AN: Hello everyone!
Okay, first and foremost, until Bioshock Infinite, I have NEVER encountered a canon couple in anything that I liked enough to write fanfiction/draw fanart for. All of the fanfics I've submitted here over the years all have an OC in them for the male character I most admire (yeah I'm a loser, moving on). And like every romance-junkie that fell madly in love with Bioshock Infinite, I spent the ENTIRE game wishing, cheering, screaming, PANICKING over Booker and Elizabeth. I wanted them together SO BADLY. I had delusional fantasies of Booker and Elizabeth running away to Paris and opening up a casino at the end. So when the big-reveal happened...I wasn't pleased. One little bit. I was a basket-case of anger and depression for DAYS afterwards.
So I started thinking. And researching. And noticed I don't seem to be the only one who feels Booker and Elizabeth should have ended up together. This fanfic will contain all of my energy and feelings for this couple. Anybody who cries "EEW, INCEST!" will be ignored. I'm not in it for the reviews or the trolls. I'm exercising a God-damn demon.
So, thank you for taking the time to read this. As a guideline, I will only be rewriting the chapters relevant to my story. It can safely be assumed that anything I don't cover occurs as-is in the game.
I also want to take a moment to give a shout-out thank-you to Bite-of-Biscuit, my oldest friend, writing partner, and the world's greatest editor/beta reader. She is always kind enough to lend her legendary skills to edit my drab litelse fantasies. :)
Guns for the Lady
As it had been dealing with the worker riots in Portland, the everyday world of Columbia's working class was a far cry from the clear-aired, alabaster splendor of Monument Island and Soldier's Field. But once again, Columbia's extremes were enough to make Booker DeWitt take pause. A small, but noticeable cord inside of him had been struck the moment he and Elizabeth had stepped off the carpet-lined elevator from the Worker's Induction hall, which connected the polished, orderly structures of Finkton Manufacturing to the Plaza of Zeal.
The Plaza was a sprawling, dilapidated ring that circled a network of high buildings with a a centerpiece of warehouses. But the true eyesore was an enourmous stage, garish as red at a funeral, that was placed at the foremost part of the neighborhood. It was an auctioneer's platform, decorated with the traditional studded lights and obnoxious, ever-present patriotic drapery of Columbia. Booker gathered the bidding wars here were not over goods; a wooden wall as wide as the stage had been built behind a podium, and shone with brass plates engraved with employment categories.
He put those thoughts aside to further glance about the plaza. Time was slowly ravaging the old, brick buildings that had most likely been the floating city's very first structures. Hard, relentless use from a large population had rendered the area to a lackluster district, with time's wounds to the windows and walls ineffectively bandaged by brittle scrap wood.
Booker and Elizabeth's search for Chen Lin's gunshop had been mercifully short. Unfortunately their luck hadn't extended to dealing with the following madness. They'd spent the remainder of the day locating the imprisoned gunsmith, only to find his mangled, bloody corpse in the depths of a prison basement. At least Elizabeth's unusual talents provided them with a second opportunity to meet with Chen Lin. But time was going against them; the golden-red hues of evening sun had long since disappeared when they crossed into the unlocked gates of the Shantytown ghetto.
Booker watched Elizabeth from his peripheral vision as she leaned heavily against the filthy wall of a short tunnel nearby. He could tell she was exhausted - her ashen face was covered with grimy smudges, her eyes glassy, bloodshot, and the irises standing out like watery blue gems.
She wasn't the only one either; Booker didn't need a mirror to know he was every bit as haggard and worn down as she was. He dipped his fingers into the breast pocket of his vest and produced a silver pocket watch. A practiced flip of his thumb sent the lid upwards, revealing the simple, black and white face within. The elegant needle-thin arms crept closer to midnight, and he knew they would need to find a place to rest soon.
"The man said the police impound was off the Bull Yard," Elizabeth said, gesturing towards the street that connected with the tunnel's opposite side. "But there's a bar over there...Maybe we can check for supplies?"
Booker shook his head and tucked his watch away. "We've gone as far as we can today. We need to find a safe place."
Elizabeth looked around, her eyebrows drawing together in a thoughtful knit. "Where?"
"We'll find somewhere. In the mean time, we'll go check that place out," Booker replied, pointing towards the end of the street. Elizabeth followed his finger to the bar, which was located across a small, empty courtyard at the base of a staircase. She nodded, covering a yawn with the back of her hand as she moved away from the wall and fell into step beside Booker as they started for the other side of the street.
