Chapter Five - I'd Never Hurt You

Finally they reached a house that satisfied Emily, and they cautiously approached. Doyle did a sweep of the property to ensure it was empty. It was a new build, so the windows and doors were uPVC and double glazed. Good for keeping out unwanted visitors. He checked that all of the windows were locked, checked and planned an escape route in case the front door was ever blocked, and closed all of the heavy curtains to keep their activity away from prying eyes.

Emily busied herself by setting out led candles, clearing the six month old rotten food from the kitchen and scrubbing the surfaces clean with bleach. When Doyle was finally satisfied with their security arrangements, he came back to find her rooting through the pantry.

"I found these," she said, holding up a half empty bottle of vodka and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Before Doyle could react, she explained. "We should clean up that burn before it gets any worse. You don't want to survive the Infected only to die of blood poisoning."

He smiled grimly. He knew she was right, but his neck was already on fire and he didn't want to imagine what it would feel like with vodka poured over it. But she led him to the sofa and told him to sit, and he obeyed because he was a soldier and that's what he did. She dug out two glasses and poured, his significantly more full than hers, and handed it over.

"Cheers," she said softly, knocking his glass, and he repeated the word before downing his whisky. It burned as it went down, his throat raw from the gas and the fire and the terror of the last 12 hours. But it warmed his stomach and softened the sharp edges of his perception, and he let Emily pour him another. Once that was gone, she helped him take off his vest, loosen the neck of his shirt, then lie on his stomach with his head dangling down over the edge of the sofa. She scrubbed her hands with soap and then bleach, using some of the precious water from one of the bottles in her pack.

Doyle was almost dozing as he felt Emily kneel beside him. She laid out the vodka, some nonstick burn dressing, some tape and tweezers. "This is going to hurt," she admitted, and he murmured in assent. The vodka was napalm as she washed it over his injured neck, and he gasped a little at the fierceness of the pain. He gripped the edge of the sofa and held tight whilst Emily cleaned and inspected his skin, pulling bits of gravel free with the tweezers. She was quick, but thorough, and he was trembling by the time she gently taped the dressing into place. If she felt him, she didn't mention it.

Emily got up to put away the supplies, and told him to sit still as she rooted through the cupboards of the house for any food that was not so far out of date that it might kill them. She wanted to save the food in her pack for emergencies, and that made sense. Doyle wanted to make himself useful, and tried to get up, but the world spun on its axis and he collapsed onto his ass. His bandaged neck brushed against the back of the sofa, pulsed and screamed, and he hissed in agony.

"I told you to stay put," Emily chided as she rushed back to catch him before he slid to the floor.

"I just wanna do something fucking useful," Doyle replied, and she smiled grimly as she sat down next to him on the sofa and slid her fingers against his jaw. She was gentle and soft against his stubble as she pulled his face until he looked her in the eye.

"That burn might not be big, but it's deep," she whispered. "Really deep, and you just went and ground all of the filth of London into it. We need to be careful until it starts to heal. No more playing twister with stray dogs, and no more ignoring anything that's a potentially life threatening injury. Understood?"

"Come on, Em-"

"I mean it," she interrupted, brooking no argument. "In the morning I'm going to find you some broad spectrum antibiotics and some morphine, if I can. There was a chemist a couple of streets back, didn't look like it had been disturbed by looters. Fingers crossed it will have something decent that isn't expired. Can you hold out until then?"

"Yes ma'am."

They ate, some kind of chunky soup that was tastier than he'd expected once Emily dug out some salt and black pepper. She let him keep drinking the Jack; he was already too drunk to be any use for keeping watch anyway. Soon it was dark, and they turned out the candles downstairs and carried a couple into the bedroom along with Emily's pack, and Doyle's gear and M4.

She wouldn't let him sleep in a different room; she needed to know where he was so that she could identify any unusual sounds immediately. He'd offered to sleep on the floor, he didn't want her to think that he was the kind of guy that would try to take advantage, but she just snorted in derision as she helped him strip off his boots. She kicked off her own shoes and lay down on the bed facing the door, still fully clothed, just as she'd done back in her apartment in District One.

Doyle lay down beside her, leaving a respectful distance between their bodies and wishing that his mind would stop replaying the feeling of her soft fingers against his skin.

"I'll change your dressing in the morning and then I'll go looking for that chemist," Emily said, her voice softening with sleep. "Okay?"

