Work Text:
Tinder was a stupid idea, but at least it’s decent for hookups. At least, that’s Andrew’s justification whenever someone sees the little flame icon on his phone screen. He has his notifications off anyway, so when he opens Tinder, spinning around in his chair after going out for a coffee break, he’s surprised to see so many matches. His bio clearly states that he doesn’t want anything more than a hookup, and if the guy can’t keep his hands to himself, then he doesn’t want it. That’s normally deterrent enough.
So he’s more than a bit weirded out when there are a bunch of guys sending him things like “Hi :)” and “You seem really nice, want to get coffee sometime?”
So Andrew checks his profile, and he’s been so obviously hacked. The hacker didn’t even do a good job, probably fucking around for shits and giggles rather than actually trying to get into any of Andrew’s accounts. For fuck’s sake, they took a line from the goddamn Piña Colada song as something Andrew wants to do (he shivers in revulsion at the idea of having sex on the beach. Too much sand. Too many places for it to go. No).
For someone who’s been remotely breaking into computers since he understood the concept of hacking, Andrew’s pretty lax about his phone’s security. After all, nothing important or incriminating is on there, and he uses a VPN, but iPhones are worse than garbage in any sort of customization and Andrew doesn’t have the energy to break through bullshit error codes to be able to encrypt his phone. He could just get an Android, but then Nicky would bitch to no end about how their messages would be green and if there’s one thing Andrew is unwilling to put up with, it’s Nicky’s complaining over text.
Andrew’s done with his work for the day, really, he could do it in his sleep. So he logs into Tinder on his computer and looks into his profile editing history. There’s a startling amount of encryption for what should’ve been a simple password cracker, so Andrew digs a little further, bypassing firewall after firewall until he finds one Neil Josten, who hacked his phone while he was at the coffee shop. Fucking public WiFi. He’s got access to Josten’s desktop, which looks eerily similar to his own work computer. So no hacking necessary, he pulls up the employee database and sure enough, Neil A. Josten sits fifty-two names above Andrew J. Minyard.
Unfortunately, all of Josten’s applications are password-protected, probably with several layers of encryption, and it’s five in the afternoon and Andrew is lazy. So, he takes his sweet time rearranging Josten’s icons and adding a new background to make Josten’s desktop covered in middle finger emojis and his icons spell “F U.” After all, Josten did nothing serious, and believe it or not, Andrew deals consequences fairly. For the added annoyance of having to deal with his Tinder being hacked in the first place, he adds a ton of folders into his design and stacks all of the applications. Josten’s desktop was meticulously organized by hand, so Andrew’s looking forward to making him fix it, manually, like Andrew needs to fix his Tinder.
He logs off for the day and spends the last half hour at work blocking matches on Tinder and restoring his profile to its former hookup-only glory. Get those Vineyard Vines boys out of his pictures.
And he just assumes that’s it. After all, what are the chances of two high-level hackers in the same cybersecurity firm?
That’s not it, apparently. Andrew has to go out of town for just over a week to go and visit Bee for her birthday, and he’s racked up enough time off that he really, really wants to get out of the city.
His time with Bee is refreshing. They sit around and do a whole lot of nothing, reading books and drinking hot chocolate, baking Bee’s cake together. Aaron and Nicky Skype them at a point, but neither of them could arrange time off or travel this year. Andrew doesn’t mind. He likes having his foster mom to himself. He allows himself to laugh, softly, when Bee gets icing on her nose and tries to lick it off herself, he smiles at the cats purring in his lap. They light the candles and neither of them sings, but they sit in silence for a moment and allow themselves to be grateful that hey, they made it another year. Bee will come and stay in Andrew’s apartment, in the small guest room, in just over a month, and they’ll do it again in a different place, with different blankets and books but the same cake recipe and the same cats.
It’s a good recharge for him, and he walks into work feeling pretty good about himself, secure in his body. Bee anchors him and helps him reinforce the tethers on his mind, and the memory of her healthy face and chocolate cake is still fresh in Andrew’s mind.
So he is completely caught off guard when his desktop background is a video of a cat playing with a ball of string and getting tangled up. Andrew downloads the video and looks through the metadata, where he finds a link, commented out. Weird. Metadata is procedurally generated or added through tags, so it has to be Josten.
Andrew’s secretly a little thrilled. Josten got past several layers of encryption (fairly fucking quickly, if the timestamps are correct) and left an invitation to an empty server for Andrew.
This has been the biggest problem in Andrew’s life. Everyone, all the time, everywhere, is so fucking boring. Andrew has one and a half interests, including coding, his job, and so he’s very, very good at it. Finding an equal gives him a rush, a challenge, something to look forward to. Sure, computer-generated puzzles are fun, but figuring out why people made puzzles is infinitely more interesting. Andrew loves to pick apart decisions, reducing seemingly random choices down to a neat little sequence of ones and zeros, switches flipped on and off, neurons firing and going dark.