Elizabeth paused halfway up the street. Realizing she was no longer beside him a few steps too late, Booker craned his head over his shoulder and immediately saw what had captured her attention. It was an old Columbia propaganda poster that had been vandalized. Although the parchment's original photographs had faded and its edges were frayed and peeling, the ugly, red letters that had been painted across it stood out like a bloodstain.
Seed of the Prophet? Whatever you call her, we don't need her.
Booker's gaze slid to Elizabeth. With her shoulders tense and weary face somber, she was clearly disturbed by the sign. It was her hand that made his heart clench tightly; her thumb brushed over the pads of her middle and index fingers while she absently flexed her wrist. The gesture was subtle and feminine, yet it hit him as soundly as a punch in the gut.
Her voice was a soft whisper when she finally spoke. "I read all about men who enslaved the people they were supposed to lead and made themselves rich while the rest starved. I hated them. I couldn't understand how they lived with themselves. And I see I'm the one to blame for the suffering of so many..." she trailed off, her head dropping low as she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
"You know that isn't true," Booker said, experiencing a flash of base, masculine panic at her obvious distress. "Jeremiah Fink is the bastard running this circus, and Comstock condones it because he pushes all his goddamn Prophet propaganda. You're not involved with-"
"I am involved, Mr. DeWitt. My father wanted me to carry on his... legacy, and he made sure everyone in Columbia knew it. I'm sure he used Fink in every way he could to keep me in that tower...and look what Fink did to make himself useful." Elizabeth gestured to the bleak ghetto crowding around them. Her chest heaved from the force of her breath and she wrapped her arms around herself again, a shattered vase holding the crystal-clear fragments together.
Booker inwardly cursed. He despised women's tears, as he assumed any man did. But behind that, he felt himself responding to Elizabeth's growing despair and her unwitting role in Comstock's wretched plans. His history as a Pinkerton agent had rendered him detached and unaffected to the symptoms of an impoverished workforce. But Elizabeth had genuine sympathy for the people's deplorable living conditions under Fink's pious rule. Booker knew from personal experience that harboring those feelings would get you killed, but asking her to put it aside was akin to asking her to change the color of her eyes. Despite her lonely upbringing, she was the sort of woman who had kindness and compassion woven into her soul, as much a part of her as white feathers on a dove.
"Elizabeth," he said, gentle as he carefully laid a hand between her shoulder blades. "You can't think like that."
She kept her eyes planted on the ground as her body began to sway. Instinctually he moved, stepping in front of her and catching her arms in a firm grip. But she was too absorbed in her melancholy and, coupled with her exhaustion, the momentum brought her body against his.
Booker's breath hitched as his grip tightened to keep her afoot. His body froze, with the exception of his heart thundering against his sternum. Beneath the soft texture of her ruined blouse's cotton was the slender frame of her shoulders, the muscles trembling with subtle quivers. The sensation jarred the pointed reminder that he had not held a woman like this in years - like lifting the first hand of cards from a new, crisp deck at the start of a poker game. Booker tried to look down at her, but the brush of her silky, dark-brown hair on the underside of his chin, her forehead resting upon his collar, severed all connection between his body and mind.
With every second his blood grew warmer, the sensation striking with an acute, addictive sweetness he'd almost forgotten. The linen of his shirt and necktie absorbed the flurry of her uneven breathing, turning the fabric beneath her lips hot as her fingers twisted around the lapels of his dark gray vest.
"Elizabeth..." Booker murmured, his voice a strained whisper as she took in an enormous breath and sunk even closer to him, forcing him to widen his stance to keep her from pressing her hips fully against his. In that moment he nearly let go of her shoulders, the nerves in his fingers longing to slide across the planes of her back and pull her closer.
The quiet sigh she released sparked him worse than the after-effects of drinking Shock Jocky. Mercilessly, it cut through the layers of his clouded mind with the ice-cold stab of reality. He swore through clenched teeth and pushed her upright, leaving his hands on her shoulders just long enough to be sure she wouldn't collapse. He turned and walked a few paces from her, rubbing his palm hard over his face and taking a steadying breath.
God damn it all, he was an indecent man - although he wasn't ancient by any means of the imagination, thirty-seven and still the object of some attraction, if the murmurs of Columbia's women were to be believed. The world didn't exactly frown on drastic age differences either, as long as the woman was at least eighteen, but Elizabeth? A lifetime of solitary confinement, save for books on every subject and a flying mechanical beast, had installed a bizarre mixture of worldly intelligence and naïveté in her. She most likely understood the concepts of the act, but strictly from a perspective of reproduction. Booker doubted she was aware of the kind of havoc her closeness had wrecked on his body as she struggled to master her emotions. Therefore, any involvement beyond his assumed role as protector-transporter would be beyond reprehensible, even to his standards.
