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Part 3 of DC/White Collar Fics , Part 2 of ALL My De-Aging Fics
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White Collar/DC Week 2021, Fluffy DC/White Collar Crossover Fic, Leymonaide fic recs, hufflepuffdemiwizard's completed works, Purrsonal Picks, Batfam as Neal Caffrey, the avengers///Justice League, Salmonight's De-Aging AU, what does the bat say?, Cutie Patooties, Random Fics
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Published:
2021-08-21
Completed:
2021-08-27
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2,879
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2/2
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The One in Which Magic is Stupid (But Isn't it Always?)

Summary:

He looked ridiculous.

He looked so small.

(He also had a pair of ears he definitely had yet to grow into and Peter was hard-pressed not to find it absolutely endearing.) 

Notes:

Day Two: “Do you know who I am?” - Amnesia - Time/Dimension Travel - Age Regression

Dick Grayson is Neal Caffrey 

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Do you... know who I am?” 

Neal blinked owlishly at him, then slowly pinched his eyebrows together in an expression of bewildered suspicion. He shook his head from side to side, slowly. 

To Peter, he looked ten, maybe a bit older, maybe a bit younger. 

Neal – the kid that Neal was, at the moment – was wearing Neal’s clothes, except that they were far,  far  too big on him. Neal drowned in the blazer and had to hold the pants up. The button-up was practically a dress on him. The shoes were already long-discarded, being that they were at least twice as big as a kid Neal’s size would be wearing. 

He looked ridiculous. 

He looked so small. 

(He also had a pair of ears he definitely had yet to grow into and Peter was hard-pressed not to find it absolutely endearing.) 

Peter ran a hand across his mouth and glanced around. He needed. He didn’t know. Something. Someone. He turned back to the kid, who still stood there looking intense, confused, and suspicious. “Uh,” Peter scratched at his temple absently, then knelt on one knee, hoping it made him less imposing. “I’m Peter. I—” 

“Is B alright,” Neal interrupted. 

“What?” Peter reared back a little. It was the first thing Neal had said since the spell misfire had hit him. Had turned him into a child. 

“Is B alright,” Neal repeated. ‘You’re a cop, right?” he glanced away from Peter, looked around, then glanced up suspiciously at the clear blue New York sky. Then he turned back to Peter. He raised an eyebrow, which seemed to be a childish imitation of something, though Peter had no idea what. 

(He couldn’t know that it was Dick’s impression of Alfred. The one he did when he wanted people to take him more seriously.) 

“B?” Peter prodded. 

Neal crossed his arms and scowled. “Bruce,” he bit out. “Is he okay? Last time a cop tried to be all nice to me, it was ‘cuz my—it was ‘cuz my parents were dead.” 

Peter reared back in shock. 

“B’s gone, too, isn’t he?” Neal glanced away. “He must be. Otherwise he’d be here.” 

“Hey, no. I don’t—no. I’m not. No one’s dead, Neal.” 

Neal’s crystalline eyes darted sharply back to him, the wheels in his head obviously turning. It was an obvious reaction to his name, but Peter didn’t know what kind of reaction. “No one’s dead,” he repeated back, slowly. “Then why are you here.” 

“Something happened,” Peter said. 

“So B’s hurt,” Neal said. 

“No.” 

Neal sighed. 

“Something happened to you, Neal,” Peter said. 

“Was I kidnapped again? ‘Cuz I think I’d remember if I was kidnapped again.” 

“Again?” Peter reared back a little. His knees were beginning to hurt from kneeling at the kid’s height. “I’m sorry. How many times have you been—? No, never mind. You weren’t kidnapped, Neal. You were hit with a spell.” 

Neal wrinkled his little-kid nose. “Like magic?” he asked. 

Peter had to agree with the scrunched-up nose sentiment. Magic was absolute bullshit to deal with. Most of it never made sense. “Yeah, exactly like that. We were working a case and—” 

“Am I a cop?” Neal asked. 

Peter made a face. ”Not exactly.” 

“Are you a cop?” Neal hesitated, then moved a little closer. 

“No,” Peter said. “Well, sort of.” 

