He got into the room, his heart beating fast, and bent over the crib – and almost broke down with relief when he spotted the little moving bundle inside. He picked the baby up with the utmost care, as if she might break – as if she might vanish. Her eyes, so very blue, stared at him intently.
An unsettling flash of intelligence and understanding crossed her face. Her little hand made contact with his cheek; she did not weep, did not babble, she did not even blink. Then, abruptly, she reached out to touch him. He counted her fingers – there were ten.
Three things went through Booker DeWitt's head when he met those doe eyes on that adorable baby face. One, she was there – his daughter, his Anna. Fully, wholly there. Two, that meant Elizabeth was gone – forever.
He didn't know anything about quantum physics but he knew enough to say that if there was no Comstock, then there would be no girl in the tower, and the Elizabeth he met would never exist. His heart ached with the thought, and he felt a lump on his throat. Anna was his daughter, but she would never be the same.
And, because of that, the last but definitively not the least thing that went through Booker's mind was that he was determined to get it right this time.
He knew right away he would have to get a job, and preferably one that did not involve murdering people. Elizabeth – Anna – had hated – would hate – his job at the Pinkerton's. There were two major issues with that – one, he did not even had that job anymore – yet –, because the year was 1893 and Booker was nineteen years old.
The second problem was, well, he was a troublesome, nineteen year old, single father ex-soldier. Not exactly the ideal employee role model. In the end, he supposed, he was saved by the sense of humor of certain twins. Two weeks after he'd begun searching, he got a letter – they were looking for some muscle to hire on the docks, and it paid surprisingly well for the position.
His job? Helping out moving the cargo. More specifically, rowing the boats back and forth.
It wasn't the ideal, but it made do for the first few months, enough to feed him and Anna. But luck, it seemed, was on his side. There was an accident that ended up in a fire and Booker's aid on getting people out of the building called attention – he ended up hired by the firemen force.
It gave him a stable income and work that was, for once, saving people instead of killing them. And, most of all, it gave him the chance to raise Anna properly. The day Booker got paid his first wage was the day he decided he'd start saving money. And he promised himself, the day Elizabeth – Anna! – was old enough, he'd take her to Paris.
They called daycare off because of the snow, which meant Booker would have to take Anna for work. Fortunately, it was paperwork day – the firemen wouldn't go anywhere unless there was an emergency. Unfortunately, it was paperwork day – and he was taking a very energetic, smart little three-year-old with him.
He carried her up the stairs and toward his table, greeting his workmates with grunts as he went. The brigade wasn't particularly large, only five of them – which is why they'd been so eager to take Booker in; the job was dangerous and not many people were up for it.
He placed Anna on a nearby swivel chair and took his usual seat between Ellie and Brad. He stared at the massive pile of files he had to go through and let out a sigh. Picking up the first one, he started reading. Reports of a fire on Fifth Avenue –
"That your kid, DeWitt?"
"No, Brad, just some random girl I picked up on my way to work," He snapped.
His colleague snorted.
"Yes, it is my kid. Obviously."
"She's cute," Ellie commented, twisting from her chair to look at the kid.
"Must look like the mother," Hector called out from his spot at the back.
Booker did not dignify that with a reply.
"Why'd you bring her?" Ellie asked.
"Daycare's off," He muttered.
His blunt replies seemed to get the message past – he was in no mood for conversation. They fell into silence and he resumed working on his papers. Cold snowy days were always troublesome – people forgot their electric heaters on and that led to fires and short circuits. He finished the report he was reading and picked up the next –
Squeak squeak squeak squeak
DeWitt turned back to search for the source of the hellish noise only to spot Anna rotating on the chair, her little feet dangling off. How did she get it moving on first place was a mystery, and she seemed to be having the time of her life as her seat circled again – squeak - and again – squeak – and again squeak squeak squeak –
"Anna." He censored, and she blinked those blue puppy eyes at him innocently.
He gave her a little glare and she stopped moving. Silence – blissful silence. He turned back to his report.
"Your hair is pretty."
He turned to see his daughter doe-eyeing Ellie, reaching out to touch the woman's blonde locks. His workmate smiled, Anna smiled back and he knew his daughter now had Ellie wrapped around her little baby finger. Booker frowned.
"Thank you, dearie. You have really pretty hair, too," The woman said, picking the girl up and placing her on her lap. "And beautiful blue eyes."
The girl giggled and jumped off Ellie. Booker forced himself to look back to his table and his work. He heard Anna run all the way to the back of the office.
"What's your name?" She asked, poking the man that worked there.
"I'm Hector,"
"Like the Greek hero?"