"M-Mr. DeWitt?"
He winced at her uncertain, apologetic tone. She had nothing to be sorry for - the fault was entirely his.
"Let's go," Booker said and, without a glance backward, resumed walking towards the sunken courtyard. Elizabeth said nothing more and followed him down the cracked, concrete staircase that connected the main street to the small quadrangle the entrance of the bar occupied.
The Graveyard Shift was as dismal a place as the rest of Shantytown. With a critical glance around, Booker surmised that it occupied the last inhabitable section of a warehouse that had long since been condemned, even by the destitute standards of Fink's workforce. The entrance had been carved out of the service-delivery area, with just enough wiring strung above it to power a fluorescent blue-green sign with the bar's name. The door itself was in even worse condition, constructed entirely of marred scrap wooden planks, discolored by the elements.
Booker reached out and carefully grasped the grimy brass bar that served as a handle. He glanced over his shoulder, finding Elizabeth on his heels and ready.
"Let me handle any talking," he said, receiving an agreeable murmur to the statement as he pulled door open, the muscles in his arm flexing harder than he'd anticipated.
Booker stepped inside first and held the door open for Elizabeth, who followed gracefully inside. On instinct, he gazed about the bar and found the exits and windows for a quick escape while noting anyone that may have taken an interest in their presence. To his relief, the Graveyard Shift was a single room with a scuffed tack floor covered with a moldering, paper-thin carpet. Aside from the long line of the bar, there were only five tables, four of which revolved around a long, rectangular center cluttered with half-empty bottles, an in-progress poker game, and a machete standing erect upon the table, the blade sunk deep into the wood. The only person who took any remote interest in their arrival was the grizzled owner, who was idly passing a filthy rag over the bar's surface. The rest of the patrons were presumably regulars, absorbed in the card game going on at the center table or drunkenly snoozing in their seats.
Booker jerked his head towards the wall, where a trio of Columbian automan dispensers were set up. Unlike the ones elsewhere in the Floating City, these were in dire need of repairs and maintenance. Someone had also removed the machines' phonographs, rendering their trumpeting announcements silent. But they were powered, their mechanical arms twitching disjointedly as the lightbulbs in their eyes and frames flickered erratically. They were the first functioning kind he'd seen since arriving in Shantytown with some hope of being useful.
"Go see if any of those automan have something we need," Booker said quietly, carefully passing Elizabeth a handful of Silver Eagles. She nodded and walked over to the machines, taking care not to disturb anyone she passed.
Making eye-contact with the bartender, Booker crossed the room with soft but purposeful strides. With the practiced ease only a haunted man could possess, he took a seat on one of the rickety wooden stools and gestured for the barman to come over.
"Don't want no trouble, Mister..." he said, bending over long enough to retrieve a wide-barreled shotgun from under the counter.
"Neither do I," Booker replied, his hands lifted in a surrendering gesture.
"So what do you want?" the man grunted, shifting a smoldering, three-inch long stogie to the corner of his mouth. Accustomed to the smoke, Booker leaned on his forearms and tilted his head to avoid direct inhalation of the noxious fumes.
"You always greet your customers like this?"
"Just the ones that clearly aren't from this side of the elevators. So, what do you want?"
"I need a place for the night."
"What?" the barkeep returned the gun to the shadows under the counter.
"You heard me," Booker said, his voice lowered as he glanced at the right wall's door. "The girl and I need to disappear for a few hours."
Realization crossed the barkeep's face, and he casually stole a look at Elizabeth while he reached for one of the chipped shot glasses stacked nearby.
"I'm not running a cathouse, son; you'll have to take your dame elsewhere."
Booker's eyes narrowed at the suggestion, but he chose not to make it a dispute and instead reached into the back right pocket of his pants to retrieve the clump of Eagle bills. The transaction he was about to make was one he'd made plenty of times before in other parts of the world, but never when another was depending so much on him.
"Just looking for a safe place for the lady to sleep. We'll be gone when the sun comes up," Booker said, flicking the edges of four five-dollar bills away from the fold and fanning them for the barkeep. "That's for the use of your basement, provided no one else is down there."