“I wanna see ID,” Neal put out his hand imperiously. The effect was ruined when he had to pull up his sleeve so that he didn’t have a case of the sweater paws, though. “You could be a kidnapper. And me all cute n’ charming n’ shit. I could be in serious danger right now.” 

Peter gave a short, shocked laugh and pulled out his badge for Neal. “Here. Bona fide federal agent, at your service, Mr. Caffrey.” 

There it was. Another sharp, thoughtful look. 

Then it was gone. 

Neal took the badge and squinted at it. He seemed to be taking his time to make sure he was reading everything on the badge correctly. He even mouthed along to the words, as if they were difficult or foreign. It didn’t make sense given the projected childhood that the psych analysts had given Neal Caffrey, in a sense. Neal Caffrey’s childhood had been suggested to be one of good education. A kid from a well-off family, perhaps middle-class, bored a lot and smarter than his peers. Or else a kid who thought he was smarter than his peers. 

(Peter had never really thought much of what he was told about Neal’s possible childhood. As far as he was concerned, Neal Caffrey’s childhood wasn’t even important. Not to finding and capturing the art forger and thief himself.) 

Other things weren’t adding up, either, really. 

The Neal before Peter was a deeply tanned child, the epitome of an outdoorsy, active kid. He was scrawny, but not in an underfed kind of way. And he was bright, albeit in subtle, thoughtful ways Peter never really expected from kids. 

This Neal also had a soft accent. 

Peter was sure of one thing, if nothing else, and it was that Neal was American-born and American-raised. He didn’t know why he was so sure, but he was. And then he had this de-aged, child version of Neal before him and the kid spoke like English wasn’t something that came natural to him. A kid who spoke something else, first. Maybe more than one something else. If Peter was wrong about that, about Neal's birth and rearing in America, he wondered what else he could be wrong about. 

Neal passed the badge back. “Agent Burke,” he said, though he pronounced the “e” on the end. It sounded more like “Burk-uh” and reminded Peter of German. Or what little of El’s foray into German he could remember. Katze, Hunde, Beine, all that. 

“Burke,” Peter corrected gently. “Agent Peter Burke.” 

“Do I have a badge?” Neal asked. 

Peter startled a little. 

Neal took that as confirmation, apparently, and began patting down his pockets. He ended up finding Neal’s wallet and his CI badge, as well as another wallet that might have been stolen off someone else. Peter was going to ignore the second wallet, though. It wasn’t like it mattered, right then. Neal made a small, victorious noise and opened his badge. 

He was curious, one moment. Then confused. Then outright amused. “Well,” he said. “This is me?” He turned the badge around and showed it to Peter. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, 

“Interesting.” Neal turned the badge back to himself. His amusement remained obvious as he read over the badge. “It’s not even my birthday,” he informed Peter. “I mean. The badge has the wrong birthday.” 

“And name?” Peter suggested. 

Neal looked at him with those sharp eyes, once more. “I would like to call my dad,” he said, carefully. 

“Alright. How about you give me a name and number and I’ll get that done for you?” Peter said. He wondered about the “dad” thing, since Neal had definitely mentioned his parents dying, but Peter decided not to question the request. Not when he could finally gain some very valuable insight into who Neal really was. 

Neal rolled his eyes, though. “I don’t know you,” he said, impatiently. “I don’t know if I can trust you. I’m not gonna tell you everything about me just like that. You don’t even know my real birthday, Agent Burke. You don’t know my  name.  I think that says a lot about whatever kind of situation we have, or-or arrangement.” 

“Weren’t expecting to find out that you grew up to be a criminal informant?” Peter asked, 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Neal put out his hand and made a grabby motion. “Phone, please.” 

Peter sighed. It wasn’t like he could deny Neal, right? Even if it  was  just a spell, Neal was a minor, and a minor had every right to contact their parent or guardian. So Peter dug his phone out of his pocket and put it in Neal’s small hand. “Do you want some privacy? We can head back to the White Collar office and you can take over a conference room, if you like.” 

“No need,” Neal waved him off. He brought the phone in close, tongue poking out thoughtfully between his lips, and tapped a number – slowly – into Peter’s phone. He hit dial and brought the phone up to his ear. He looked nervous, suddenly. “I hope the number’s still—” he broke off into another language, no longer speaking to Peter. 