Like whom now?!
"Yes, like him," Hector replied, sounding impressed. "DeWitt, the girl is pretty smart. Are you sure she's yours?"
Booker gritted his teeth. "Positive."
"Are you a hero too?" The little girl asked. "Papa is a hero. He goes into dangerous fires to save people!"
"Elizabeth," He scolded.
He barely dodged the flying paper ball Ellie threw at him.
"Stop repressing the girl," The woman said, "If you keep this up, you'll have a rebel teenager."
Anna on her teens was such a terrifying prospect, Booker didn't even want to think about it.
Their bickering was interrupted by the phone ringing. Brad picked it up, heard something and replied with a few curt affirmatives.
"We've got an 'emergency'," The man said, making finger quotes in the air.
There were two kinds of emergencies – the real ones, such as fires or cave-ins, and the 'emergencies' – cats stuck in trees, clogged pipes, an old woman who needed the snow plowed, and other not-so-dangerous or relevant tasks. They could usually be fixed by only one man, and so they alternated the one who went to solve them. Booker sighed, getting up – he knew it was his turn.
"What is it?" He asked moodily.
"Beehive – inside a warehouse, needs to be removed."
Anna's little fingers grasped his hand. What would he do with the girl? He didn't know how long the job would take; he'd have to bring her with him. He picked her up and started toward the stairs.
"Papa, I don't want to go," She muttered, surprising him.
She was usually very eager to go on any sort of adventure, and he thought she'd be at least a bit excited. He frowned a bit.
"Why not?"
"I don't like bees." Her eyes began to fill with tears and she sniffled a bit. "Daddy, please? They'll sting me."
Of course. It just had to be bees – Elizabeth would be willing to open a gate to the sixth dimension to get away from them. Booker pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache coming.
"Listen, dear," He said with infinite patience, "We'll be quick about it, I promise. And then I can get you some ice cream, how about it?"
A big round tear went down her little cheek.
Oh for the love of –
Ellie got up with a sigh. "I'll do it, DeWitt, only because your daughter is adorable. You owe me one."
She grabbed her coat and was off before he could even thank her, gracefully sliding down the pole they used for quick access to the lower floor, where the trucks were parked. He turned back to his daughter – Anna was staring at the firepole with a mixture of awe and longing.
Oh no. Nonononono.
"Anna – "
"Yes, daddy?" She replied, the tears already off her face to give space to an impish smile.
"Don't."
She tilted her head a little bit, made a confused face, and then ran to the back again, probably to bother Hector with something. Booker sat back down, thought twice, picked up the files and placed them in his lap. Then, he turned his chair backwards, making it face the pole. Brad noticed his motion, followed his gaze from the pipe to the little girl, then back to the pipe, and laughed.
It would be a long, long day.
She jumped on his bed, sobbing desperately. Booker forced himself to open his eyes and check the alarm clock – three in the morning. And he had work the next day. He sighed and pushed himself up to a sitting position.
"Did you have another nightmare, sweetie?"
It was a rhetoric question – he already knew the answer. She'd been having nightmares every other day for over a month now. She'd wake up screaming, terrified. At first, he'd gone desperately to her room, but it had become so usual, she already jumped on his bed by herself. When he asked what she had dreamed of, she'd say she couldn't remember.
It was a lie and he knew it.
He brought her closer and she rested her little head on his chest, tears dampening his shirt.
"Did you forget what it was about this time?" He whispered, already expecting her assent.
This time, though, she surprised him.
"I think I remember a little bit," She murmured.
"Oh? And do you want to tell me?"
She stood quiet for so long, he took it as a 'no'. He was almost falling asleep again when she spoke.
"There was a girl in a tower, and she was very lonely. Her only friend was a bird. Daddy, I think she was me."
He was suddenly wide awake.
"Really?" He said quietly, "Why do you think so?"
The little girl shrugged, and he cradled her in his arms. He held her hands in his – she was so tiny, so vulnerable. She was so different from the woman he'd first met, and yet fundamentally the same.
"I'm afraid, daddy," She choked, "What if they want to take me away and lock me in a tower?"
"Shh," He hushed, lying back down and pulling her with him, "Daddy's here. No one is taking you away from me, you hear? Not ever."
Not ever again.
He placed a kiss on the top of her head.
"I love you, Anna."
"Love..too…daddy.", she mumbled back already half asleep.
She didn't have any more nightmares since then. Nor did he.
He really wished those twins would just show up and explain him at once how the hell did this metaphysic thing work, because sometimes, he was absolutely sure there was something of Elizabeth on Anna. Something besides the identical genes, that was. He could never really decide whether he should call her Anna or Elizabeth, so he settled for Anna Elizabeth instead.
