Chapter Nine - Friend zoned
Doyle knew he wasn't a classically handsome man, but he'd usually done alright when it came to getting attention from women. Granted, though, they tended to be the same type of woman, and that type was definitely not Emily.
He'd known, if he was honest with himself, that he hadn't reported her little recon trips back at District One because he liked to watch her. She was quiet, but obviously capable, and he'd realised from the sharp, intelligent look in her eye that he'd never have a fucking chance. Not even if she hadn't glared at him that time as if he was worse than shit.
Maybe that was what had kept him coming back initially, knowing that she was hopelessly fucking beyond him. He kept staring, at her dark, flowing hair, those glorious fucking tits that were just a little larger than you'd expect for her frame, and her long limbs that were toned from hours of creeping, walking and running through the confines of the Green Zone.
She'd taken off her shirt in her bedroom one night, and as she swapped her long sleeves for a tank top he was surprised to see a smattering of tattoos covering her arms and shoulders. He couldn't make out colour through the night scope, but the designs were obviously well done. Much better than the alcohol-induced, clichéd shit he'd inflicted upon himself.
He still furtively drank in the sight of her now, any chance he could get. He'd watch her cleaning dishes, chopping wood, even when she was just lying down and not doing much of anything at all. Half the time they were both sweaty, filthy, with hair as greasy as fuck, and he didn't even give a shit. He'd lick the sweat out of the crack of her ass if she'd let him, and he'd love every fucking minute of it.
But no. She was either totally fucking oblivious to him, or completely disinterested, and considering how smart Doyle knew her to be, it seemed pretty obvious that it was the latter.
They stayed at the farmhouse until they had finished the fresh meat and the rest was well salted. Doyle found some waxed paper and wrapped the deer carefully, and packed it away as they get ready to move on. He was a little sad to be leaving the forest, but Emily was itching to be on the move.
He kept his M4 at his back now and an arrow notched in the string of the bow in his hands as they walked. Emily has his USP in the back of her pants despite his warnings that it was unsafe, insisting that she was only going to carry it until she was sure his arrow to the deer's eye wasn't just a fluke. She refused to wear his thigh holster, as if that would somehow signify that she wasn't just carrying the weapon temporarily.
She hadn't been a natural while he was teaching her to shoot, but she was tenacious and determined, and despite his almost acceptance of being friend zoned Doyle had no problem with staying close and holding his arms around her to correct her stance. By the time they were finished she wasn't going to win any awards for marksmanship, but she could get the job done. He had a chuckle over her half serious complaints that real guns don't come with aim assist enabled.
Doyle didn't make the mistake of wishing away the uneventful days anymore like he and the rest of Delta had done on the rooftops. He still stole glances at Emily as she busied herself at the kitchen table of their latest home for the night, watching her elegant fingers as she sorted and repacked the first aid kit. She'd braided her dark hair down her back, but strands of it had come loose and fallen onto her face, and she absently swiped them behind her ear.
She winced as she raised her arms above her head and rolled her shoulders. She was trying to stretch out her back, but her breasts lifted and jiggled at the same time, and Doyle had to look away as he felt his cock stiffening in his pants.
"We should keep an eye out for more surgical tape," Emily said, and Doyle replied with an 'uh huh' as he finished securing the windows of the house. She glanced up to look at him as he sat down at the table opposite her. Her skin was still pale, but the sun had brought out a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that softened the pensive expression she so often had on her face.
"Need any help?" Doyle asked, and Emily shook her head.
"I'm just about finished anyway. You ready for dinner?"
"Mmmm," he replied, picking up an old pizza shop leaflet from the table in front of him. "Let's order in. I could kill for a pizza."
"Ooh, yeah. Pepperoni?"
"Naturally. And maybe a few olives?"
"You're a monster and I hate you."
Doyle smiled. He was really starting to appreciate the deadpan British humour. "Seriously? You don't like olives?"
"They are the solid remains of Satan's dirty old boxers."
"Man, that's a serious dislike of olives you got there."
"We should have pineapple instead."
"On a fucking pizza? Oh no, now you've gone too far."
"So you will eat lumps of Lucifer's dried up ball juice on your pizza, but a chunk of lovely, fruity pineapple is wrong?"
"Absolutely."
Emily smiled this time, and Doyle put the leaflet back on the table. "I think it would be a disaster if we tried to share a pizza."
He nodded sagely. "Divorces have been granted for less," he agreed.
She stood up and went to examine the store cupboard. "Fancy boiled pasta and some hideously bland tinned tomatoes?"
Doyle grinned. "Sounds perfect. Salty deer meat on standby."
They played one of Doyle's favourite games while they ate. "Food," he said, and Emily frowned.
"That is far too wide a category for me to make a decision," she protested.
"Em, you couldn't make a decision if I limited the category to chocolate bars beginning with the letter 'A'."
"Don't be ridiculous. Aero."
"Yeah? Which flavour?"
"I swear you add new rules every time we play this game."
Doyle chuckled. She was right, but watching her lose her cool was too much fun, even if it was only a stupid game. "Okay," he relented. "I'll make it easier for you. Savoury junk food."
Emily was quiet for a minute while she thought. "Doritos."
"Flavour?"
"Lime."
"Dip?"
"Hot salsa."
"Nice. Your turn?"
"Hmm. Gadget."
"And you said food was too wide a category!"
"I'm sure you can handle it."
Doyle smiled as he leaned back into the sofa and thought. "Think it'd have to be the PS4."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean then I could play some games, watch a little Netflix, go online…"
"I don't feel like you're sticking to the spirit of the rules here."
"Hey," he said, holding up his hands. "Not my fault if you didn't define the parameters clearly."
"Okay," she conceded. "You can have the PS4. But you don't have a TV to go with it, so I guess it'll just have to be a noisy foot warmer."
"You got me," Doyle smiled, and Emily held her fingers up in a 'L' as she mouthed the word 'loser' at him, and they finished their meals in companionable silence.