And then his police scanner goes off on his phone. He has it partially for shits and giggles, partially because he has done some majorly illegal things just for the hell of it and needs to know if he needs to wipe his drive and hide.
Apparently, the FBI’s in town. Apprehending someone hacking into the camera system of a supermax eight states away. Being called into the coffee shop across the street. Where Josten hacked Andrew’s phone seemingly on a whim. Whoever could it be? Andrew wonders.
And then Andrew panics. Because the arrest details one Neil Josten being taken into custody.
Andrew has hacked into the police station’s database before, he’s edited his own file to tweak some wording from some overly aggressive cops. Fuck the pigs, you know? So he knows how to get into the system and fabricate an ID, but he needs something more official. He needs a release order from the FBI, so he stuffs his laptop into his bag and leaves, citing a sudden and violent stomach flu. His boss walked in on him in the middle of a stomach bug a few months ago, so he’s excused pretty quickly. Andrew might have played it up to be able to get out of work better in the future.
He gets home and settles down in his beanbag, lining up four cans of energy drinks next to him and gets to work. The first thing on his list is to find a draft of a release form and appropriately tweak it, and then he has to duplicate an FBI identity that would give him the clearance to authorize Josten’s release. That takes more time. He spends the next seven hours faking and remaking accounts, fact-checking them against actual account information he’s found on the dark web. He needs some actual credentials from a specific server, which are frankly too easy to obtain considering that the FBI is a government organization specifically for dealing with investigating global threats to the country. Their cybersecurity is a joke, and Andrew gets why so many hackers get caught from their bragging about breaking into supposedly “highly-encrypted” servers. If his ego were a smidgen larger, he would too.
Finally, he gets a draft completed and sends it off, hoping Josten has the common sense (and self-control) to keep his mouth shut. He had to actually get into the FBI’s mail server for it to be verifiable, he had to get himself tech moderator permissions (easier said than done), and then he had to send the damn thing to the correct agents.
All in all, it takes roughly fourteen hours. Andrew rubs at his burning eyes and sighs internally when he sees the crushed cans of Monster next to him. His stomach rumbles, pissed at him for skipping meals and staying up working, but he ignores it in favor of getting dressed.
He’s got someone he needs to pick up from the station.
Andrew may or may not pretty himself up at two in the morning to pick Josten up from the police station. He puts on his cool leather jacket, spikes up his hair in the way that gets him looks when he goes out clubbing, and drives to the station, waiting in the shadows.
Josten’s all hard edges, biting insults, unfairly pretty for almost a full day in police custody. He looks a bit rumpled, clutching at the strap of his backpack, but his eyes are alight with mischief. Fair, since he’s just gotten out of federal custody in a completely illegal fashion.
They sink into the tacky vinyl seats of the diner, Josten glancing over his shoulder back in the direction of the station. “Chill out, rabbit,” Andrew says. “They’re not going to figure out that it was me. Pigs are good at following orders, not at seeing who sent them.”
“You have experience with the Feds?” Josten, no, Neil, now that Andrew has a face outside a photograph and an interest, he’s Neil, asks.
“They’re high level, but they’re still just pigs,” Andrew says, nonchalant. “They’re trained to follow orders. Anyway, I faked a real account, so even if they do question it, it’s a few months worth of encryption to get through. Not worth it on their part.”
“You’re good,” Neil notes, as the server comes over to take their order. He pauses in his thoughts in favor of ordering an omelette and coffee, while Andrew orders a stack of chocolate chip waffles and a milkshake. Once the server’s out of earshot, he continues. “What experience do you have?”
Andrew shrugs, poking the ice cubes in his glass with his straw. They thunk against the cheap plastic, spinning as the glass sweats water onto a napkin. “Juvie. Too much free time. Disrespect for authority. Fuck cops. It’s funny. Pick whatever you like most.”
“But seriously,” Neil says, squinting at Andrew, “How’d you do it?”
“Do what?” Andrew replies. Neil is captivating, even under the overly bright diner lights, tapping his fingers on the table and building a pyramid out of the sugar packets on the table, his hands sticking and peeling away from the surface of the table, coated in syrup residue.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Neil says flippantly. “How’d you get into my desktop and just fuck around like that? How’d you get into the fucking FBI so fast that you could secure my release? Why do you care?”
“One,” Andrew says. “I have a lot of free time, caffeine, and spite. Two, they’re not as secure as you think, and I can make fake credentials in my sleep. Three, you’re interesting. You sent me an empty server. It's a bit hard to communicate with someone if they’re in prison.” Neil nods, satisfied. There’s no real explanation for being good at hacking besides free time and a disregard for the rules, anyway. Andrew’s perfect memory gives him an edge in remembering commands and loops, and his code holds barely any comments. Hacking makes him think, gives him a distraction on hard nights. “My turn.”