The first big challenge he had was that the girl was an absolute genius. Booker had never met another three year old who enjoyed reading as much as she did. Heck, he'd never even met another three year old that could actually read. At four, she had already mastered basic mathematics.
At six, they called him in her school to tell him he had a gifted child. She'd snuck into the older, male student's classroom after class and solved all the physics problems the teacher had left on the board – all correctly. When asked how she knew the answers, she had just shrugged.
The two were walking back home, hand in hand, when something else occurred to him.
"Anna?" He called, and the girl unstuffed her head from the cotton candy to look at him.
She loved cotton candy. In fact, she was a sweet tooth – she loved anything sugary. Booker knew better than feed her candy, though; the girl got into sugar rushes way too easily. He allowed it this once as a congratulation of sorts.
"Papa?" She replied with a full mouth.
"Don't your teachers lock the classrooms after classes?"
She broke eye contact.
"They do, dad." She answered in a perfectly neutral tone.
"Elizabeth." He called again.
"Dad?" Her face carried absolute innocence.
"How did you get in that room?"
She didn't reply, taking another bite of her sweet instead. Booker's eyes stopped on her hairpin; it was her favorite one, he knew – the one with the little bird on it. He could swear the pin's tip was a little bit bent. His gaze drifted back to her face.
Anna was grinning.
It was bring-your-pet day and when he went to pick up ten-year-old Anna at school, she was weeping. Not crying or sobbing, like children did, but weeping, her gaze distant. It was something so oddly adult, he could only stare at her, puzzled.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"I… the birds." She gesticulated absently. "It's sad that they should be caged. Dreaming of the sky, but never able to reach it."
What the hell.
"They are pet birds, Anna. They don't even know how to survive by themselves – they'd starve if you release them."
"I know." She eyed the sky absently. "Can you imagine what it would be like, though? To find freedom one day, after being caged your whole life? It might be worth dying for."
A chill crawled through his spine and he picked her up, hugging her tight.
"Hey!" She protested, "I'm too old for that!"
She hugged him back nonetheless, and he gave her giggling self a piggyback ride home.
"Hey, daddy?" She asked when they were at the door.
"Yes, Elizabeth?"
"Can I have a puppy?"
He considered that for a few moments. A dog brought along many expenses, and though he could probably afford to keep a small one, it would still mean a lot of work.
"Are you sure? Dogs are a lot of work. They demand time and attention and they cost money. If I give you one, I won't be able to buy you a new dress," he said, hoping that would change her mind.
"I want a puppy," she insisted stubbornly.
He sighed, giving in. Sometimes he wondered if he spoiled the girl too much. They went out to get her a dog the following day. Anna named it Mr. Bubbles.
He stared at his thirteen-year-old daughter with disbelief.
"So let me get this straight," Booker said, rubbing his forehead, "You were in the hallway and there was a plumber fixing the pipe."
"Yes."
"Cindy went by and called the plumber a racist word."
"Yes."
"So you picked up the plumber's wrench and hit Cindy on the head."
"Yes."
Booker supposed he should have been mad, probably scolded her or something, but he was simply at loss for words. The principal eyed him expectantly.
"Anna," He finally managed. "You know it's wrong to hit people with wrenches."
"I am sorry, father."
She didn't look sorry at all.
"I mean it, Anna! Violence does not solve anything."
She gave him a look that was so venomous and accusatory, he almost felt guilty. Almost. He was enough of a hypocrite to be guiltlessly hypocritical. The principal glared at him reproachfully, and Booker realized just how lame his reprimand was. He couldn't help it – it was the kind of violent outburst he experienced himself, and the kid, Cindy, probably deserved it anyway.
He supposed he should punish her, but he was not that much of a hypocrite.
Maybe he should put her into a sports class of sorts, to relieve all the tension. Perhaps baseball– the kid would make an amazing pitcher.
"You are grounded, young lady. You are absolutely forbidden of listening to the radio soap opera for three months."
The radio soap was the newest trend around. "Radio Drama", they called it, and it was a bit like listening to a movie. He found it honestly silly and repetitive – the stories were all the same. A girl from the countryside falling in love with a city boy, blah blah blah. It was on from Monday to Friday just before bedtime, and Booker knew it was thing all the girls her age were always talking about.
He also knew Anna hated it.
She narrowed her eyes at him and he saw a mischievous twinkle on them.
"Father!" She protested, "This is not fair!"
