Lost Boy: Nightmares
A/N - Okay, so. A while ago I stumbled across de-aged fics in a different fandom and I liked them way more than I thought I would. And I have found that (sadly) there are very few de-aged!Neal fics out there, so, I got bored in class and have started my own. It's not great, it's not even remotely polished, but it's got widdle!Neal, so… Oh, and for anybody reading my fics "CIAgent" or "Mosaic", I'm sorry I haven't been updating, but I got the Blue Screen of Death on the computer with my fics and I'm trying to find a way to save my files, but it's taking time. I'm sorry for not updating, but this time it's really not my fault. Honest.
Peter's had nightmares like this before. They're usually preceded by a midnight snack of deviled ham, or, on one unfortunate occasion, a meatball sub.
But he'd had chicken last night. He remembered, because they'd had Neal over and he and El had discussed which wines would best compliment the quail she was having served at somebody's wedding next week. Neal had recommended one he'd tried in Vienna.
Neal, who was standing in front of Peter in a shirt that went down past his knees, and a hat that kept slipping over too-large eyes.
"P'tr?" A tiny voice squeaked out of a tiny body.
He'd had nightmares like this.
Nightmares where Neal Caffrey, world-class con artist, was nothing more than a little boy.
Sometimes he was small and broken and bleeding, because Peter hadn't protected him, hadn't prevented him from being shot, or blowing up on a plane.
Sometimes he was just a little voice on a telephone line, begging for Peter to find him, taken, or running, but always missing, always lost.
And sometimes he was just a little boy, his and El's little boy, with too much energy and a penchant for finding trouble, and enough charm to get out of it.
But he always woke up.
Peter pinched himself hard enough to bruise.
He wasn't waking up.
A tiny, child-sized version of Neal stared up at Peter and sniffed. "P'tr?"