A/N: This story contains spanking. It is the sequel to The Retest. Thank you guys for all your reviews, as always, and PMs. I really need to respond to a lot of people, RL has just been really busy. Hope you enjoy this.

The swift, gentle breeze pushes his un-gelled hair into his face. Neal squints and pushes a hand through his bangs, turns his head away from the wind and the sun, so high and bright in the sky, and towards the New York City grass. A child runs by, grazes Neal's leg, and his mother calls after him. "Dmitri," she calls him, her voice thick with Italy, and Dmitri halts obediently, his light-up sneakers skidding to a stop, his hand immediately extending outwards to be taken and used to lead him by. Neal watches them walk away.

He wonders how Dmitri does it. Is it really so easy to stop when something's caught your attention? Neal has never found the temptations in life so easy to resist.

Like the restricted section of a state library – easy enough to access when you have a Mozzie who can so easily procure you a working badge. Easy enough when you have a conman's talents and a handler's tenuous trust. Easy enough until you have that itch to see what else is in there, what else besides the authentic, non-cooked ledgers from a fraudulent business thirty years past, built on murder and large, but lesser illegalities. But how was Neal only supposed to look at the one box when he had access to all sorts of other things not yet released to the public eye? Just a little lie to Peter and there he was, in a wonderland of historical and informational mayhem including but not limited to the dead politician's diary which Neal promptly pocketed. Nobody was going to miss it, anyway, right?

Right. Nobody was going to miss it until Peter found it early this morning, tucked away like a bible in Neal's bedside drawer. And it's not like it was Neal's fault that Peter suddenly decided that snooping around in his personal space was the right thing to do, like he was an untrustworthy teenager potentially hooked on drugs or unprotected fornication.

"Did you put it back?" And suddenly, Peter's beside him, taking him by the elbow, leading him down the sidewalk like he's just a taller, more suave version of young Dmitri. Neal allows it for a moment, a very sick and longing part of him relishing in the touch. Then he remembers that other people exist in this park, other people could be watching and wondering why he's being led like a criminal or a child down the walking path, and he pulls away.

"Yes, I put it back," Neal says, with well-placed indignation and just a touch of snottery.

Peter doesn't hesitate, just stops, grabbing and jerking Neal to a halt with him. Neal wonders if his expensive shoes issued sparks on the walking path with the force at which he succumbed to Peter's hold, but the thought quickly flees as hot breath grazes against his face, as Peter's voice is a harsh whisper in his ear, "I will smack your butt right here, Caffrey, do not take that tone with me."

And Neal feels his stomach drop and his face burn, blue eyes falling to his shoes, one of which is scuffing sullenly against the ground. Peter's hand remains on his upper arm, though it loosens a little, is firm, but not ungentle as it leads him forward, leads him to the park's exit and this time, Neal doesn't have the gall to pull away. His bottom lip protrudes in a pout and he feels somewhat mutinous, but mostly-chastised as he ruminates that Dmitri probably is never on the receiving end of such parental corrections. No, Dmitri gets time-outs with a side of bruschetta, and subtle apologies afterwards in the form of gelato.

Neal wants gelato.

He's about to tell Peter as much when he realizes that not only is this desire moot because he's in trouble, but they're already at the Taurus and Peter is opening the passenger side door with his free hand. Neal heaves a grand sigh and leans down to climb inside when he feels the earlier promised smack to his bottom, a burning assault on his very person, like nothing he's ever felt there before except for that one time when he fell and fell hard on the playground blacktop when he was but a young Neal, right on his ass, and though he was not given to the act even then, he wailed. It's not so much a wail now as a sharp yip and he scampers into his seat, telling himself he's going to be good and quiet all the way home.

And miraculously, he is. All the way (not far at all) to June's house, where Peter leads him past the help and up the stairs and into his, Neal's, apartment.

Peter doesn't say anything. He drags Neal into his bedroom, this time by the wrist.

"Peter, I…"

But he trails off as Peter abruptly takes a seat on his unmade bed, looks up at him with steely brown eyes and waits for him to finish the sentence.