Her tone was filled with palpable indignation. She clenched her fists on her sides and her eyes filled with angry tears. Booker was honestly impressed. Maybe he should get the girl to theater classes – she had talent for it.
"No buts, missy. My orders are final."
She gritted her teeth, then bowed her head, tears running down her cheek. "Yes, father."
He could see the slightest of smiles twisting her lips. The principal nodded, seemingly satisfied.
"Now, usually this attitude would be passible of suspension," The old man spoke, "But given Miss DeWitt's history, we are willing to let it slide… this once."
Booker put a hand on her shoulder. She was still looking down.
"It won't happen again, sir," She muttered.
"No, it won't," Booker agreed.
They left the office together. Sitting on a chair outside, he spotted a very angry looking woman next to a wailing kid. The girl had a red-stained piece of cloth wrapped around her head – that was probably Cindy. He sort of sympathized with the kid – Elizabeth had quite the strong arm.
Cindy's mother glared at him, and Booker grabbed his daughter's ear and pulled lightly. She choked back a sob.
"Just you wait until we get home, young lady," He said as they walked.
He released her as soon as they turned the corner, and she wiped off her face with the back of her sleeve. She grabbed his hand and they walked out of the building.
He worried a bit about Anna's school life – not about her grades, of course, but about her social side. She was a lonely child, and he knew it was mostly his fault; the lack of a mother, of a feminine figure, made her quite the tomboy, and other girls shied away from her strong attitude.
He wondered, not for the first time, if they ever gave her a hard time. Other girls talked about cooking and dresses and housework and gossiped about boys and older girls and women. Anna liked physics, mathematics and baseball – men things. He knew she did like dresses and make-up too; she just couldn't stand to talk about it all day, every day.
Her classmates talked about people and things, and he supposed Anna could too, but truthfully? She liked concepts, fantasy, numbers, abstractions, ideas.
Perhaps she was just much smarter than them all.
Part of him felt bad about it, but another part was actually very, very proud. He was his daughterfor heaven's sake, not some prized exposition animal he was raising until a man decided she was interesting enough to marry and take home. Maybe she wasn't the society's ideal of female behavior, but so what?
Society was a rotten thing anyway. He loved his little baby's attitude and personality, and he refused to turn her into a lamb. If that meant bailing her out from hitting other girls with wrenches, then well, so be it.
"Sorry for getting into trouble," Anna said honestly when they were already halfway home.
Booker sighed. "Did she deserve it?"
"Oh, definitely. She's had it coming for a long time. Cindy is a complete asshole."
"Language, Anna!" He reprimanded.
"Sorry, dad." She apologized again.
"That's okay. Just try something more subtle than braining the kid next time, eh?"
Anna smiled. "Won't get caught again, I promise."
That's his girl. They were home early, and it was a slow day at work – they probably wouldn't miss him anyway. He could call in and say he was dealing with family issues; it wouldn't really be a lie.
"So hey, how do you feel about having an ice cream?"
Being a single father was hard. Being the single father of a girl was harder. But being the single father of a teenage Anna was a complete trial. There were some things, some women things, he was just clueless about. He almost wished she was a boy.
No, he didn't. That was the sort of dangerous thought that led people to opening gates to other dimensions.
Fortunately, whenever he was having a hard time dealing with all those feminine hormones, he had his ever so helpful workmate, Ellie. She was a peculiar person. Only heir to a rich father, the woman was a member of a movement she called 'feminism'. Apparently, she fought for women's right to do everything men did, something Booker didn't have any qualms with. He wasn't a strict defender of women's rights – not unless Anna was involved – but he wasn't particularly against it, either. He just didn't really care.
Ellie, on the other hand, went out of her way to scandalize society, doing things such as picking a job she didn't really need at the firemen brigade, something that, as the name itself said, was obviously meant for men. Again, he didn't mind, as long as she was competent.
No, he should be honest – Ellie's presence was a complete bliss.
Particularly because she took to Anna so much.
He knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again, louder this time. An angry voice sounded, and the door was opened by an irritated woman. Her annoyance turned to surprise when she spotted him.
"DeWitt? What are you doing at my hous – "
He pulled her by the arm impatiently, grabbed the key from her hands, locked her door and dragged the protesting woman down the street.
"DeWitt, what the hell is going on – "
"It's Anna," He replied.
That got Ellie moving – the woman adored the kid almost as her own. She'd liked his daughter ever since the first day, and the two were close, since she was pretty much Anna's only female figure.
He still remembered the day his little girl, only four then, had come back from school with a painting. "Me, daddy, aunty Ellie", it had read, and that was when she completely won the woman over.
"What happened?"
"She's bleeding. From her privates. I think she got her menarche."
