would sound. At least his experiment hadn't been totally in vain, though he had no plans to push it that far again. Peter had looked serious about his threats.
Somehow, in his planning for this deal, this hadn't seemed all that important, but in reality, he thought it might have been the most aggravating thing about the past few weeks. And considering those weeks had included not only restricting his movements to a mere two miles and sucking up to an office full of mid-level federal bureaucrats, but also having guns pointed at him on more than one occasion, it was clear this charging situation aggravated him a lot.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, so he slipped off his shoes, draped his jacket carefully across the bed, and got himself situated.
Sometimes when he was charging, he'd pull a chair over close to the wall, but his foot had to be kept so close to the outlet he ended up uncomfortably frozen in place for an hour. It was usually easier just to grab a couch cushion and sit on the floor so he could stretch his legs. Sometimes he'd read while he waited for the charging light to move from blinking to solid green, sometimes he'd draw. Once he'd even turned on the TV and watched people having their attic finds appraised. He didn't watch a lot of television, but he'd gotten more than one idea for scams from watching Antiques Roadshow over the years.
But today, he didn't feel like doing any of that, so he was sitting on his cushion quietly, head leaned back against the armoire, eyes closed.
And that's when he realized he actually did still feel bad about angering Peter over such a simple thing. And not just because the guy held the key to his freedom and should therefore be kept happy, but maybe because, against all logic, the guy had given him a chance and probably deserved a break.
"Dammit."
He grabbed his phone and sent a quick text.
I hope the marshals didn't give you too hard a time because of me. I won't let it happen again. NC
A couple of minutes later, he got a reply.
Don't worry, it's fine.
Then another.
By the way, you don't need to sign your texts, you know. I don't have that many people talking to me about causing trouble with the marshals. Besides, I have you in my contact list and everything.
Neal laughed. Peter, I'm touched.
Don't read into it, Caffrey. It's not like I have you on speed dial.
Ooh, it's a challenge.
Don't you have anything more important you should be doing right now?
Probably, but my boss put me in timeout.
Actions have consequences. At least the corner he put you in has a better view than the last place he stuck you.
There is that, Neal agreed easily, even if he couldn't really see the view from his current position.
Just as he was about to offer a wittier response, another message came through.
Unlike some people, I actually have to do more work today, before my boss puts ME in a timeout. Behave yourself, Caffrey, and I'll see you tomorrow.
Bye, Peter.
Neal sat quietly for a minute, wearing a small smile. Then he pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest where he'd stashed a sketch pad and pencils. He quickly drew a small picture of himself in his current situation—sitting on the floor of his bedroom, foot connected to the power outlet.
Then he sketched Peter in his office, sitting at his computer but distracted by his telephone, with Agent Hughes standing in the door scowling. He titled the piece Timeout and signed it with a flourish, then snapped a picture and sent it to Peter.
Hilarious, was all Peter replied, but it was enough to make Neal laugh. And when he set the phone aside again, he was surprised to see that his charging light was already solid. Time had passed more quickly than it ever did when he was tied to the wall. He'd have to remember that.
Neal grinned as he started this evening's conversation.
How many FBI agents does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Let me guess: you're charging again?
You threatened me with lockup, Peter. I'm not going to forget.
That doesn't explain why I'm involved.
Because it's boring sitting here doing nothing. Maybe you should reconsider that wireless charger we talked about.
I told you; the Bureau isn't going to spend extra money just for your convenience. You want it so bad, you buy it.
Peter. You don't really expect me to buy my own leash? That's cruel and unusual punishment, especially when you barely pay me as it is.
You seem to forget this was all your idea to begin with.
I didn't give enough consideration to the charging situation, Neal admitted. Now, how many agents?
If I listen to your stupid joke, will you let me get back to my hockey game?
I've seen you watch a game while you were doing actual work; I'm sure you can multitask enough for a child's joke.
Okay, Neal, tell me how many FBI agents it takes to change a light bulb.
Between two and five hundred, depending on the perimeter and how long it takes the bulb to surrender.
Oh, a month in and you're an expert on Bureau strategic ops, are you? You're lucky you're not here, or I'd hit you for that.
Elizabeth is laughing, though, Peter added.
Neal was smug. She probably likes my jokes better than the hockey.
I wish you were wrong about that.
Okay, ask her this one: why was it so hot at the college graduation?
There was a long delay before Peter finally answered. You almost made me miss a power play.
It's a tragedy.
Hey, it's not my fault you're bored.
It is if you deny me my entertainment. Did you read Elizabeth the joke yet?
Grr.
Neal grinned as he waited, picturing Peter's annoyance, probably moving from feigned to real by this point. The man took his sports pretty seriously.
We don't know, Neal. Why was it so hot at the college graduation?
Because there were about a thousand degrees in there!
