A/N: Originally posted on AO3; a friend suggested I crosspost here as well. So, voila!
His hands.
She was hurt. She was angry. Her mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Six months, it had been. Six months, they had poked and prodded and tried to manipulate her into serving them. Six months she had waited for him, hope slowly sliding away.
And then, there he was.
Her psyche had been rent. The gashes had scabbed over, hardened. Still, her stomach flipped and her blood danced when he approached. His fingers on her back, on the laces of her corset - even through the pain, she shivered with anticipation. Even as she threatened him, she wanted him.
His hands. Oh, God.
She had taken one of his hands, before they had come here, before she had been taken back, and guided it to her throat. It shouldn't have made her feel the way it had. She was asking him to kill her, for God's sake. But his warmth had passed into her and dived into her core. She had wanted more. She had wanted to be drawn into him.
Her books and her fantasies and her traipses through tears had not prepared her for this. She didn't know what to do with her desire, or with the strange, fluttering affection that she'd developed for him. They were fighting for their lives; there was no time for such nonsense. And, in any case, he was a scoundrel; he was a killer.
Then again, so was she, now.
And, well...he had come for her. He had fought his way across time to see her freed. He had told her, in so many words, that she was more than her power. Goodness, but he'd been prepared to trade her away, and yet he was the only person in her life who'd ever made her feel like a human being.
They moved through the mansion, quiet. Off to add yet another body to an already overflowing list. The most deserving of bodies, arguably.
She bent to pick a lock. Something about the feel and sound of the mechanism sliding out of place made her breath hitch. She staggered back, reached out to brace herself against a wall. She touched her face, wiped away tears, and looked down at her fingers in confusion. When had she started crying?
"Elizabeth..." He moved to stand in front of her. His hand hovered, hesitant.
His hand.
She grabbed it and pulled it down to her shoulder, where it lingered for a moment before drifting to her cheek. She leaned into it, gently pressing its back with her fingertips, turning her head so that the corner of her lips brushed his palm. She wanted to scream with rage and despair. She wanted to fall into him. It was an intense, desperate feeling. And it was insane.
"Elizabeth? Are you all right?"
"I'm..." she began. "What they did to me - what he did to me..." She shook her head. "I told you, once, that the tower and death were so alike that I could not tell the difference. Booker, I have been dead for six months."
He sighed and pulled her into a stiff, awkward hug. "I'm sorry. For not getting here faster." She slid her arms around his back, willing him to deepen the embrace. Did he not feel the same? God, but she needed him to. "But we're ending it. Now." His body began to relax. "And then, Paris. Or...anywhere. Anywhere at all you wanna go. I'll take you there." He held her now, one arm about her waist and the other across part of her upper back, his hand reaching up to cup the back of her neck.
She brought her hands to his chest and looked up at him. His muscles were hard beneath her palms. "Booker..." How was this supposed to work? And why was she letting it happen now?
She could see the indecision in his eyes. His breathing had changed, and his heart had started beating faster, and his desire was writ plain in the curve of his body and the twisting of his fingers. But he wasn't as far gone as she. He would pull away at any moment, she knew.
That was wise, wasn't it? It would be best to let him.
Instead, she grabbed his head and kissed him.
It was inexpert, of course; it was the first time she'd ever done it. But after a weak protest and play at disengagement, he met her halfway. He slid his tongue into her mouth and gave her an example to follow.
Such pain. Her mind cycled through images, disjointed. Not now. She pulled him closer. Raked her fingers through his hair, over his face, his neck, his shoulders, his back. His hands landed on her waist, and he pressed himself against her. His mouth made its way to her ear, where he paused to nip at the lobe and drag his tongue along the ridge, and then it moved to her jaw, and then to her neck, and then to her collarbone. Her body burned. She whimpered and, without even realizing it, circled her hips. He responded by groaning and thrusting his own. Well, that certainly felt nice.
God, the need for him. She wanted more of him; she wanted his skin. She wanted to soothe the hollow ache in the pit of her stomach. Was this what it was like, to have a lover? How would the rest go? Would she be satisfied, or would her hunger simply grow? Would it hurt, the way she'd read that it could?
He broke from her, taking a step back. His eyes had clouded over. And the expression on his face... She squirmed and swallowed, hard. Never stop looking at me like that. "Eh...mmm..." He cleared his throat. "We should, ah, keep moving."
The disappointment struck harder than it should have. She felt she might weep, as little sense as that made. He was right, after all. What had she expected? That he would take her, right there, in the open, on the floor of her father's house? People didn't do that, even people who weren't trapped in a nightmare. "Oh. Yes." She forced herself to nod. "I suppose we should."
He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Once we get out of here..."
She wondered if he noticed how she trembled, and what he made of it. She'd find out soon enough. The thought made her heart race.
But first, she had to kill a prophet.
And she had to not lose her mind in the process.