"Oh," The woman replied with comprehension. "That still doesn't explain why you are dragging me off."
"I have no idea what to tell her," He admitted, stopping at his front door and bringing out his own keys. "Soon she'll have to go off to buy pads and bras and I have just no idea what to tell her."
Ellie burst out laughing. "And so you kidnap me in the middle of the night to explain your daughter the basics of female physiology? You're hopeless, DeWitt."
"Who else should I call? The 'Single father of a teen girl' association?" He grumbled, stepping inside.
"Second door to the left. Money's on the kitchen's second drawer - she knows where. If you need me, I'll be on my room with , pretending not to worry."
"Hopeless," She muttered as she went. "Completely hopeless."
He knew it would happen eventually. He knew it. It didn't make it any better. He watched her pace anxiously, tying a knot here, shuffling her hair there. Booker contemplated it with a permanent scowl of distaste. Mr. Bubbles sat down by him, its head following Anna go back and forth. The poodle seemed just as grumpy as its owner.
"So how do I look?" She asked for the umpteenth time.
She looked lovely, a spitting image of her mother. A stunning young woman, she was. His scowl deepened. He tucked his hand in his pocket and pulled out the tool he'd been saving for this special moment – her favorite weapon, the wrench. He extended it to her.
"Here, take it."
She stared at him with disbelief.
"Dad, I'm not taking a wrench to my first date."
"Then you won't be going at all."
"Dad –"
He sighed.
"Anna, please? Put yourself in my shoes – here is my little baby going out with a man I don't even know."
That wasn't strictly true. He was never a Pinkerton in this universe, but he had been one before, so of course he did a complete search on the boy. And on the boy's family. And on his friends. And, well, his whole neighborhood. The kid was good enough, he supposed. He was twenty-one – four years older than Anna – and coursing physics on the same College she did.
He didn't like it that she chose physics – it reminded him too much of the Lutece's mess – but he was willing to accept it if it made her happy. Now that her possible boyfriend coursed it too was another different matter.
But it was okay, he supposed. He knew where the boy lived. And where he had lunch, and where he went for fun, and to which doctors he went when he had the flu, and his favorite t-shirt store. So he would tolerate the kid – for now. As long as Anna took the wrench.
"Dad, you're overreacting. It's going to be fine." She sounded unsure herself.
"Elizabeth, take the wrench." He commanded.
She sighed, giving in; she picked up the tool and placed it on a discreet back pocket of her dress. He looked at the clock.
"He's late." Booker stated.
He added lack of punctuality on the list of things he didn't like about the kid, together with dating his daughter. Anna's eyes followed her father's gaze to the clock.
"Dad, he said he'd be here at seven."
"Yes. My point exactly." He replied smugly.
"Dad, it's seven oh three."
"Seven oh four," He corrected. "Four minutes can make a huge difference."
"In which situation?" She challenged.
When you are trying to get your daughter back, for instance.
He shrugged. "I don't know, disarming a bomb? You're the physicist here, you tell me."
She rolled her eyes. "Dad, we aren't disarming any bombs –"
The bell rung, interrupting her. The boy was here. Booker got up to make sure the kid got a warm welcome, but Anna was already ahead of him, unlocking the door quickly. Mr. Bubbles ran up next to her, in his mighty thirty centimeters of height, and growled at the unwanted stranger.
Oh yes, that's his dog.
He walked to the door to get a good look at the boy's face, maybe give him a glare or two, but Anna stepped out in a hush, as if she wanted to avoid just that.
"Byedadloveyou!" She spurted, closing the door behind her.
And he was left with a furiously yapping Mr. Bubbles.
He sat down on the couch and picked up one of her books. For a man named Booker, he read surprisingly little. He opened it in a random page and skimmed through, then threw it off, losing interest. He turned on the radio.
DeWitt counted to ten, and began pacing across the room.
Worry gnawed on his belly. Would she be fine? The boy seemed nice enough, but he was not sure. What if he was one of those men who thought women should stay in the kitchen? What if he misunderstood Anna's gentleness for submissiveness? He would be in for a wrenching surprise.
He remembered hearing a voxophone from Rosalind Lutece, in which she complained about women's stand on society, but he had never really cared about it until he got Anna. That he let his daughter study beyond basic education was considered unusual. That he let her into college was considered a complete aberration.
Even the university itself had denied her at first, and it was only through many recommendation letters from teachers that they allowed her to even take the selection test. They made a special one for her – exceedingly difficult, so that she would fail. She got the questions right. All of them. In the end, they simply had no excuse not to take her, so there she was.
