*Note* No offence intended to the author or anyone who enjoys the Fifty Shades series. I used it here as it was useful for a bit of humour before turning a little dark. I don't own the series or earn any money from it.
Chapter 10 - Birthdays and Fifty Shades
Their latest morning's walk brought them to a local high street shopping district, and it seemed quiet and still enough that Emily was willing to take the risk and stock up on supplies. Doyle peeked into the window of a shop called "Bargain Booze", grinning at Emily as he saw the rows of undisturbed shelves.
"So we really need surgical tape and water purification tablets," she chided, raising her eyebrow. "But yes, I'm sure you'll find them in the off-license."
He smiled as he laughed off her disapproval. "Come on, we've been sober for how long now? Fucking forever. And besides, it's the seventh. Today's my birthday."
Emily looked about as convinced as she ever did, but she smiled back at him. "Okay," she agreed. "But let's make sure we get something decent."
Doyle had been hoping for some beer, but the smell that came out of the unpowered refrigerators made them retch. So instead they raided the shelves and found some JD and a bottle of amaretto that looked totally intact.
They moved on to a pharmacy and an outdoors store and managed to replace the supplies that Emily had been most concerned about. The last shop on the street was a WH Smith, and buoyed by their previous success, Emily decided to take a look. She raided the puzzle books section while Doyle wandered the aisles and inhaled the new book smell that was still somehow lingering despite the decay of the world outside.
"I would bake you a cake," Emily said as they continued their walk. "But I think the eggs might be a bit off by now."
"That's okay," Doyle replied. "I've always been more of a cookie dough person anyway."
"Do you mean unbaked dough?"
"Yeah. Tollhouse, preferably."
"Oh, do you mean that ready to roll refrigerated stuff?" She looked aghast.
"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "You don't like it?"
"And people called the Infected the monsters!"
He laughed at that. "Hey! Don't you dare bitch about the cookie dough. Don't you people eat pickled eggs?"
"I don't!"
"Yeah, yeah, I bet you could kill for a nice dinner of pickled eggs and pork scratchings drizzled in fucking marmite."
"That's disgusting!" Emily giggled.
"Which part? The stinking eggs, the fossilised pork fat or the shit in a jar?"
She glared at him, but a smirk still played at the corner of her lips. "You're lucky you're useful, Sergeant."
"I know," he agreed, and they were quiet for a while as they continued their walk.
Emily dragged herself to her feet, a little unsteady after their celebratory dessert of JD and amaretto. She spotted the plastic bag across the room, and remembered their little detour around WH Smith. "Come on then," she murmured. "Let's see what literary delights you picked out for us, Sergeant Doyle." She rummaged through the books, finding a mix of thrillers, sci-fi and crime fiction. Then a familiar cover caught her eye, and she pulled it free from the pile.
"Fifty Shades of Grey?" she exclaimed, casting a look of despair at the drunken soldier lounging on the sofa. "Seriously, Doyle?"
"Haven't you read it?" Doyle queried, dragging himself upright. He didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. Was he seriously trying to rub it in her face? She sneered at the book, and dropped it back into the bag.
"Seriously," Doyle insisted. "It's fucking hilarious. We used to keep a copy back at District One. The guys would read out quotes from it while we were on watch."
"I'm glad to hear you took your role of protecting the British public so seriously!"
"Ah come on, Em," he placated. "You try staying alert for every minute when you spend three months staring at nothing more than old guys taking a shit on the toilet."
Emily shook her head, full of self-righteous indignation. "You were a bunch of children with big guns. You had our lives in your hands and it was all just a joke to you."
The laughter left his eyes and Doyle's mood turned dark. He swirled the remains of his drink in his glass and downed it. "Yeah," he agreed. "We fucked up and I know it. You know that, Em. Are you ever going to stop throwing it in my face?"
She sighed, her anger draining away and being replaced by guilt. Doyle wasn't responsible for writing the protocols or designing the sub-standard containment areas inside District One. He wasn't the only sniper that has been shooting at them from the darkness. And none of the others had been willing to die to save a couple of kids. So she picked up the book and walked back to the sofa, pausing to refill Doyle's glass before she sat down next to him.
Emily curled her legs up and leaned into him, lifting his free arm so that she could snuggle it around her waist. He didn't stop her, but his body was tense. "I'm sorry," she whispered, nuzzling her face into his shirt. "I'm a self-righteous bitch."
"Yeah you are," he agreed, laughing as she smacked him in the chest with the heel of his hand. "You make a mean fucking Godfather though."
She took a sip of her own drink as she threw the book at Doyle. "Come on then," she said. "Show me what the fuss is about. What helped the poor lonely soldiers through the dark and stormy British nights."