Booker resisted the urge to allow any sort of break in his expression as he watched the barkeep eye the money. He was remarkably composed, although his eyes had widened at the amount. Booker wondered how Fink had managed to enslave such a huge workforce if twenty silver eagles was enough to tempt a booze-slinger. But he wasn't totally convinced it would be enough to ensure the man's silence either; he added another two bills to the fan.
"That's for your trouble. And that's to make sure you understand that no one's ever seen us before."
A line of sweat beaded along the barman's forehead. He was making an effort to not draw the room's attention - it had likely been years since he'd seen so much money in one place, and ifnoticed, very likely to cause a riot.
Another two bills were added. "This is to get her something decent to eat, some hot water and soap. And a razor."
"I hear you, Mister. Basement's yours for the night. I may have all the rest in the back..."
A glinting yellow hue on the liquor shelf caught Booker's attention. He squinted at the formation of dusty, half-empty bottles and recognized the triangular silhouette of a Lutece Infusion bottle.
Unnerved by his sudden silence, the barman asked quietly, "See something else you like, Mister?"
Booker jabbed his smallest finger at the shelf. "I'll take the Lutece Infusion."
"...those ain't easy to come by. What're you willing to pay for it?"
Booker scowled and produced a final five dollar bill and folded it into the roll in his hand before holding it out to make a discreet exchange with a handshake. The barkeep took hold eagerly, although his gleeful expression was cut short when Booker tightened his fingers to a knuckle-crushing grip.
"We were never here. If I have any trouble from this moment until we walk away, I'll break every bone in your face and drown you in that barrel of piss you call whiskey."
"Yessir...never saw you," the man hissed, his bloodshot eyes watering as he struggled not to squirm. Satisfied, Booker released the barman and turned to find Elizabeth. She was bent over the dispension box of the Dollar Bill, one hand feeling around its depths. A large bottle of Invigorating Salts, a Health Tonic, and two boxes of ammunition were tucked in the crook of her other arm. Beaming as she found a third box of bullets, Elizabeth straightened and hurried across the room to Booker. He nodded once in approval, relieved to see that there had been a few supplies in the old automan. He took the newly acquired Lutece Infusion from the barkeep and added it to the collection in her arms.
"Lead the way," Booker said to the barman. Elizabeth gave him a questioning look, but thankfully kept silent as they followed their host across the room to the curtained door. Beyond the cobweb-draped frame was a short, unlit corridor that connected the bar's main parlor to a platform, open-sided staircase.
"It's just down those stairs...Make yourselves at home. I'll be a minute to get the rest of things..."
"Booker?" Elizabeth asked, worriedly watching the barkeep bustle away.
"Don't worry. He just agreed to let us camp in his basement until the sun comes up."
"He's okay with just...Letting us in like this?"
"Trust me, I made it worth his while," Booker muttered as he drew one of the Paddywhacker Hand Canons from the holsters on his belt and approached the top of the staircase.
"Be careful..."
Booker nodded as he pulled the gun's filigreed trigger back and approached the top of the steps. This wasn't the first improvised campsite he had bribed himself into; he learned much from slumming during the Battle of Wounded Knee, including to never enter a campsite without a weapon raised.
The high, industrial-sized windows on the opposite wall let no outside light in, leaving the room to be illuminated by a trio of ceiling fans set with dull, fluorescent lights. Booker gestured for Elizabeth to stay before he fully turned the corner, the gleaming Paddywhacker raised. As he had done when they'd entered the bar, Booker surveyed the basement. Like the prison chambers in the Good Times Club, the room was a gloomy, dank space in the flotilla's bowel. The bare stone walls were covered in large,grimy wooden shelves, unsteady with their loads of beer barrels, forgotten oddities, and scraps of empty produce crates. The room was partially divided by an additional set of barrel racks and a support beam Booker judged to be rotting.
The staircase creaked and moaned loudly with every step Booker took. When he reached the center platform there was a bump and a sudden scuffling noise. Booker looked down in time to see a filthy scrap-of-a-boy with an apple clutched in his hands dive around his legs and sprint away. When the quiet returned he rolled his shoulders and walked down the rest of the stairs. An expedient search revealed no other occupants, freeing him to take a closer look. On one side of the shelf was a pair of rickety wooden chairs with a crate between them. On its surface sat a flickering oil lantern and beside it an acoustic guitar, precariously balanced against a chair. Behind the whole setup was a filthy mattresshalf-buriedin a pallet of straw. Beyond the divider stood a vast, deep sink, its faucet a constant pitter of dropping water, and a pile of wool blankets.