Neal laughed out loud at the stupidity of the joke, and at the face he imagined Peter was making.
I'm going back to my hockey now, Caffrey. Behave.
Neal reached for his sketchbook again, bringing to life the groan in Peter's expression when he read the truly awful punchline, and El's delighted laughter as she sat next to her husband. He titled it Funny Stuff and sent a picture of the drawing to Peter.
He didn't get a response, but that was okay. His light would be solid green pretty soon, anyway.
Hey, Peter! What's up?
I'm trying to have my dinner, Neal.
Me, too. But mine has to be a picnic. You know, since I'm sitting on the floor again.
Still not my fault, Peter insisted. You should've thought about this before you broke out of prison.
Neal wished he had a real keyboard for this answer, but he powered through. I pride myself on considering all the angles, Peter, but I'm not sure I can be faulted for not planning ahead enough to think about getting caught by the same agent who sent me to prison the first time and then being released into his custody to work for the FBI while wearing an outdated tracking anklet that requires me to be in close physical proximity to a power source for an hour every other day.
Then he quickly sent another thought. But I'm flattered you think I'm prescient enough I could've foreseen all of that.
It had taken Neal a while to vent his sarcasm, and Peter didn't seem in much of a hurry to respond. When he finally did, he didn't address the snarkiness directly, but still threw the ball back into Neal's court. If you had foreseen it all, would you still have gone through with your escape?
Neal stared at the unexpected question for a long moment, contemplating. Nothing about this circumstance changed the fact that he needed to find Kate; he thought Peter understood that. Still, he'd texted his handler to pass the time, not to have an honest conversation.
What's for dinner, Peter?
He was a little surprised, though relieved, when Peter seemed willing to let the topic go. Bologna sandwich.
What? Are you on a stakeout I don't know about?
Trust me, I'd make you suffer along with me if I were.
A point. Though I thought you loved stakeouts? No suffering for you. But if you're not sitting in a van on a dark street somewhere, why are you eating a junk meat sandwich?
El's got an event, so I'm eating bachelor food.
I'm a bachelor, Peter; I'm not eating bologna.
So what are YOU eating, fancy pants?
Orange chicken over rice.
Oh.
Neal could almost see Peter's pout, and he grinned. But then he took pity. I've got plenty, if you want to come over.
Really?
But before Neal could even offer an assurance, Peter was changing his mind.
Nah, I shouldn't. I can make do with my sandwich. It'll be fine. I don't need anything fancy.
Neal just chuckled. Okay, your loss. But I'll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow. I could bring you some.
This time, the answer was almost immediate. Only if it's not too much trouble.
No trouble, Peter. He glanced down at his light, that was now solid green. I'll see you tomorrow.
Hi, Peter.
Neal.
What're you doing?
Neal. Are you charging again?
I'm following the rules, Peter, doing what you said.
That's a nice change of pace.
Haha
When did I become your favorite pastime? You can't sit quietly for a few minutes and charge a battery?
As I've explained, it's not a few minutes. It's almost an hour, Peter.
Even an hour. Are you a child? Never mind, I know the answer to that. Just read a book or something.
This is or something.
That's not what I meant.
You could always get me that wireless charger, Neal suggested.
It's still not in the budget, Caffrey, so cowboy up.
Peter—
I'll see you tomorrow, Neal.
Bye, Peter.
Five minutes later, Neal sent another text. I was thinking about that Levinson case.
There was a minute or two of silence from Peter. Neal knew Peter never turned off his phone, and it was unlikely the man had moved too far from it, so he figured his handler was debating whether this was a legitimate conversation or just another tactic to waste his time. When the response finally came, he saw he was correct.
Have you really? Or are you still bored?
Can't I think about a case while I'm bored?
That hasn't been my experience.
Neal grinned to himself, but he sent an annoyed emoticon, anyway. :|
Fine. What were you thinking about Levinson?
Even from the next borough over, Neal could hear the sigh. It made him wish he actually had a lead so he could surprise and impress Peter instead of just pester him. He gave a slightly disappointed sigh of his own.
I'm thinking it's going to be a tough case to crack.
There was another moment of silence, presumably while Peter imagined throttling his CI, then the phone buzzed again, lighting up to display a single word.
Yeah.
Then, a few seconds later, another message. Are you green yet?
Almost. Thanks, Peter.
I'll see you tomorrow.
Smiling, Neal leaned his head back against the clothes cabinet and closed his eyes.
The buzzing phone surprised Neal. He was making an effort to get through this hour without harassing anyone today, so he certainly wasn't expecting to see a message from Peter when he snatched up the phone.
El's working tonight. How about we grab dinner and go over tomorrow's op one more time? Maybe we can check out that place in Williamsburg you wanted to try.