Peter reeled a little, hearing this other language. He couldn’t... he didn’t even know what language it was, frankly. 

The conversation was short, then Neal held the phone out, to hand it back to Peter. “My father.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows and accepted the phone. He almost held his breath. This was a part of Neal he’d never figured out, never known about. Never even managed to get a glimpse of. His  father.  “Hello, this is Agent Burke,” he said. 

“Agent Burke.” The voice on the other end of the line was smooth, deep, and vaguely familiar for reasons Peter couldn’t quite place. 

“Mr., uh, Caffrey?” Peter tried. 

The voice on the other end of the line chuckled.  “It happens that I am in the area of the New York FBI offices. If you would be so kind as to escort my son there, I would be very grateful. I will be arriving, myself, within the hour. I would advise against coffee and red dye, given the age he seems to have regressed to. Magic, he tells me?”  

“Uh, yes,” Peter glanced down at Neal. 

Neal was peeling his way out of the blazer and had given up on the pants, which left Peter with a ten-year-old kid wearing a white button-up like some kind of medieval tunic. “I want pants,” Neal informed him. “But not these ones.” 

“Right,” Peter said.    

“Additionally, if you find that he will not sit still, and if you have gym facilities available, he may find such facilities of enough stimulus to calm him down. If not, items with which he can fidget are an easy way to keep him more-or-less in place. While, as an adult, he has his ADHD more or less under control, at that age it tended to make watching him rather... difficult.”   

Peter raised his eyebrows for what felt like the thousandth time. ADHD. He had no idea that Neal had ADHD, honestly. 

Maybe he should have. 

Neal was, rather frequently, fiddling and fidgeting. He confined a lot of it to unobtrusive activities, like doodling and messing with his rubber band ball, but he still found ways to remain in semi-constant movement. It was one of the reasons it was always concerning when his anklet wasn’t registering any movement. Because Neal was always in motion. 

Speaking of the anklet, the child Neal had become had sat down, right on the sidewalk where all the magic and supervillainy fiasco crap had taken place, and was messing with the anklet. It was much, much looser on his child ankle, and he could probably slip it off if he wanted, but he mostly poked and prodded at it with an almost detached-looking curiousity.    

“I will see you soon, then, Agent Burke.”   

“Of course,” Peter hung up the phone, still staring down at Neal. It was only just, finally, hitting him that, somehow, his CI had been turned into an actual  child.  And that Neal’s  father  was about to show up at the office. And that Neal was, as a child, nothing like Peter would have expected. 

All of it, together, was quite a lot, actually. 

“Pants,” Neal reiterated. He stood once more. “And maybe shoes?” 

“Sure, kid,” Peter said. 

 

Instead of pants, Neal had managed to talk his way into a sunflower-patterned sundress that hung on a child mannequin from the front of the thrift store. It was the first thing they’d seen walking in and Neal had devastatingly effective puppy-dog eyes. 

Peter was already dreading whatever it was that Neal’s father would say about the dress. And the red rain boots. And the ridiculously oversized sunhat. How had Peter managed to get talked into all that, anyway? 

The entire White Collar office turned as Peter walked off the elevator, half a step behind a cheerily humming, child-sized Neal Caffrey. Neal was, of course, too busy messing with his new dress – swishing its skirts back and forth – to pay any of the adults any mind. And he was a small kid, whether or not he was nine, ten, or eleven years old. He looked even smaller (and younger) in the colourful clothes and the big sunhat. 

“Is that...?” Jones started. 

“Don’t start,” Peter stepped alongside Jones and watched, warily, as Neal played what looked like an invisible game of hopscotch with himself. “I’m going to get murdered by this kid’s father any minute, here.” 

“Couldn’t say no to him, huh?” Diana grinned over at Peter, then turned her grin back to the kid. 

Neal was bright and happy and Peter sincerely hoped that the kid had a father that didn’t mind that his son both wanted and received the sundress to wear. That he had a father that was okay with the lack of regard for gender norms. He didn’t have a lot of hope for that, though. But then again, child Neal was very different than Peter had been expecting. Maybe whoever Neal’s father was would also surprise Peter. 

