Author's Note:
You are so lovely, dear readers! Thank so much for leaving me wonderful feedback. I was a little nervous about a spanking story, but, ahem, apparently M and I are not the only ones who enjoy them!
No, Frank is not a nice guy, he's not good for Neal in any sort of fashion whatsoever. This chapter contains lots of whump and angst (It also contains a drunk Neal). There are vague references to child abuse. It's pretty much the last time it'll come up (directly) in the story, I promise. Hang on, though, next chapter has plenty of fatherly, loving Peter fluff. (I mean, there's that here, in this chapter...but there's even more to come.)
Thank you again for the lovely notes!
Neal grabbed his annotated file on Ammon off his desk, and walked to the elevators. Peter followed, patiently.
While waiting for the doors to open, Neal told Peter, "My place, that's where I want to have the conversation."
"Okay. Your place. Let's go." They stepped onto the elevator, and Peter pushed the button for the underground parking structure. Neal remained silent for the rest of the elevator ride, through the parking garage, and for the entire ride home. He didn't even argue when Peter turned the radio to a talk-show. Peter, determined to wait on Neal, kept his thoughts and worries to himself. He had a million questions swirling through his head.
After they walked into June's house, Neal motioned for Peter to sit down. He got out a wine glass and began to uncork a bottle. He stopped after cutting the capsule [the foil wrapper], and grabbed a bottle of whiskey instead. He shrugged and poured a healthy dose into the stemmed glass.
Peter, by now growing very impatient, resisted the urge to launch directly into questioning Neal. Neal finally walked over to the table. He slid the blue folder to Peter. "That's everything I know."
Peter didn't open the folder. He watched Neal take a large gulp of whiskey. He set the glass down, rolling the stem between his fingers. He kept his eyes carefully away from Peter.
"I'd rather you tell me, than read a report." Peter's voice was gentle and full of concern.
"Can't." Neal grabbed the glass and polished off the alcohol in two large gulps. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another unreasonably large serving.
"Whoa. Neal. Slow down! That's like, six shots in that glass. I'll read it, okay?"
"Yup. That's why I'm drinking. So I won't mind that you've read it." Peter shot Neal a very disapproving glare, but Neal was holding his goblet aloft and studying the way the light glinted off the amber liquid.
With a sigh, Peter began reading Neal's notes. There were plenty of small additions in Neal's beautiful handwriting throughout the report: added details of Ammon's biography, additions to the lists of aliases, locations, and suspected crimes. However, when Peter flipped the page containing the photographs and maps showing their suspect's whereabouts in New York City, he was momentarily stunned to see a full page in Neal's tiniest print. Before reading, Peter glanced up at Neal, who was now pouring his third glass of liquor. Vowing to read quickly so Neal wouldn't have any excuse to continue his mission to get obliterated-drunk, Peter picked up the paper.
Frank Ammon is a dangerous man. I don't think you agents really get it. Frank Ammon keeps a hide-out for the young men under his 'care.' It's filled with fascinating books and documentary movies. It's a mini school, of sorts, where he teaches them sleight of hand and conman tricks. He encourages them to drop out of school, because "they can learn more on their own." Really it's because that means he's the only adult in their life—easier to control them that way. Frank teaches them basic crime skills like pickpocketing and the fine points of lockpicking, how to disable security cameras or to avoid them all together, how to disable alarm systems. The boys get really good at watching ATMs for people's PINs and then pick-pocketing their wallets. A quick phone call to the bank, answer a security question—information usually contained in the wallet anyway like the name of a pet or a child—and you can authorize a one-time ATM withdraw for several thousand dollars. He owns a large warehouse in downtown Saint Louis, North Union Blvd. It's several stories, and has great security, and the boys won't let you in if they can help it. Warrant, or not. It's his criminal academy, a giant tree-fort of sorts for the boys, freedom from parental rules and school authority.
Peter fished his phone out of his pocket and texted Diana and Jones, "Call SLPD, tell them to check warehouses on N Union Blvd. Ammon may have a small army of runaways under his care. If found, the kids are probably truant and suspects in a host of petty thefts." He kept reading, as anxiety filled his gut.
He teaches them all about guns, how to shoot. They're really good-can do Annie Oakley tricks. On occasion he lends his boys out to help the local gang transport their heroin.