It was tempting, but Neal hadn't forgotten Peter's threat, even though the intervening weeks had almost convinced him his handler wouldn't really toss him into lockup just for spite. But he wasn't quite sure enough to risk it.
Can't right now. Later, if you want.
What are you doing that's so important?
He might not think Peter would toss his butt into a cell on a whim, but Neal still recognized suspicion when he saw it, even via text. He sighed. The same thing I'm always doing, Peter.
Just charging? Peter replied almost immediately. Nothing else?
Just charging. Nothing to worry about.
Okay.
When nothing else came back from the other man, Neal set the phone back on the floor beside him and went back to sitting silently, still as could be. He had a book laying on his lap, but he hadn't even opened it. Instead, he just sat, leaned against his cabinet, legs stretched out in front of him, with his foot tethered to the nearest outlet. He sighed. He should've just agreed to dinner; he could always charge when he got home. But ever since Peter had threatened, Neal had been diligent about sticking to a routine, charging his anklet almost immediately after he got home from the office every other day. It was frustrating, and on the nights he didn't badger Peter with mindless texts, it was boring, but he tried not to pester the guy too much—no sense pushing his luck. Besides, Peter had been right about one thing: Neal had proposed this deal and he needed to cowboy up and deal with it. If he was going to be undone by something as simple as spending a boring hour a few nights a week, he'd have to rethink his entire plan.
Still, it was mind numbing. A man could only plan so many hypothetical heists, after all.
So, since he was trying to practice simply being instead of relying on his FBI handler to help him pass the time, Neal was surprised when there was a knock on his door just a few minutes later, followed immediately by the man himself walking in without so much as an invitation.
Peter closed the door behind him, and Neal saw a greeting die on his lips when he caught sight of his consultant sitting on the floor, and then Peter barked out a question instead.
"Neal, what are you doing?"
"What are you doing?" Neal countered.
Rolling his eyes, Peter answered, "I asked first. But, since I did barge in, I'll let you have this one. I was already out front when I texted; I honestly didn't think you'd turn down the chance to get out of your radius. Now, your turn." By this time, he'd made his way over to the sleeping alcove and could obviously see for himself what was going on.
Neal rolled his eyes in return. "I told you I was charging, Peter. You didn't have to come and check up on me."
"No, that's not it at all. Like I said, I figured you'd want to go out." His face was still scrunched up in confusion. "But, seriously, why are you on the floor?"
"Why do you think I'm on the floor?" Neal adjusted his leg just slightly in demonstration. "I told you this particular leash was a short one."
Peter grabbed one of the accent chairs and scooted it around where he could sit facing Neal. "I didn't think you were serious about that."
"I literally drew you a picture."
Peter shrugged. "I just thought you were exaggerating," he admitted.
"What? The man who knows Neal Caffrey better than anyone in the world couldn't recognize the truth of something?" Neal grinned, but his eyes were a little sad. "Just a word of advice, Peter: it's easier to recognize the truth when you think it's even possible, instead of expecting everything to be a lie."
"That's not what I expect!" Peter objected, but when Neal just kept a knowing gaze locked on his eyes, he finally huffed out a resigned sigh and offered an apologetic sounding admission. "Okay. Maybe I am a little more pre-disposed to suspicion than I ought to be."
When Peter had nothing else to add, Neal prodded for more. "And you're sorry and will never doubt me again?"
"Don't push it, Caffrey."
This time, the grin went all the way to Neal's eyes. "Help yourself to a beer, Peter, if you're going to sit there and watch this procedure. This is as exciting as it gets."
"We should just go get dinner. There really are a few things about tomorrow's op I want to go over with you. How much longer will this take?"
"First of all, quit worrying about tomorrow. I'm glad to discuss it with you again, but everything's going to be fine. And second, it'll probably be another fifteen or twenty minutes. If you want to wait that long, dinner sounds good."
"How often do you have to do this?"
Neal shook his head slowly and rolled his eyes again. "Honestly, do you listen to anything I say?"
"Maybe if you didn't talk so much, I'd have a better idea what's actually important. Answer my question."
"Every other day."
"Seriously? And you just sit there on the floor doing nothing?"
"Sometimes I text you," Neal answered, grin firmly back in place.
"Don't remind me," Peter huffed.
"Hey, I was leaving you alone today. You started this."
"Does it actually drain that fast, or are you being extra diligent?"
Neal shrugged. "The instructions say every forty-eight hours. It will go quite a bit longer, but you were pretty clear about the consequences for any more low battery alerts."
With a grimace, Peter asked, "How much longer?"
"I don't know. Someone interrupted my experimentation with the threat of incarceration."
"So now you just follow the rules?" Peter didn't seem entirely convinced.
"I can do that, you know."
Peter's expression said he didn't know any such thing, but he left the thought unspoken. "Why don't you use a chair? Or the bed?"