The only woman in a college full of older males.
He had received precisely seventeen young men with proposals to take her out. Rich boys, bright boys, important boys. He'd given them all the same aberration of an answer – she'd go out with whoever she wanted to. And she had never wanted to go out with anyone – until now.
Booker paced back and forth, Mr. Bubbles following him across the room. One, two, three, four, five – he wondered if that boy was putting his hands anywhere he shouldn't? Six. Seven. Eight.
To hell with this.
He grabbed his keys, coat and hat and went out after them. She hadn't told him where they were going, but from the boy's behavior pattern, he'd guess the nearby cinema. Sure enough, they were there when he arrived. He hid in the shadows and watched – they seemed to be enjoying themselves. The boy held her hand and she beamed at him, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. She was such a tease - just like her mother. Booker found himself sympathizing with the awkwardly-stammering boy.
That was when he realized he was one hell of a creep.
He came back home then, satisfied that she was happy. He sunk in the couch with one of her books and waited. She had grown so much; she was almost the age they first met in that tower. He closed his eyes. It was such a distant memory; it seemed like ages ago.
Bring us the girl, wipe away the debt.
He shuddered a little. There was no more debt, only the girl, and their financial situation wasn't all that bad either. They weren't rich and his fireman wage left much wanted, but she was starting to earn a bit from some researches she did at college and he knew she'd soon earn much more than him. It didn't bother him – she'd always been much better at getting money.
He felt an unfamiliar dampness in his eyes. His little baby was a woman already, and he hoped from the bottom of his heart he had done it right this time. He'd done his best to give her all the little things she'd always wanted – cotton candy, a puppy, painting lessons, a real father. He knew he was not the best, but oh God, he tried so hard.
There was one little thing left. Only one, but it was not time. Not yet. He mentally checked the steadily growing number that represented his saving accounts. Not yet.
They came back home at ten, like he'd told her to. Not nine fifty-nine. Not ten oh one. Ten o'clock.
She radiated happiness, giving a big hug. The dog reciprocated her sunny mood, licking her ear, and she put it down with a yelp of mock-disgust. She spotted Booker sitting dejectedly on the corner and plopped down next to him, snuggling on his chest.
"I take it you liked him, then?" He grunted.
She pressed something cold against his hands. He looked down at it – the wrench.
"Yes, daddy, I liked him." She giggled. "But you should know, shouldn't you? You followed me."
She narrowed her eyes and her tone was accusatory.
"I did not." He lied.
"Dad…" She began.
He sighed.
"Okay, I did check once to see if he was treating you well, and then came back. I didn't creep on you the whole movie."
She rolled her eyes. "I knew it."
He ruffled her hair a bit. "Well, what did you expect? What kind of dad would I be if I didn't do a background check on him?"
"Father!" She protested. "I can't believe you did that!"
Booker shrugged. "Then don't."
She punched him on the ribs. Hard.
"Ow."
She scoffed. "Stop being so overprotective, dad, I can take care of myself."
"I know."
He sure as hell knew that. They'd fought side by side on wild gunfights, and if anyone was shot, it was him. She hadn't been hit once. Not even once. And he was the one with the magnetic shield. She was cunning, she was devious; he needn't worry so much about her safety. Yet worry he did.
"Then what? You're not jealous, are you?"
Maybe. He had to admit he didn't like the thought of her running off with a thug and leaving him behind to rot. It wasn't jealously per se, more like a selfish sense of self-preservation – she was literally his reason for living. He didn't have to wonder what would become of him if she was gone. He already knew. He didn't have to wonder what he would have been of him if he'd never had her, either. He already knew that one as well.
You shared this room with your regret for twenty years.
He hugged her, brought her a little closer. She wriggled a bit.
"You're crushing me," She complained.
He let go of her. She turned to face him, locked those big blue eyes with his.
"You know dad, even if I meet many men and have many many boyfriends, you'll always be my only hero."
He scowled then, because if he didn't, he'd weep, and tears were unmanly and not very heroic. He had a reputation to keep, after all.
She blinked, confused blue eyes staring at him, probably wondering if she'd said anything wrong. He broke his scowl, twisting it into a playful grin.
"I certainly hope you didn't mean that part about having many many boyfriends, young lady." He handed her the wrench back. "Here, I think you'll need this."
She laughed again and he joined her, and it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
It was her twentieth birthday and she was a full grown woman now, one he was so very proud of. She didn't have many friends over for the party - just Ellie, a couple girl friends she'd made God knows where, and The Boy.