Peter pulled his phone out and sent another text, "Advise SLPD kids are armed and dangerous, may be involved in localized gang and drug wars. Possible to use their testimony to implicate Frank in parole violation."
Around fifteen to twenty boys filter in and out on a rotating basis, but he keeps three or four close to him at all times. We're his favorites. He teaches us how to manipulate the other boys into helping us pull off petty crimes. He uses a large amount of psychological power to get the boys to do what he wants. He convinces these young men that he's the only one who loves them. He's the only one who knows what's best for them. He starts out providing an environment devoid of all authority and filled with freedoms that appeal to a 12, 13 year old, and when they're firmly under his thumb, he devolves into abuse of all kinds. He's physically abusive when his rages strike, although they are rare. But by the time the boys realize what a monster he is, they have nowhere else to go. They're convinced no one loves them anymore, just Frank, and no one cares, no one understands them. He has a masterful control of psychological manipulation. He tells us it's not bad, we wanted it, it can feel good, it's because he cares for us and loves us. Besides, after what I did, who would want us? We're alone.
Peter wondered if Neal realized he had switched to first person with the sudden use of "we" and "I."
Basically, what you guys at the FBI aren't realizing is that Frank never gets his hands dirty. He manipulates these young men into breaking the law for him, making him money. If he's going to rob the Met here, he'll send someone he's controlling to do it for him. He's the man behind the curtain.
Peter closed the file and looked across the table at Neal, trying to absorb everything he had written. There was about an inch of whiskey left in the bottle, and Neal had his head cradled in his arms on the table. Peter wasn't sure if he was asleep, until Neal sat up and reached for the bottle. "Oh, no. No you don't. You're cutoff." Peter stood up and moved the bottle out of his reach.
Neal glared at Peter and continued his futile reaching for the bottle, arms stretched out over the table. His fingers made a scrabbling motion and he made a whining noise in protest. "I was saving that last bit for when you started asking questions. That'd be now, since you're done reading."
Peter rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid, let's get you in bed." He reached for Neal's arm.
"I'm not drunk yet!" Neal tried to wave Peter off, but Peter was faster, and lifted Neal to his feet by his elbow.
Peter's voice was patient, but brooked no argument. "You're definitely drunk. Get up."
Peter released his grip on Neal's elbow, but he started wobbling. Peter held onto Neal and compassionately led him away from the table. He spoke gently, "C'mon. Don't want to ruin that beautiful suit of yours."
"Yeah, this one is a Canali!" Neal began loosening his tie.
"That sounds like an Italian dessert." Peter gently steered Neal toward the bed on the other side of the loft.
"Not a cannoli! A Canali!" Neal corrected his boss with a snort of derision as he slid out of the jacket. Neal let it fall unceremoniously to the ground.
After Neal sat down, carefully, on the edge of the bed, Peter headed to the back closet. He retrieved a pair of paisley print flannel pants—the print and color made Peter raise his eyebrows in amusement-which he handed to Neal. Giving his charge some semblance of privacy, Peter rooted around the kitchen for a large mixing bowl. He also collected two ibuprofen and a bottle of water.
"Neal! Can I turn around, are you dressed?"
"Yup." Peter felt himself smile to see Neal sprawled across the bed. He still had one shoe on—how he managed to get his pants off and his pajamas on over the shoe was a mystery. Peter set the bowl on the nightstand and reached for Neal's ankle. His fingers lightly brushed over the tracker as he moved to untie the shoe.
"You gonna take Candy off?" Neal looked blurrily down at Peter.
"Candy?" Peter pried the shoe off, and slipped off his sock.
"Yeah, that's her name. The tracker."
"Candy? No, she stays, Neal. Just your shoe." Peter set the shoe down next to its pair and moved from the foot of the bed toward Neal's head. "Look at me."
Neal looked at Peter, who was looking sternly down at his CI. Neal tried to match Peter's serious expression. He wrinkled his eyebrows and tried to force his mouth into a serious line, but ended up with a goofy pucker instead. "You've got your angry serious face, Peter!" Neal started giggling.
"Oh, God." Peter muttered to himself while Neal's giggles grew more hysterical.