"Can't reach an outlet from the bed and the angle's weird sitting in a chair. This is easiest." Neal waved a hand. "Look, Peter, forget about it. It's a few hours a week, a small price to pay."
"Better than the alternative," Peter agreed, though he didn't seem entirely convinced about that, either. Rising from his chair, he turned toward the kitchen. "I'll take you up on that beer. You need anything while I'm up?"
"I'm good, thanks."
Neal shook his head ruefully as he watched his handler cross the room. It's not that he hadn't intended to make the guy feel guilty—that's exactly what he'd intended. But he'd thought it would be more fun. Peter looked like he actually felt bad, and that wasn't really fun after all.
When Peter returned, the two men talked while Peter enjoyed his beer, not venturing into any topics of importance. It was one of the things Neal enjoyed most about Peter—he could make intelligent conversation about almost anything.
By the time the charging light finally blinked a solid green, Peter had finished most of his beer and was definitely ready for a meal. "Let's go eat," he said as Neal unplugged and got to his feet, "I'm starving."
"Your treat, right?" Neal said as they made their way to the door.
"You think I feel sorry for you, don't you?" Peter demanded.
"Maybe." Neal was grinning again, but the grin slowly faded as he turned back just before descending the stairs, looking at Peter directly. "But you don't need to. Of course, I'd still prefer the wireless charger, but even without it, it really is much better than the alternative."
Peter clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. "For what it's worth, it's better for me, too. Now, come on; I think I was somehow finagled into buying you a meal."
The undercover operation went off without a hitch, as Neal had known it would, and then he'd spent the evening walking his radius with Mozzie, celebrating a successful sting and a night free from the charging cord.
The evening after that, as Neal once again sat on the floor, connected to the most convenient power source and disinterestedly perusing the nearest book, his phone buzzed.
Neal laughed in delight when he saw the incoming text message.
How many art thieves does it take to change a light bulb?
Grinning, he quickly composed a reply. You mean how many ALLEGED art thieves? I couldn't begin to guess.
Two. One to change the bulb and the other to authenticate the original.
Laughing again, Neal wrote back. Peter, that's truly awful.
I thought you'd like it.
After a brief pause, another text came through. I'm not keeping you from anything, am I? El will be late tonight, so I've got some time to kill.
Neal stared at the phone for a long moment, surprised. After being chased by Peter Burke for three years—and doing a lot of stalking in return—he'd honestly thought he knew the man pretty well, but these past couple of months had made him believe he might've only scratched the surface.
He was smiling softly as he leaned back against the armoire, more touched by Peter's apparent concern than he'd want to admit. I always have time for my favorite handler.
Even if you weren't charging? Peter asked.
Even if, Neal assured him, settling more comfortably into his corner and wondering if maybe this whole charging thing wasn't so bad after all.
As the days wore on, Neal grew more accustomed to his routine, and he grew less surprised whenever Peter started a text conversation to pass the time or came up for a beer when he drove Neal home; it seemed the agent knew his charging schedule as well as he knew it himself.
Even so, he was caught off guard when Peter called him up to his office and said, "Happy three monthiversary," as he handed over a box with not one but two (home and office) wireless charging accessories.
But he flashed a confident grin at his handler, anyway. "Peter, I didn't get you anything."
Peter waved a dismissive hand. "It's probably safer that way. Besides, since you didn't make me chase you after diving out of Judge Hickman's office last week, maybe we'll just call it even."
Neal's grin spread, and he wondered just how long Peter would be able to surprise him.
Later that evening, Neal quickly sketched a small drawing of his foot stretched out on a chaise lounge on the balcony, the glow of the wireless attachment almost lost in the backdrop of the skyline sunset. He scrawled a simple title along the edge: Thank You.
Then he grinned as he picked up his phone.
Hey, Peter. How many art gallery visitors to change a light bulb?
Caffrey . :(
Neal laughed, took a sip of wine, and waited.
Peter eventually came through. For some reason, you amuse my wife. How many?
Two. One to change the bulb and one to say 'my three-year-old could do that.'
Then, before Peter had a chance to reply, Neal texted a picture of his latest sketch.
It took a couple of minutes—time to show Elizabeth, Neal imagined—but then a simple response came back.
You're welcome, Neal. You earned it.
And somehow, Neal wasn't surprised at all.
~END~
I've got some thanks to offer:
First, to Gerhuvn, of course, for the plot bunny, lending a second pair of eyes to help make this fic better, and for the challenge overall. This was tons of fun!
Next, to friends over on the WC Discord server for always being willing to offer insight on word choices, sentence structure, canon details, and any other random thing I might wonder about on any given day. And, in this particular case, a special word of thanks to stingalingaling for coming to my rescue with a light bulb joke. I'm telling you; you can ask that group anything!
And, as always, many, many thanks to all of you for reading.
