Lost Boy - Chapter 11/? - Replaced
Disclaimer: Not mine. But my 22nd birthday is soon. Guess what’s on my wish list?
A/N: I know it has been a really really long time since I’ve written anything. Life has been ganging up on me. Everything from a 4-person funeral (my brother’s best friends), to cardiac checkups, to starting my senior year and planning for Grad school, and plenty in between. Anywhoo, as I mentioned in chapter 10, this chapter is not immediately following the previous - I’m going to be skipping around in the timeline, so it’s about 2 year later. Now, as per usual, please read and review. Please, please review.
Also, this chapter is dedicated to ghostdolly who I’ve recently found actually PM’d me to see if I was okay, which means a great deal. Thank you.
Mozzie was trying really hard not to be jealous. Really, really hard.
So far it wasn’t working.
He peeked out from behind the kitchen door, taking in the scene in the living room, and scowled. There, sat beside Neal, his best friend, was a curly-headed little blonde boy, smiling and talking and making Neal laugh.
He wondered, briefly, if his pride should be dented for being jealous of a five year-old.
He decided he didn’t have any pride and glared daggers at the child, thinking unkind things about his parentage and wondering if he didn’t have any contacts who could arrange for them to move back to California.
“What’re you doing?”
He barely jumped, and certainly did not squeak, and almost entirely kept his fingers from being smashed in the closing door.
“Suit! What? Nothing. I’m doing nothing. As a matter of fact, I’m not even here.”
He headed for the back door, but was foiled when the suit snagged the back of his shirt.
Peter crossed his arms and gave him the look, the one he used to use on Neal when he knew he was hiding something. (The one he used on Neal last week, actually, when a couple of cookies went missing before dinner, and Neal was looking way too innocent to be believed.) “Were you spying on Neal and his friend?”
This look didn’t work on Mozzie, not at all. Honest. It just would have been impolite not to answer.
“No. I was… observing. Making sure the kid wasn’t a body snatcher, or a Russian spy, or something.”
One of Peter’s eyebrows rose, and Mozzie did not squirm. “Yes, because ‘Skylar Andrews’ sounds like the name of Russian spy material. Not to mention that he’s five.”
“What kind of name is Skylar, anyways?” Mozzie asked in a tone that was in no way sullen.
“Gee, I don’t know, Mozzie, I can’t imagine who would go by such an odd name.”
Mozzie started to nod in agreement until he realized the suit was being sarcastic, and he glared instead. “I’m just looking out for Neal’s wellbeing. After all, I have been doing that for longer than you, Suit.”
Peter gave him his I-Am-Not-Impressed look, and Mozzie didn’t squirm and only adjusted his glasses because he was worried they were slipping down his nose.
“Well, I think he’s fine,” Peter said, handing him two plates of peanut butter sandwiches and grabbing two plastic cups and a jug of chocolate milk out of the fridge, “but if you want to check the back of their necks for little red X’s that’s your prerogative.”
Mozzie suspected he was being placated but followed Peter into the living room anyways.
“Who’s hungry?” Peter asked the room, and at the sound of his voice Neal leapt up from his position on the floor, quickly navigating his way through the army of crayons he had amassed to get to his father. Peter barely got the drinks set down in time to scoop up the tiny energizer bunny masquerading as human. They shared a quick hug before Neal slid back down to his feet again, dragging “Skylar” over to the group.
“This is Skyla. He moved here from waaaaaaay” (and at this Neal stretched his arms out to show just how far “waaaaaaay” was) “across the country. He has tuh same playground time as me, and he likes art better’n dirt too!”
Mozzie smirked at this, because no matter how Peter tried Neal was more content drawing a man sliding onto a base than actually doing it himself. Last time Peter had made him try it Elizabeth had been forced to intervene to prevent the tears when Neal saw the stains on his miniature Yankees uniform.
“Very nice to meet you, Skylar,” Peter said genially, reaching down to shake the boys hand, making the tow-head grin.
Mozzie did not think it was nice at all, and tried to convey that with a glare while he attempted to surreptitiously catch a glance at the boy’s neck. You could never be too careful.
Peter elbowed him, as Neal continued his introductions.
“Skyla, this is my Daddy. He’s uh FBI agent,” he told the boy proudly, hugging his father’s knee. He rushed over to Mozzie, grabbing a fistful of his shirt possessively. “And this is Mozzie. He’s my best fwiend.”
If Mozzie felt extra warm inside it was because that California-bred Petri dish had given him some sort of West-coast flu. If his eyes were almost a little bit moist it was because of the glare off the boy’s too-bright blonde head. And if he hugged Neal a little bit tighter when he left that evening, it was just because he was glad that his neck was X-free.
Later that evening, tending to his bonsai garden, Mozzie’s mind drifted, summoning back the words from the ether. Best fwiend.
He hadn’t been replaced after all.