He chuckled. "Honestly, if you're expecting me to read you some smoking hot action, you're missing the point. We were all about the clichés and the fucking terrible metaphors."
"You are kidding?"
"Nope. Here, let me find you one of my favourites."
He searched through the pages, stopping every now and then to giggle like a boy. Finally, he found the quote that he wanted.
"Here we go: 'They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Christian's apartment.' I mean, we must be in the wrong jobs, because this fucker right here can afford flames where the colours are the wrong way around!"
Doyle giggled again, and as much as she knew that it was ridiculous, Emily had to join in. He swiped through the book, finding another portion to share. He puts on the most over the top, mock-female sex voice as he reads.
"'His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something.' So, can she work out what it is? Cause if she can't, what fucking hope do we have?" He flicked through a few more times, reading out bits and pieces that made Emily laugh guiltily. "'My inner goddess sways in a gentle victorious samba.' 'My inner goddess fist pumps the air above her chaise lounge.' 'I must be the colour of the Communist Manifesto.'"
"Doyle!" Emily interrupts him, swatting her hand off his chest again. "Stop it. You're awful!"
"Why?" he asked. "I'm just reading out the words exactly as they were written on the page! Like these ones: 'How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last?'" He skipped to the end of the book before he finished speaking. "Well I'd say… exactly 533 pages."
"You're a terrible person!" Emily exclaimed. "I mean, you know the author probably died in the first outbreak, don't you?"
"I had not considered that," Doyle admitted, but he was still giggling.
"And anyway, she was a Fanfiction writer, not a professional. It's not her fault that it became so popular she released the book and made a shit load of money."
"That is also true. I feel so sorry for her now."
"I knew I was right to hate you!"
"Oh come on Em," Doyle said, rubbing his knuckles through her hair like a brother taunting his little sister. "Why so defensive? You write something similar?"
"Not similar, no." She didn't realise the significance of her words until they'd already escaped her lips.
"So what's the prob- Hold up. So you did write something?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you did though, didn't you?" Doyle sat forward, eyes intent on Emily as his tongue peeked out between his lips and he licked over them. His mouth twitched into a devilish grin.
"I'm not talking about this."
"Come on Em," he coaxed. "You can't come out with that and then just drop the fucking mic. What was it? You gotta let me read it!"
"Absolutely not!" she squeaked. "I'm not letting you tear anything of mine apart like that!" That wasn't the actual reason that she would rather die than let him read it, but Doyle didn't need to know that.
"What else are we gonna do for the rest of eternity?"
"Well I don't exactly keep any hard copies on me, so I'm afraid you're just going to have to wait until our Dropbox connection comes back online. That should happen right about... never."
"So just tell me," he pleaded. "Was it all whips and chains like Fifty Shades?"
"No." The alcohol was loosening her tongue far more than her sober self was going to be happy about. "That's really not my thing."
"Why not?"
Emily slid her feet to the floor and tried to stand up, but Doyle put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her back down next to him. "Come on baby," he whispered, his voice taking on an edge that she'd never heard in him before. Tension crackled through the air between them and Emily had to bite her lip to contain a whimper. She remembered a conversation they'd had only a couple of days into their journey, where he'd promised her that he'd never hurt her. She had believed him then and in her heart she still believed it now. But still…. This was getting out of hand, and her heart was hammering in her chest.
"Talk to me," he whispered, stroking the hair out of her eyes, and Emily gulped down a lump of anxiety in her throat as his calloused fingers danced against her skin.
"It's," she started, her voice wavering as she felt her cheeks burn in embarrassment. "It's too theatrical. And..."
"And?"
"I don't know how to explain it. "All the whips and the chains and the ropes, that sort of shit. It's too distant and impersonal."
Doyle slid his hand to her chin and turned her face until she looked at him. Those bright, expressive eyes were sharp as he hit right on the words that Emily had so carefully avoided.
"You'd rather be held down and forced by someone with their bare hands?" he asked. His voice was like gravel and honey, and Emily felt a shameful rush of arousal dampen her underwear at his words. She couldn't reply, and he stared at her, intense and focused, until she had to look away.
She didn't want this, no matter how wet her pants were. She had a single shred of dignity left in her body, and she wasn't going to give that up for anyone.
"I think we should stop drinking now," she croaked, and stood up. Doyle cleared his throat, and didn't stop her from moving away this time.
"Yes ma'am," he replied, and Emily sighed with relief even as her body screamed in frustration.
For the first time in days, they slept without touching, and Emily shivered without the comforting warmth of Doyle's chest snuggled into her back. She heard him fidget behind her, and they both lay there awkwardly, waiting for the dawn to give them an excuse to get up and get as far away from each other as possible.