A sudden, thrilled yell from Neal drew all the eyes of the office back to the child, and the man that had just gotten off the elevator. 

Neal sprinted over to the man, hopping out of his rain boots, and proceeded to  climb up the man  until he was seated on his shoulders. “B! B!” he crowed. “You’re so old! Look at my dress! Did you know I became a bad guy? Did I go to jail? I want another sundress!” 

The man, B, chuckled and reached up to steady the kid on his shoulder. “I’m not old, chum. You’re young.” 

“Do you like my dress?” Neal began spouting off what sounded like more questions, but they turned into a pidgin of English and the language Peter didn’t recognize, and then entirely the unidentified language. 

“Your dress is very pretty, chum,” B said. 

Neal clenched his fists and squealed his approval, then climbed back down to the floor and went running through the building like a tiny hellion. Which was all very well until they saw him on the far side of the office, vaulting furniture and climbing up things. 

Several adults went after him to make sure he was safe. 

B just watched, scoffing fondly. Then he turned to Peter and. 

Oh my god. 

“Oh my god,” Diana said, echoing Peter’s exact sentiment. “That’s—” 

“Bruce Wayne,” Jones said, sounding a little faint. 

Peter turned back to Jones and Diana. “Bruce Wayne can’t be Neal Caffrey’s father,” he muttered to them. “There’s no way.” 

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” Bruce said, much closer than he had been. None of the agents startled too much, but it was a near thing. “And a lucky thing, too.” He motioned across the office to where Neal was standing on top of the divider between cubicles, clearly giving several desk agents miniature heart attacks. “I have the League connections to solve the problem currently afflicting my son. And the funds to keep it quiet.” 

“R-right,” Peter said. He didn’t want to feel intimidated, but this was Bruce Wayne. This was one of the absolute richest men in America. In the  world.  Jesus! “We’re going to have to write up a report about—” Peter shook his head. “Actually, given that a minor is involved...” 

It wasn’t strictly true, but the spell had turned Neal into a child and that was a loophole. Neal loved loopholes, right? 

Bruce’s smile warmed fractionally, turned more honest. 

Peter cleared his throat and continued. “I think it would be best to keep the report vague, and then have it redacted. It does, after all, involve a minor. Whatever Neal is, in the future, it’s not something that his childhood needs to be dragged into.” 

Did that even make sense? 

Did it matter? 

Bruce Wayne was giving an approving nod. “I think, in exchange, we might be able to afford a little more... information. To you and your team, that is.” 

“Information?” 

“Mm,” Bruce nodded. Then he turned. “Dick, we’re going home, chum.” 

Neal’s rambunctious monkeying stopped suddenly and Neal clamboured over to them. “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,” he said. He gripped Bruce’s hand and lifted himself off the ground. “Swing me!” 

Bruce did as was demanded. “Of course, chum. Say goodbye to the nice agents, would you?” 

“Bye Agent Burke! Bye agent lady! Bye agent man!” Neal (Dick?) said. 

The three agents all lifted awkward hands in farewell. 

And, just like that, Bruce Wayne was gone, and so was Neal. Whose name was apparently Dick. Which made him not only one of Bruce Wayne’s children, but also his eldest. Dick Grayson. Dick, as in, the other Wayne that had been plastered all over tabloids, for years. 

And how?  How  had Peter missed that? 

Notes:

look man, i dunno. but I'm living for the sundress.

Thanks for reading!

--

Ahhhh! Ahhhh! squirrel806 drew baby!Dick in a sundress! Ahhhhh!

Look how? Fuckin?? Cute????

 

Edit [3.15.2023]: We have another absolutely adorable piece, this one by CapricornAquarius(dA)

Edit [6.8.2023] CapricornAquarius did another piece and I'm,,, I'm emotion. ;u;

 

Nothing makes me more goopy-mushy-awed-happy inside than knowing folks enjoyed some of my fic imagery enough to make fanart of it. Thank you guys so much for your time and for sharing your talent! You've really made my day.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Some drawings of Dick in his sundress I did a little while back!

Notes:

Just pictures, fam. No additions to the story.

Chapter Text