I really like Elsa. I just wish that her relationship with Cole, as well as her own thoughts on the affair, could have been explored more in the game. Unfortunately, I hadn't much to go on when writing these lonely souls together, but I hope that this was sufficient.
Word count: 496
It's ten forty-five at night, and Elsa is on break.
Cole's fingers shake slightly as he flips open his lighter. She steadies his hand. Placing her cigarette in her mouth, she lowers it toward the flame. The pack wavers in her hand as he takes one.
Leaning back on the stairwell's safety bar, he takes a liberal puff. His suit is rumpled, and his chest rises and falls hard. "You'll be seeing more of me," he begins softly, "I've been promoted to Vice."
She smirks. "I'll be on my best behavior."
His smile does not meet his eyes. "The Dahlia Killer, he won't bother you."
At the slight catch in his voice, Elsa drops her cigarette to stamp it out. She throws one arm about his shoulders. His knees buckle, bringing the two of them down. Cole's cigarette falls out of his hand as he buries his head in her shoulder, drinking heavily the smell of her perfume.
Elsa kisses the side of his head and neck. She can smell the odors of his cologne, and alcohol. Cole hiccups, his body jerking against hers.
With his Colt firmly grasped between his hands, and his wedding band cutting into his finger, Cole stared down at Garrett's motionless body.
Some nights Cole had watched Marie sleep, chilled at the possibility of examining her naked body, a taunting message to Detective Phelps carved into her flesh. His wife was safe now, but there had been no comfort, only disappointment at the fact that the public would never know the Dahlia Killer's identity.
Disturbingly, he wanted attention for his deeds like a serial murderer once had. Cole drowned such thoughts in high-quality booze.
Elsa draws out, rising to cup his chin in her hand, and tilt it up. "How much have you had to drink?"
He holds up three fingers.
"I'll take you home."
Cole stands as well, and pulls her in for a crushing kiss. Shoving her back against the bar, he bites and sucks at her lips, groping her breast through the fabric of her dress.
Elsa has five minutes left on break, her hair and clothes are rumpled, and her lipstick is streaked along her chin.
He draws out, dropping his hands on either side of the bar. The smoke and scotch on his breath ghost over her, his leg between her thighs.
Cole sees the marks from the syringes on her arms, and Elsa knows the Golden Boy can place his handcuffs on a junkie like her without so much as a "Thank you, ma'am."
She places her hand to his cheek, holding down the cry building in her throat at the thought of his daughters worriedly asking after their daddy's safety, only to be sent to bed by their exhausted mother.
It's one fifty-nine, and a book falls to the floor from Marie Phelps's hand. She lays asleep, clad in a robe, upon the living room couch.
The lamp remains on as the clock chimes.