"Come on," she says, her pale hand stretching closer and closer as each second passes, her twinkling smile only seeming to grow wider and wider.
Booker swallows, determinedly keeping his hands stuck to his sides, because he doesn't dance, damn it, he never has and he never will, especially not crowded by all of these people, all of these Columbian citizens who don't know better, who don't realize that he's standing in the midst of their own kind. Who twirl and speak loudly and laugh and touch Elizabeth's wrists in a silent question of dance with me, but she brushes away their touches with a simple fluid movement and Booker can't stop himself from observing the grace that seems to surround her.
You wouldn't think she'd be very graceful. It's not as if she's truly experienced. She's only ever danced with herself before.
And that thought, more than anything, is what causes the little guilty nudge. Booker ignores it, the quick jab to his side, the hell, maybe I could just give her this, because it doesn't really matter if Elizabeth has spent her entire life in a tower, observed by people who couldn't care less about her happiness. He's more than sure they never bothered dancing with her. They bothered filming her, sure; he can remember the flickering grainy frames of her figure spinning across the scene, her skirt swishing in the air, her hair following the almost up-down movements of her body... it was disgusting, really, the sort of things they subjected her to. But it's not any of his concern. It's not his problem, what she went through and what they did to her. That's not his job.
"Dance with me, Mr. Dewitt!" she exclaims, a musically reminiscent giggle tumbling over her lips as both of her hands finally wrap around his wrists, tugging him forward. Booker curses as he trips over his feet, not prepared in any way for the sudden jerking movement that pulls him unfortunately closer to Elizabeth, which goes completely against the plan. The plan is to board an airship, get out of here, back to New York, and just get this whole ordeal with; he can't burden himself with the prospect of growing attached to this girl, with her high-pitched laughs and amazed expressions and pointed fingers as she finds something she read about in a book, but hadn't seen in person until then. That's not the plan. That's not his job.
No, it's not his duty to give her this. Booker doesn't do charity.
And he doesn't dance, either.
But underneath the sunlight, Elizabeth seems translucent; her skin is paper that crumples to the touch and her blue, blue eyes capture the beauty of pure, unadulterated joy that he hasn't seen in a while, and even though her smile is too open and honest for comfort, even though her innocence seems to radiate from her every pore, even though her grip on his hands is feather-light and almost nervous in a way he doesn't feel like identifying or understanding... Booker sighs, because the easiest words, the bluntest ones, the short I don't dance, so let's go, get caught on the tip of his tongue as he watches all of these things.
Because her skin is unused to direct sun and her eyes have never viewed the day at quite this angle and her smile has probably never stretched her features nearly this far apart before, and every time she danced inside her tower, she wrapped her arms around herself to pretend she wasn't so, so alone. And now she isn't. Now there are other arms, plenty of arms swinging near her, plenty of arms willing to dip her in the process of a fancy little number he never bothered to learn, but his are the closest, and Elizabeth looks at him in this way that only seems to ask to give her a moment's company. Just this once. That's not his job, but just this once, could he make an exception, please? For her?
Booker only hopes he doesn't crush her feet in the process.