By the dampness at his nose, Booker knew he was bleeding again. He grabbed Elizabeth's arm and swung her around, staring at her tattered dress – Lady Comstock's tattered dress because he couldn't meet her eyes. He couldn't. Not after remembering everything. Every when and what. Elizabeth didn't say a word. She let him hold her, the monster that he was, her perfect petite hands dwarfed by his paws. He remembered now, though he didn't want to.
Elizabeth didn't say a word.
No peachy, "Mr. DeWitt!" from their time on the beach or chastising, "Booker…" when he rifled through an abandoned purse. He was nothing and everything to her, the ghost of light reflected by the moon but also the source, the sun itself. He was both father and adopter, captor and sell out, friend and hated enemy.
The annoyance of his nose bleed grew unbearable. Breaking his hold on Elizabeth, Booker swabbed at it with his fingers. A tinny sort of noise scratched at the back of his eyes. Vertigo stole control of his limbs. When he came back into focus, Elizabeth was still watching him, always watching him.
Sherbet colored ocean water breathed against the docks they stood on. Another Booker and Elizabeth went on their own but same journey, Booker staggering to get a look at them before grabbing his own Elizabeth's arm.
He felt like retching.
"Paris, let's go to Paris." His voice was like chalk, dry with a bone piercing crack. Booker tried to swallow but his tongue was ash. Elizabeth, bless the girl (he had once, and it led to all this) was patient.
"Paris. We can still go to Paris."
It's what got her to follow him the first time. It's what he promised. They could go to Paris, they could run away from all this and be happy. They were together again. Comstock was dead. They could be happy.
He didn't want to "fix" things anymore. He tried to fix the problem at Wounded Knee and fix the problem with Mr. Lin, both leading to disastrous ends. All his life, Booker killed uncooperative souls for the supposed Greater Good. There were more deaths by his hands than the whole of the Vox Populi. Including the multiple realities, Booker's hands were red beyond recognition. None of it had gotten him anything. He'd lost his life, his sanity, his daughter . . . his daughter.
"We can go. We can go to Paris."
Booker was desperate to get her smiling again. He missed the girl who skipped stones at the top of the world and sang to his musings with a guitar. The cold prophet he saw leading the attack on New York frightened him, his Elizabeth withered by time and sorrow and mad as her Father. Booker longed for his sweet baby girl, all smiles despite the tragedy of her birth. Even on Booker's darkest days, Anna would chirp and reach for him with her precious, perfect fingers. And he could remember her screaming at him with her mauled little finger, thrashing in tears for the father she remembered and not the bearded one who held her. All he wanted was to hold her. All he wanted was to make her happy.
He was sorry. He was so fucking sorry.
Booker beat on the ratty wall till his hands bled and the rough brick bit at his bones. He collapsed there in the alley, screaming her name till his throat was horse, pants torn at the knees and soaked from rain and grime. Anna's severed little finger was no bigger than a sunflower seed. Booker clutched it, bloody as his nose was at present, or whenever the hell this was.
He grabbed her hand again, fist tight as when he pulled the trigger on that sniper rifle Elizabeth conjured and Booker held onto through their journey in Columbia. It was silly to cling to a single weapon for so long but when Elizabeth disappeared on him, it was all he had left of her. He needed it. He needed her. His gun. His daughter. His sin.
"We. . .We can go."
Elizabeth watched him with an emotion that made Booker queasy. Contempt? No, pity. He'd done so much wrong. She should hate him, loath him. She did, or does – will? Never had he wanted the Lutece twins to chat nonsense at him so much, if only to understand.
"Paris," he choked out again. Booker fell to his knees, hit the dock hard enough to make his vision throb with pain but ignored it to look at his sweet, darling baby's eyes. They were cold now, exhausted by the multi realities she experienced and was experiencing.
"Please. Elizabeth. Please, let's go to Paris. We can still go to Paris."
Elizabeth patted his cheek, Booker's hand over hers in a desperate attempt for contact with his daughter. Far away on the other appearing docks, another Booker and Elizabeth continued on into a lighthouse shaped like in the life when his name was Jack.
"Okay," she said. Just like that, the water stopped still as a lake. Booker lost his breath, tightened his hold on her hand. He worked his jaw but couldn't form words. Elizabeth smiled to him, somber like when she gave the orange to a starving child. Elizabeth stood straight and eased Booker to his feet. Together they walked to the next lighthouse.
"We're going?" He couldn't believe it. After everything he'd seen, remembered, lived, this was what he couldn't believe.
"Yes. That's our path. I can see it."
"Our path? What about Comstock?" He didn't want to run a good thing but he had to be sure Elizabeth wasn't going to rabbit on him, or worse, lie the way he had to her. He convinced her to follow him to Paris; maybe she was doing the same.
"Comstock will die, but it isn't our path. Another Booker and another Elizabeth will kill him."
"But won't killing him . . . killing Comstock means killing me." And if he was gone, there'd be no Anna. With no Anna there'd be no Elizabeth. Booker squeezed her hand, heckles raised by dread.
"I don't want to lose you."
He couldn't. Not again. He couldn't kill himself if it meant her death as well. Booker had already chosen himself over his daughter – he wasn't doing it again.
Elizabeth watched him over her shoulder with the same, sorry little smile.
"Don't worry about it. Another Booker will do it. They won't be here for a while so we can enjoy a day together."
"A day?" The knowledge of more lifetimes than stars in the sky fighting for Elizabeth, trying to make up for his sin with Anna, and a day was all he got?
"Yes, a day is plenty time." She offered the quiet, not-really-there-smile again. "Come on, Booker."
His legs were walking without his command. He squeezed Elizabeth's hand again as he took the lead. Elizabeth opened a door to Paris, gray colored like a photograph until Booker drew close, color bleeding in before it consumed them. Cold night air hit his face, lights danced in his eyes, and the stench associated with city life blew over him. Elizabeth's heels clipped the stone street behind him as Booker kept walking, pausing only to stare at the Eifel Tower. They were there.
They were in Paris.