“Your what?” Neil asks, rubbing at one of his eyes, frowning when his sugar packet pyramid collapses onto the sticky table. He shrugs, tucking the sugar packets away and starting to spin the butter knife in his fingers. He’s got long, elegant hands. Andrew wonders how they look on a keyboard, flying across the keys, inputting commands.
“I gave you three answers, now you give me three.” Neil nods, quickly. “Why did you hack my Tinder?”
“Oh,” Neil says, laughing a bit. He has a pretty laugh, even if it’s mostly just a sharp exhale, it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I do that for fun sometimes. I didn’t know you were also into crimes and stuff.”
“And stuff,” Andrew echoes. “Two: why were you looking at cams in a supermax in Arizona?”
Neil stiffens. The knife clatters to the table, quiet against the vinyl. “How do you fucking know that?” He asks, going for his bag and making to get up. Thankfully, the waiter comes with their food.
“Cool it, rabbit,” Andrew says. “Police scanner on my phone. That’s all I know.”
Neil takes a sip of his coffee, then cuts into his omelette, knife screeching on the cheap plate. “My mom’s there,” he says around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and pepper. “I miss her? But not really. She was shitty, but at least I wasn’t alone.”
Andrew nods, beginning his process of cutting his waffle up into perfect squares, then filling each square with syrup. Once he’s gone through eight squares, letting Neil get some food in his stomach, he asks, “Three. What was up with that server?”
Neil blushes. Interesting. “I’ve never had an equal,” he admits. “And you didn’t seem actively malicious. And I’ve been told I should branch out and talk to people.”
“You’re talking to me now,” Andrew points out. So it is loneliness. “And if you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t have to set up a private server, you could have just sent me an email.”
Neil pauses, another bite of omelette halfway to his mouth. “What?”
Andrew pops three more squares of waffle in his mouth, licking extra syrup off his lips and watching Neil’s eyes track his tongue. “You didn’t notice that we work for the same company? Don’t tell me you can hack into high-level prison’s security systems but not check the goddamn database.”
Neil chews and swallows. “Uh,” he says, eloquently.
“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Andrew mutters into his milkshake, chewing on the straw.
“Could say the same for you,” Neil says, face half-obscured by his coffee mug. Andrew’s pale complexion fails him as he feels the tips of his ears go red. Oh, well, Neil’s nose looks a bit darker than it was ten seconds ago.
They eat in silence for a bit, and then Neil asks, “So why did it take you so long to find my server?”
“I was out of town,” Andrew responds. “No work while I’m out of town. You really didn’t hide it that well.”
Neil points his fork at Andrew. “Well, I wanted you to find it, so it worked exactly how I wanted it to.” Andrew can’t argue with that, so he goes back to his waffle. They don’t speak again until Andrew’s finished his milkshake and Neil is loosely cupping his mug between his hands, resting his head on the back of the booth. It’s nearing four in the morning, and the caffeine from Andrew’s Monster-induced coding trip is wearing off.
Andrew throws a few bills on the table, more than enough to accommodate their meal, and give their waiter a hefty tip for putting up with them during the witching hours.
Outside, under the flickering lights, Neil looks like he’s about to fade out of reality, like one typo in one line of his being could force him to error out and shut down, blink out of existence entirely. “Do you need a ride home,” Andrew asks.
“I’m-” Neil starts, then sighs, shifting his backpack. “Yeah. Are you offering?”
Andrew walks over to his car and unlocks it. “Get in.”
The ride to Neil’s apartment is fairly silent, save for Neil telling Andrew when to turn. As he’s idling in front of the building, Neil reaches for the pen in Andrew’s cupholder and grabs a scrap of paper from his bag. “Here,” he says, scrawling a phone number on it, “it’s better than Tinder and I’d rather not have to bypass all of your firewalls again just to say hello.”
Andrew takes it and tucks it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll text you,” he says, and Neil blushes.
“This was a nice date,” Neil mumbles. “If you can count being released from FBI custody and then getting breakfast at three in the morning a date.” Andrew nods, once, used to sleep-deprived ramblings from Nicky. “Anyways. I’ll see you around?” He opens the door and climbs out.
“See you around,” Andrew says before Neil can shut the door. He watches Neil walk into the building, almost flickering under the streetlights. A date. Andrew rolls the concept of reciprocity, of mutual interest, of a relationship around his head. Even after two hours of talking to Neil, a time where Andrew would normally get bored, he’s still interested in Neil, wants to sit him down and take him apart and figure out what makes him tick, just so.
They text, for the mundane things. Meeting up and hanging out. But the important things, the fun things, those go on the server, puzzles through the backrooms of the internet, ending in corny messages or videos that made them think of each other. And for once, someone stays interesting to Andrew. Beyond that, interest turns into want turns into like turns into something Andrew knows the word for but doesn’t want to name.
Turns out, cyber crimes are easier when he has a counterpart to help him.