"Yes ma'am," Doyle replied, wondering why it felt like Emily was somehow his commanding officer.

By the time he woke it was already light, and Doyle could hear birds tweeting their morning conversations outside. He opened his eyes to find the bed empty beside him, and Emily's pack gone. He jerked upright, and regretted it as the pounding agony of a hangover settled between his eyes. He swung his legs to the floor and felt the word tilt sickeningly.

"Fuck!" he muttered to himself, shoving his feet into his boots. Had she gotten him drunk so that she could ditch him? He grabbed his vest and his weapon and headed downstairs, determined to go out to look for his frosty companion.

Emily sat at the kitchen table, munching on what looked to be dry cereal. She looked up as she heard him stumble down the stairs, smirking at his unsteady movements. She motioned to the small boxes that sat on the table in front of her.

"Amoxicillin and fentanyl," she explained as Doyle sat down at the table next to her. So she'd snuck out and gone to the chemist without him. He was mad, but he shoved the emotion back down. It wasn't like he didn't already know that she could handle herself. And she'd come back for him, at least.

He took the meds that she handed him, and then nibbled at some of the cereal. It was some kind of British brand that he didn't recognise, but it tasted pretty good. After the fentanyl started to kick in, he felt his limbs float as his body became warm and tingly, and he moaned in relief as the pain in his head and his neck melted away.

"Fuck me, that's good," he whispered, too relaxed to care about the goofy smile on his face. He heard Emily chuckle and he couldn't help joining in.

Doyle didn't remember too much of the rest of that day. He remembered lying face down with Emily's hands on his neck again, but the fentanyl dampened pain was far easier to withstand this time as she changed the dressing. He remembered her telling him to eat and thrusting some kind of pasta under his nose. He didn't remember the taste but he did remember that his stomach felt fuller.

He didn't know how many days passed like this, with Emily feeding him and checking his wound and helping him to the fucking toilet. But he remembered very fucking clearly indeed the morning that she gave him only his antibiotic, and not the fentanyl.

"We need to save it," she had said. "And besides, it's addictive. You're definitely no good to me strung out."

The pain still raged, but Doyle told Emily that he was fine. He felt his body crave the opioid, desperate to sneak into the supplies and take the fucking lot, and he realised that she was right. After a couple more days, she decided it was time and he was ready for them to move on. They packed their things away, adding some of the extra food from the pantry, and locked up the house, leaving the key under a plant pot.

They walked, Doyle holding his M4 and Emily gripping her machete, continuing out of London until they finally reached Cambridge. They found a small house and settled in for the night, falling into a routine of Doyle checking windows and escape routes, and Emily sanitising the kitchen and finding them some canned delights for dinner.

She checked his dressing, and was finally happy with the progress his body had made with starting to heal. They slept as they usually did, packs and weapons by their sides, facing the door, and Doyle leaving a respectful distance between their bodies.

At some point during the night, Emily rolled over so that she was facing Doyle, snuggled into his body heat, and he threw an arm over her and squeezed reassuringly. She slept soundly, far later into the morning than usual, and Doyle lay still, listening to the birds and her breathing as he secretly enjoyed his stolen moment of human contact.

Emily woke slowly, a look of confusion on her face as she realised that she was snuggled into his chest. "Hey," he murmured, loosening his grip on her waist so that she could wriggle free.

"Hello," she replied stiffly, swinging her legs to the floor as she sat up on the bed.

"Think it must have gotten pretty cold last night," Doyle said, trying to explain why he'd been touching her. She was the one who'd initiated their contact, but he figured she wouldn't be open to hearing that right now.

"Right," she said, shoving her feet into her shoes.

His stomach clenched as he realised what she was thinking. "Emily. I didn't… I mean… Nothing happened. I didn't do anything. You know that, right?"

She stood up, turned to look at him, and her voice softened a little.

"Of course."

He got up, grabbed his gear and came around the bed to stand in front of her. His heart was hammering in his chest as he leaned his gun against the wall and then stepped closer to her. He slipped his fingers against her chin and lifted her face to meet his eyes, like she'd done with him. "Em, I'd never hurt you. Not for fucking anything."

His eyes were stinging, and he wanted to look away, but he needed to know that she believed him. Emily's mouth twitched into the tiniest hint of a smile, and she reached up and slid her hand into his hair. She pulled his head down until his cheek was nuzzled against hers.

"I know," she whispered, stroking his hair until his erratic breathing returned to normal. "I know."