"…I'm sorry?" Neal says lamely, and it's a question, even though it doesn't have to be. Neal knows the answer, as he always does because he's an energetic boy with a brilliant mind and he knows, knows immediately, that he's not sorry at all.

Peter allows Neal a silent moment to mull this over before pulling the conman over his lap without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Neal is here, is here again, but it's different despite the breadth between them being the same. There is no standing between Peter's legs, no back rubbing, no "I'm right here, Neal." And Neal wants all of it, wants it now. He wants anything that's not this hard, silent Peter sitting rigid beneath him, ready to dole out what Neal hopes is still going to be a "mild physical correction reserved for children."

Neal's a child. He is, he really is. And he likes mild.

He waits for the rain of smacks, but they don't come. Peter taps him on the back, pulls on his shirt to indicate that he should get back to his feet, and Neal does, with relief.

A relief that has no right or reason because Peter's hands are as quick and nimble as Neal's when thievery is afoot, unbuttoning and unzipping Neal's pants, and then they're down, pooled at his feet before Neal can so much as blink. Peter doesn't bother preserving Neal's modesty, either, doesn't appear to have anything on his mind other than baring Neal's bottom, because he yanks down the boxer briefs, too, leaving the young man surprised and exposed, blushing, throwing his hands in front of his privates before he doesn't have to think about them anymore because they're well hidden when he's back over Peter's lap, when he's grunting and kicking because the spanking is thunderous, in both volume and application, on his unclothed posterior.

It doesn't take long to bring him to tears. The humiliation alone could have done him in, of course, the feeling of being undressed with such little thought, like he was a baby being readied for a bath. But the spanking itself proves to be one of the more painful things he's experienced in his life. It isn't seven little swats, stinging, but over so quick the pain fades by dinner time. No, this is far more than seven, so many that Neal loses count because he's too busy sobbing out his "sorries" and his promises of future upstanding citizenry to a stone cold FBI agent who's not buying a word of it. He kicks his legs. He throws his hands back to protect himself. Peter just swats them away like pesky flies and resumes his job until his job is done.

And when it is – when it is, indeed, done – Neal's bottom is a shade of pink so dark it could be red in disguise. When it is, indeed, done, Neal is a limp mass over Peter's lap, his shoulders shaking, a quiet and seemingly endless wail tunneling out from the back of his throat.

He doesn't feel the rubbing until the noise subsides into broken sobs and hiccups, but it's been there for a while, Peter's hand on his back, caressing gentle circles around his spine.

He's kicked his underpants and boxers from his ankles. He lands on the small rumpled pile of clothing when he slides off Peter's lap and onto his knees, still naked from the waist down. Peter gets up and walks away, leaves Neal crying on his knees on the floor, but only to the bureau, which he opens and closes, Neal hears it, and then he's being coaxed upwards with kiddos and buddies, one shaky leg at a time. He doesn't protest when Peter puts the fresh pair of boxer briefs on him, just cries harder, opens his arms to be gathered up like the tiniest of children, and he is.

He's gathered up by Peter's strong arms, pulled in tightly, a hand on the back of his head, brushing his hair, lips kissing his neck, then quietly shushing him. It's when Neal is nothing but hitched breaths and heavy weight that Peter says, "You don't steal. You don't lie to me."

And Neal says, "Y-yes."

And Peter says, "That diary was not yours to take. It was the public's to consume. You do not steal from libraries. You do not steal from museums. You do not steal from me and Elizabeth, Diana and Jones, our friends, neighbors, countless people we don't know and their children. You do not steal from us, do you understand me?"

And the "yes" comes out in a quiet whimper. And Peter tightens the hug.

"You do not go back to prison. You do not endanger yourself that way."

Neal doesn't verbalize this time, just buries his nose into Peter's neck and nods his head, hopes the man can feel it. Peter does and there's a soothing hand running up and down Neal's spine. Down and up.

"I'm sorry," Neal breathes against his handler's skin. "I'm sorry, Peter."

And Peter kisses the side of his head, doesn't say the words, but they're there. They're there somewhere, Neal thinks desperately.

I know.

Peter puts him to bed a few minutes later, pulls the covers up to his shoulders, brushes a hand over Neal's wavy hair, and promises that tomorrow, tomorrow they're getting gelato.