Work Text:
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Title: Zombie Emergency Preparedness
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: When the zombies come, Neal is ready.
Author's Note: I was trolling through the 
whitecollarhc comm’s feverfic promptfest a few weeks ago, hoping to find some new fic I missed, and came across this prompt instead, which sort of ate my brain. (BRRAAAIINS). So, although I didn’t really have time for starting yet another fic, I did anyway--this is sort of a lighthearted break from my usual angsty messes, and from all the fic I am going to have to write for various deadlines (ack!). Gen.
Spoilers: Not really. All the canon is vague, and the characterization is bendy to fit my own nefarious schemes.
Warnings (highlight to read): Unbeta’d.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things.
Thanks to 
hoosierbitch for reading over the first part and encouraging my madness! Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
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When Neal had been eight, his mother had paid the neighbour’s teenaged son Max to baby-sit him while she’d gone out. Max had locked Neal in the basement and made him watch a zombie movie.
By the time he was nine, Neal had researched everything there was to know about zombies. He knew how they were created, and how to destroy them, and he had created his own foolproof zombie survival plan. Now, when he had nightmares--not so often, but sometimes--even in his dreams, he knew exactly what to do.
Of course, that was before he’d grown up, and met Moz. Moz had even better ideas for zombie survival, but by that time--lingering childhood terrors aside--he’d known that zombies weren’t actually real.
That knowledge didn’t help him, of course, when a zombie appeared in his doorway, bearing a breakfast tray and wearing an apron.
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Peter was just settling down to his second morning cup of coffee and the New York Times crossword when his cell rang. He sighed.
Caffrey.
None of his agents would dare to bother him on a Saturday morning but Caffrey hadn’t met a boundary he didn’t feel he could break or ignore. That is, when he felt that boundaries applied to him at all.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched in a small half-smile, as she sipped her own coffee and murmured, “Aren’t you going to see what Neal wants?”
“He probably just wants yet another extension on his radius,” grumbled Peter, as he got up to get his phone from the counter where it was charging. “I reduced it because ...” he frowned as he peered down at the caller I.D. “Neal’s calling from June’s landline. I wonder---” he clicked open the phone, “Burke.”
“Peter,” came the answer in June’s voice, “Good morning. I’m calling because I’m worried about Neal.”
“What’s Caffrey done now?” asked Peter. “I’m sorry, June. I told him that I wasn’t punishing him, I just wanted him to--” Peter frowned again, as June cut him off.
“Peter, I think you had better come over here.”
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He knew zombies weren’t real, but Neal wasn’t one to discount the evidence of his own eyes and ears. He’d slammed the door in the face of the breakfast-bearing zombie (who he knew really just wanted his brains for breakfast, zombies could be cunning too), and locked and bolted the door, but he could hear the sounds from behind the door. He didn’t know what to do.
The world outside the window was too bright, and there were zombies on the rooftop terrace, sitting where Cindy and June usually sat, where Neal sometimes drank coffee with Peter, where the pigeons played in the rain.
He pushed a chair in front of the door. He knew it wasn’t enough. He tried to push the sofa in front of it first, but it was somehow heavier than he remembered it being. He couldn’t manage it. The room was too hot, and the zombies were making it tilt and shake. They were shaking the building. They must be everywhere. Soon they were going to break down the door, and then what would he do?
Think, Caffrey, he told himself. You planned for this. They’re going to bust down that door, what will you do? He could hear the knocking, the calling, the pounding. The room vibrated and pulsed around him, the objects within shimmering in the intense heat.
He shivered. The zombies were making it cold, and he was dizzy. He needed to figure something out, fast.
He looked wildly around the room, before smiling slowly, grimly. “Byron, you’re a genius.”
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“Neal, Neal darling, please open the door. We’re getting worried.” June knocked carefully, ignoring the sounds of banging and clattering from within.
“What’s going on?” called Peter, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the upper landing.
“Oh, Peter, thank goodness,” replied June.
“What’s going on?” asked Peter again, before rapping sharply on the door impatiently. “Caffrey? Open up!”
“He hasn’t been feeling well since last week,” said June. “I sent him up some soup, and offered to have Dr. Green stop by yesterday, but he said he’d be fine.”
“He’s been moaning and groaning since Tuesday, and when he called in sick on Thursday, I said I was going to cut his radius so he’d rest. I think he thought it meant I didn’t trust him.”
“He was very ill, Peter,” said June, the tiniest hint of reproach in her voice.
“I suppose I should have checked on him, but I figured--it’s Caffrey,” Peter defended himself, without knowing why. He hadn’t done anything wrong. “He always lands on his feet.” He rapped on the door again. “Neal! It’s Peter! Open the door!”