"Listen! Neal! Look at me." Neal finally stopped giggling. Peter proffered the pills and the bottle of water. "Drink this, and take these."
Neal struggled to sit up, and ended half-propped on his elbow. "M'kay." He swallowed the pills and chugged most of the water. Peter retrieved the water bottle from Neal and held up the large mixing bowl. "Look, I couldn't find a small trashcan. When you throw up, you'll be glad this is here. Got it?"
"Throw up in the bowl, got it. Heeey! I won't throw up." Neal leaned back on his pillows. "Prob'ly have a bad hangover though."
"Yeah, that's the least of your worries." Peter reached for Neal's shoulder. "Hey, sleep on your stomach or side, okay?"
"Kay." Neal rolled groggily over and clutched at his pillow.
Peter rolled his eyes and gently patted Neal's arm. He collected the various clothing articles that Neal had strewn across the room. He walked into the extravagant closet and began carefully hanging up Neal's beloved suit, and tossed everything else into the laundry hamper. Peter walked out and noticed Neal was watching him. "You okay, Neal?"
Neal didn't say anything, so Peter headed back toward the bedroom enclave. Neal just watched Peter with wide eyes.
"Are you okay, Neal? Did you want to talk about anything before I go?" Peter sat on the edge of the bed.
"Nope, want the past to stay buried. I buried it y'knooow. But I s'pose you want to know things. You always want to know things. You're the architecss...hht, arti-ket, uh, you're the Architect. You're gonna dig up answers." Neal's voice was starting to slur just a little, but after stumbling over Peter's nickname he spoke with drunken deliberation.
Peter smiled and said "Yeah, I'm kinda curious about one thing."
"Never just one thing with you." Neal raised his eyebrows loftily. The smirk was ruined by the fact that he was clutching his pillow so tightly. "Ugh. Room's spinning."
Peter's smile bloomed into a wide grin. "I bet it is. What did Ammon mean that I'm a belt guy?"
"Nope. Might get ideas." Neal tried to turn away from Peter, but got caught in the blankets.
"We're bringing him back for questioning. I'll just ask him myself." Neal immediately tried to sit up, but only succeeded in panic-stricken flailing. Peter almost felt bad for lying to his young CI.
Peter gently pushed Neal back against the pillows. Neal struggled for a few seconds and finally lay back in defeat. Peter tried to hide his grin because Neal was definitely beginning to slur his words around. He sounded drunk, but Peter thought for the amount of alcohol he'd consumed he seemed in pretty good control of his faculties.
"He was asking how you control me. Ellen use'ta spank me. He figgered you've gotta be soooome sort of 'thority figger, too." Neal blushed bright red and tried to turn over onto his stomach. There's no way he could let Peter see how much the idea of a spanking appealed to him. It was security, forgiveness, boundaries, every sense of safety he ever had with Ellen had been solidified when his ten-year-old self had been flipped over her lap for a spanking. Peter had been an equally impressive force in Neal's life—security, boundaries, he was even the only person who managed to send him to jail, so there were definitely consequences with Peter. He didn't have to run anymore, with Peter. The idea of Peter spanking him caused an involuntary shudder to ripple through Neal's body.
"Did Ammon ever hurt you?" Peter gently placed his heavy hand on Neal's shoulder.
"Yeah." Neal mumbled into the pillow.
"Did he spank you?"
"What kinda question is that! He didn't care 'nuff to spank me. Spanking isn't hurting! 'mean, it hurts, but it's caring! Ellen never 'bused me. I think if someone spanked me it would simpul, uh, simpulfy, uh, simpul'fly things now. Like Candy." Neal kicked his leg with the tracking anklet for emphasis, causing the blanket to puff up and tangle further around his legs. He continued to mumble, "Jail threats'r useleeeess, tracker's useleeeess. Spankin'd be more 'fective."
Neal felt his face and ears turn bright red when he realized when he was telling Peter. He rapidly tried to change back to the original question. Neal seemed to momentarily sober up, although he spoke with a slow deliberation. "Yes, Frank hurt me. He did things that—" Neal's voice started to break. He took a deep breath, but couldn't continue.
Neal buried his face in his pillow and let the sobs quietly escape him, as a secret he'd kept for a decade threatened to burst out of him.