She changed boys every once in a while; she'd been with this one for approximately two whole months after a long six month period of No Boy. The Previous Boy had lasted a year and a half, and Booker had been almost sad to see him gone. Almost. She did take to his advice and always carried her wrench around. That was good.
Though it never stopped Booker from doing a background check on every one of them.
The guests were all gone now, even The Boy, and it was his time to give her his special gift. He took the package from his coat's pocket and called her over.
"Happy Birthday, Anna."
She took the gift from her hands, gave him a peck on the cheek.
"Thanks, father. You know you didn't hav-"
She stopped mid-word, gaping. Her fingers worked quickly, completely destroying the remaining wrapping –
And revealing two airship tickets to Paris. She read the destination, checked it, double checked it, her eyes filling up with tears.
"Father, I can't – You – the money – "
"I've been saving," He muttered in reply.
"For how long?"
"Does it matter?" He waved it off.
"For how long?!" She insisted with a hint of anger. He frowned.
"Ever since you were six..." He trailed off, "…months."
She closed her eyes, clenching the tickets tight, her features twisted in a grimace. He embraced her in a hug, not really understanding her reaction. She rested her head against his shoulder, sniffling. He put his hand on top of her head, caressing her lightly.
"We don't have to go, if you don't want to," He ventured, "There's still time to hand them back and get a refund. I could use the money to buy you dresses or something."
"No!" She said with a tone of desperation, "No, no, that's not it, it's just… how did you know about it? That it was Paris I always wanted? I've never told that to anyone."
He gave her a sly smirk.
"And what kind of dad would I be if I didn't know my little girl, eh?"
His hand that had been stroking her head began rubbing it instead, effectively messing her carefully brushed hair up, turning it into a bird's nest of a mess. She made as if to escape, but he held her back with his other arm and poked her on the ribs, where he knew she was ticklish.
"Dad!" She protested half-heartedly amid giggles.
She twisted to the side and tried to judo-flip him, but he was much heavier. They play-wrestled for a while, Booker giving into rare laughter moments. He knew they were both too old for that, and he knew it was a boy's game, but in the end, he didn't care. Not at all.
It took her from the day he gave the tickets to the boarding day to get her luggage ready, and when it was done, it was so much Booker wondered if she planned to run away when he wasn't looking and settle down in Paris. He'd swear she'd literally packed in all of her dresses. And of course he had to carry it all, plus his meager belongings.
They'd been in the airship for a week and a half now, floating over miles and miles of endless, boring ocean. Three days before, they'd finally started floating over land, and Anna spent most of her time on the cabin's deck, looking at the ground below, blabbering about how they were flying over Portugal and Spain and southern France. He liked to aim at people below and pretend to shoot them, just to kill off all the spare time he had. He wondered if he could actually hit someone from that distance – maybe if he had a rifle.
Booker didn't quite like the thought of flying; truth be told, he absolutely hated it. He'd had enough of being in the sky for more than a lifetime, thank you very much. Still, for Anna's sake, he bore it, and she was so happy he could easily forget they were thousands of feet away from the ground. She, as opposed to her father, had the soul of a bird – she loved being in the air, seeing everything from above.
She was at the deck door again, her nose pressed against the glass, watching all with rapt attention. He'd told her to come in and close the door behind her to stop the cold from getting in, to which she had replied that there was no such thing as cold; it was the heat that got away. Cold was not a physically measurable form of energy, only a subjective perception of having low temperature.
He told her there was nothing subjective about the pneumonia she was going to catch if she stayed out in the 'low thermal energy environment'.
He glanced outside. It was dark already, and he could see the gleaming stars. Not stars, doors. In his humble, non-physicist mind, logic dictated that the stars should look closer since they were higher up. They didn't. He wondered if it was because they were so far away; he wondered if men would ever reach them. Not stars, doors, she had said, and hadn't he opened so many of them himself?
Was there anything beyond the sky? Or were the stars floating in a big, empty nothing? Anna would probably know. He wondered. He wasn't much of a pensive men – he left that for his daughter and the likes of her. But he did wonder sometimes, too. Not as much about the world, but about the possibilities. About all the what ifs. All the other Bookers, all the other Annas – some for the better, some for the worse, all still Bookers and Annas.
What made him himself? Genetics? His 'soul'? His choices? He was inclined to believe the latter. He would bet there had been at least one idle vagabond – philosopher, dad! – to write a book about it. Anna would probably know. The girl seemed to know everything these days – everything but how to cook a decent meal. If she ever gets married, the poor lad better know how to fix his own food.
She was still there, pressing her face to the cool glass panels. What was the point of closing the door to keep the cold off – or the heat in – if she was determined to hug the damn freezing thing? Sighing, he got up, picked the warmest looking of her pile of coats and walked to her, covering her with it. She gave him her infamous puppy look.