“He slammed the door in poor Celeste’s face, knocking the tray out of her hands. She said he was ranting, and looked very pale. I offered her the day off, and made sure she wasn’t injured, but she was more worried about Neal. The staff are all very fond of him.”
Peter felt even more guilty. “He should have called if he was feeling that badly. He knows he can--Neal? Are you in there?”
There was no answer. From the thuds and clatter of before, the apartment had now gone suspiciously quiet. Peter was starting to really worry. He wondered if June would mind if he broke down the door, if maybe--
“Peter,” said June, drawing his attention, “perhaps you’d like to try the key.”
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It was taking too long, Neal knew it was taking too long, but he had to be patient. He had to make plans, think it through, gather supplies, and then move everything just so. And then he had to wait.
Now he was waiting. He had to be quiet. Even when they called, and their voices sounded like Peter, like June, like Celeste and Cindy, he stayed still and quiet. Mozzie had explained it, once, how the zombies couldn’t really smell your brains, how they could be fooled if you were just still and quiet.
Neal knew that the zombies were still out there. He knew it, and he shivered, and held himself tighter still. He hoped Mozzie was okay. Peter had Elizabeth, and they’d save each other, and he bet June’s staff had helped her escape long ago--but Mozzie and him, they were supposed to go down together, if it came to that. But Mozzie wasn’t here, and he couldn’t reach him right now. He worried sometimes about Moz; Moz was resourceful but still, Neal worried about how Moz would fare on his own if he was forced to escape, to make a run for it, to survive by himself.
Neal tried not to think about his friend, all alone, out there with the zombies.
The zombies would rend you and then eat your brains. It wasn’t pretty.
Neal had enough food and water with him to last a couple of days, he knew, and he wasn’t hungry anyway. He had felt sick earlier, but they’d given him something at the clinic, and he wasn’t sick anymore, even though he still wasn’t really hungry.
Neal waited, quietly. The zombies couldn’t find him, he told himself. They couldn’t, and even if they could, he’d moved the table and the heavy wardrobe and they wouldn’t be able to get in. He was safe. He just had to stay still, stay quiet, stay patient. He’d done it before--it was one of the earliest lessons he’d ever learned, and by now he’d had a lifetime of practice. He knew how to do this. He could do this.
Outside, the voices still called.
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Peter was beyond frustrated. June had left him to it after giving him the key, and he’d called Diana who’d called Jones, who were on their way. Then he’d unlocked the door, and made it past the barricade of a few chairs and the kitchen table--but the apartment was empty. A quick search revealed little more than evidence that Neal had been sick, and had clearly been to a clinic at some point--there was cough syrup and a prescription--obviously unfilled--on the counter, with a note that he’d been given an injection of dramamine, but could purchase over the counter anti-nausea meds if he wanted. Peter had had no idea Neal had been that sick.
“Mozzie!” he barked into the phone, having given up and called Elizabeth to get hold of Mozzie, on the off-chance that while he was politely asking Neal to open the door, Neal had made off with his number one partner-in-crime, somehow. He knew it didn’t make sense, but still. Neal pulled off the impossible every other day, so far be it for Peter to put anything past him. “Is Neal with you?”
“Suit,” greeted Haversham in his slow, calm, deliberate way. Peter wanted to shake him. “No, Neal is not with me. Have you lost him again?”
“I can’t find him! He’s supposed to be in his apartment--” Peter was trying not to sound frantic. Diana raised an eyebrow at him. It didn’t help.
He was frantic.
“Have you tried the closet?” asked Mozzie, his voice still calm and patient.
“Of course I’ve tried the--” Shaking was too good, he was going to--
“Not that closet.”
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“Neal, sweetie?” Neal cocked his head. He knew this voice ... he--
“It’s Elizabeth, honey. We need you to come out of there now.”
He frowned. Why was Elizabeth there. “Go away!” he shouted. “Run, Elizabeth! You can’t stay here!” There were zombies! Why was she here, why did Peter let her come, why--
“I’m not going anywhere, said Elizabeth firmly. “Neal, June doesn’t have a key, so we can’t get to you. You need to come out now.”
Did they get her? Was she one of them now? Neal shook his head, nothing was making any sense. Maybe he should open the door quickly, let Elizabeth inside, it was too dangerous, Peter should be protecting her, but he was one of them now, so maybe--“Elizabeth, please, you need to--”
“Neal, listen to me. You’re very sick. There’s nothing here, but you need to come out so we can help you okay?”