"Can we go outside, dad? Please? We're almost there," She begged.
He rolled his eyes. He supposed they could endure the cold for a bit. Plus, according to Anna, pneumonia was an 'inflammatory condition of the lungs caused by viruses or bacteria', which 'could definitely not be present in an isolated system thousands of feet into the air with no nearby infected vectors.'
He gave a short grunt, turned the knob and opened the door to the freezing deck outside. He supposed he should have grabbed a coat for himself. They stepped out together, and Anna immediately walked to the very border, leaning against the security rail. He got a tiny heart attack every time she did that, sure for some unfathomable reason – past experience – that she would fall down.
He followed her quickly, walked forward until he stood next to her. She had a hand covering her mouth, the other arm crossed below the chest. Her eyes were watery and she seemed frozen, staring ahead.
"Anna?"
The intercom speaker cackled and sizzled, then a voice he recognized as the captain's spoke.
"Ladies and gentleman, we are overjoyed to announce we have just reached our destination. Welcome to Paris."
The voice faded away and a music begun to play – a slow song he couldn't recognize. Anna would probably know. Booker stared at the speaker for a split second, then turned back to the horizon and squinted to see – ah, there it was. The Eiffel tower.
"Mr. DeWitt."
His blood froze in his veins. His head snapped to the girl – woman – and met intense, emotion filled blue eyes.
"Elizabeth."
The moment he said the word he knew it was her, as sure as he knew his own name. His head burst with questions – how was she there? How had she survived? How had he survived? Where the hell had she been? Had she been Anna all along? What happened to Anna? Or was she both, like he and Comst – he didn't like to think about that.
He begun to open his mouth to ask, but she placed her index finger on his lips, silencing him before he even spoke.
"Shh," She hushed, a sad smile crossing her face. "You still owe me that dance, Mr. DeWitt."
"Call me Booker," He automatically babbled out, almost on instinct.
Her smile widened and she grabbed both his hands with hers, pulling him to the center of the deck.
"How about I call you something else entirely?" There was a painfully familiar mischievous twinkle in her gaze. "…Dad?"
"Anna – Elizabeth – I – what – ?"
"Shh," She shushed again, "One dance, Daddy? Please?"
He didn't like it. He couldn't understand. But oh, how could he ever deny her anything? He nodded, pulled her close, started moving to a waltz rhythm. It wasn't a waltz tune playing, but it was still the only thing he could dance half-decently, without stepping on her toes too much. He wasn't surprised to see she followed perfectly. The girl seemed to know everything these days.
They twirled and twirled until the song was over and she laid her head on his shoulder; he could feel the dampness of her tears trough the fabric. He hadn't seen her weep ever since she was a child – not when the others laughed her for not having a mother, not when they picked on her for her inappropriate female behavior, not when they called her demeaning names because she had the boldness to refuse a marriage proposal.
She was so strong, his little baby, so determined, so brave. It was too much for him - he could feel his own eyes fill up, too.
"Thank you," She whispered against his shirt. "Thank you so much."
Another tune started playing – aha! A waltz this time! He pushed her away, breaking the awkward hug-thing they had been sharing. He at her, a smile forming up.
"Why stop at one?"
Her response was so instant he almost jumped back with surprise. She laughed out loud, held both his hands and dragged him round and round in some kind of circle-dance.
"Not fair," He complained, already a bit dizzy, "This is not waltz!"
"Just shut it and dance already!" She giggled back.
He could see the tower clearly now – they were getting closer and closer. Soon, they'd be right next to it, and maybe he could reach out and touch it. He looked up to the sky, filled with stars, or doors, or whatever they were, then down to the city. They seemed to compete which one shone the brightest. None were quite as radiant as his daughter. He closed his eyes and let her guide him, like she always had.
Under the stars and above the City of Light, Booker DeWitt danced.
Whew.
Had to get this out of my system. Ever since I finished Bioshock Infinite, I've had a little Elizabeth jumping around in my head, saying, "Write about me please?"
She's possessed me, I swear.
I've planned it to be an one shot of around a thousand words. Ended up with almost eight times that instead. Happy now, Elizabeth?
Sorry for the awkward formatting; MS Word was screwing me over.
"This was ridiculously sappy and cheeky and you got everyone out of character."
Hell, people, give me a break. That ending broke my heart too much. I needed some sweetness to make up for it.
"There is no such thing as a zeppelin that can make it all the way from New York to Pa -"
Shut the hell up.
Thanks for reading!