Then he heard another voice, one that chilled him inside. “El, stand aside. We’re going to have to remove the door and get Neal that way.” Neal flung himself back against the far wall again, crouching into a ball. He couldn’t believe that--
“Peter, just give me a minute, all right?” Elizabeth’s voice, sweet and soothing and seductive and he wanted --
“Please,” begged Neal, curling up tighter. His head pounded, and it was so cold, so cold, the zombies were making it cold. “Please.”
“Neal,” said Elizabeth’s voice firmly, asking, “do you trust me?”
He did. He trusted her, but Elizabeth was sheltered, she sometimes didn’t know--
“Have I ever lied to you?”
No. Neal considered this, and the answer was, clearly, no. Everyone else had lied to him, even people he trusted--his mother, Adler, Kate, Mozzie, even Peter--but never Elizabeth. Never her. The zombies wouldn’t know that, would they? Could they, if they’d gotten her? He didn’t think so, which meant that she was still safe, at least for the moment. But still, maybe she didn’t--
The voice came again. “I promise you, sweetheart. There’s nothing here, and Peter says so too. We’re both here. You need our help. Please come out.”
He thought a minute. If Elizabeth said so, he had to trust it. Had to. Elizabeth didn’t lie, and she wouldn’t tell the zombies. Not Elizabeth. He moved back towards the door.
“I--” and he was ashamed to admit it. He couldn’t. He’d moved everything here to block the door, but now--now he was trapped.
He was trapped. His breathing started to quicken. “I can’t!” he called, panicked now. He couldn’t get out, and what if, what if--
“Neal.” Peter’s voice, firm and commanding. “I need you to calm down and step away from the door. As far back as you can, okay?”
“Okay,” Neal called, confused. Peter was a zombie, but now he wasn’t? He didn’t understand. He wished he did. He usually understood things, he--”I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” called Elizabeth. “It’s okay, Peter’s going to explain everything. Just hang tight, all right?”
Neal nodded into his arms. He could wait, if Elizabeth said so. He was used to deciding things, but he couldn’t figure anything out, right then. But Elizabeth was usually right, he knew. If she told him to wait, that it was okay, then he’d wait. He trusted Elizabeth.
He curled up tighter, pressed back against Byron's monogrammed shirts, closed his eyes, and waited.
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There was a hand on his shoulder, something--they’d gotten in! Neal cried out, tried to shrink back, scrambling for purchase but--
“Neal! Calm down, buddy, it’s just me, it’s just Peter, it’s okay!” Peter was crouching in front of him, hands up, eyes wide. Neal blinked.
Peter didn’t look like a zombie. He just looked like Peter: tired, a little worried, his hair more rumpled than usual, but Peter. There was a mustard stain in the middle of his sweatshirt, Neal noted absently.
“Peter?” Neal asked. “Did you kill the zombies?” He frowned. Peter didn’t seem like the type to know about zombies. “You can’t shoot them, you know, they won’t--”
Peter held out a hand. “I know, Neal, don’t worry about it, everything’s safe. Let’s get you out of here, okay?”
Neal shrank back. “They’re still out there,” he whispered. “It’s safe in here. You and Elizabeth can come too,” he offered. “I’ve got granola bars.”
Peter smiled. “That’s okay, Neal, I’ve got dinner waiting when I get home. You’re gonna come too, if you can; Elizabeth’s here, and she insists. She came right over when I told her what was going on.”
Neal squinted to look past Peter. It was hard to focus. But behind Peter, his carefully constructed barricade was in shambles. Peter had moved everything away, and it had taken Neal so long to--
Neal blinked. “You moved it.”
Peter sighed. “Yeah. You have to make everything so difficult, Caffrey. Don’t worry about it.”
He looked back at Peter, intent on the problem at hand. Peter was right; he needed to focus on what was important. “Elizabeth shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe--”
“It’s perfectly safe. We’re going to get you out, and get you some help, and then take you to our place.” Peter held up a hand as Neal opened his mouth. “Don’t argue. That’s what’s going to happen. I told you, El insists.”
Neal looked at him. Peter kept shimmering and the light behind him was too bright. But he sounded so reasonable, so much like Peter--
“How can you be sure it’s safe?” Neal asked, hoping painfully for the right answer. Peter had lied to him before. Peter sometimes didn’t tell him the whole truth. If Neal was wrong, if--
“Trust me,” replied Peter, in his stained sweatshirt and worn jeans, his eyes honest and his voice quiet.
And Neal knew. Peter might have lied, but Peter had always come for him. Always.
Neal placed his hand in Peter’s, and let Peter pull him up.
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The End