"It's clear," Booker called as he holstered the Paddywacker. Elizabeth arrived at the foot of the steps and placed her inventory on the crate with what he could only describe as a controlled spill. The glass of the Lutece Infusion, Invigorating Salts, and Health Tonic clinked as they were jostled into place beside the boxes of ammunition. She heaved a shallow breath and combed her fingers through the loose strands of hair that had escaped its limp, silk ribbon.
Booker heard the barman coming back down the steps and turned to face him. The man's expression was carefully blank as he held up a box filled with the additional items he'd been bribed for. After a quick inspection, Booker took the small crate with a nod. The barkeep put his hands together in a brief, universal gesture of thanks and walked back up the steps.
"Sink on the other side of the room's got hot water."
Elizabeth watched him vanish into the hallway at the top of the steps before peering into the box in Booker's hands.
"What's all that?"
"Couple extra supplies for the night," he replied, plucking up the brick of soap and handing it to her.
"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, her features bright under the dirt as she darted to the other side of the room, her boots kicked away in impatience as she twisted on the faucet. Booker stifled a chuckle at the sounds of feminine, euphoric sighing as the footwear hit the floor with dull thuds.
Elizabeth's knees nearly buckled as her feet touched the floor. Every nerve and tendon in her legs vibrated with aggravated nerves, thankful to have the curse of the heels shucked aside. Women's footwear were simply not constructed to be worn while spending prolonged hours participating in gun fights, zip lining on sky rails, and escaping armed, religious zealots.
She flexed her toes, frowning at the small hole that had formed in the heel her stocking. Not that there was any help for it, or the rest of her ruined clothing. She brought her hand up to the wide gash in her sleeve, her fingers tugging at the dangling scrap of cotton. A less intense version of the hot, tight sensation she'd felt when she'd seen the two-way mirrors in her tower was starting to form in her chest. Despite never wanting to return to that place, she wished she could go to her dresser and get a fresh change of clothes and take a long, hot soak in a bath. The desires puzzled her greatly - was the feeling some form of vanity?
Elizabeth sighed and leaned back against the tub-like sink as the tepid water began to run warm at last. She'd considered herself versed in psychology, the meanings, and descriptions of emotions and thought she'd experienced enough of them all to tell them apart. How arrogant and foolish that thought seemed now; every hour spent outside her gilded prison made the stormy chaos in her heart blow faster and harder.
She looked across the ramshackle divider, where Booker had sunk into one of the chairs by the crate. Her heart seized with a rush of bittersweet compassion. Booker DeWitt was a haunted wreck of a man, betrayed by the shroud of anguish that clouded him when no others thought to look. From what little she had gleaned of his past during their misadventure, Booker spent years leading a difficult life. Granted, he'd brought some of his struggles on himself; she had enough sense to know gambling and drinking were long, inevitable roads to a dark, inescapable place. He'd chosen to do those things, whether out of grief for his deceased wife and stillborn child, to drown his guilt for the countless deaths he was responsible for, or simply because one habit naturally followed the other.
Elizabeth stripped off her stockings and draped them over the rim of the sink and decided that she would try not to judge him. The burden of the deep scars he carried were punishment enough.
She glanced around the area of the sink as she tore the string and brown paper off the soap brick Booker had given her. A pile of semi-folded wool blankets were heaped beside an empty barrel and there was a dusty, chipped basin on the shelf in the divider.
"You know, with some creativity, I'll bet we could get pretty close to a bath."
"By all means, be creative."
Elizabeth grinned as she picked up the basin and put it beneath the water stream and turned to the barrel. A quick inspection revealed it to be empty, and she seized it with both hands. Luckily its weight wasn't unmanageable and she was able to push it around to the front of the sink. She grinned and hoisted herself onto the barrel, pulling and tugging her skirts and petticoat layers until they were gathered up in her lap. With her legs bare, Elizabeth lowered her feet into the sink and leaned forward to pick up the basin. She poured the dusty water out of the cracked ceramic dish and began to refill it, holding the bar of soap beneath the faucet with her free hand. As spartan as it was, the frothy lather felt like a celestial cloud against her skin as she began to drop handfuls of it over her shins and feet.
Elizabeth glanced over at Booker again. He had changed seats, tactfully angling it so his back was completely turned to her. She could feel her cheeks heating at the implication, but that was immediately overrun with gratitude. Booker DeWitt wasn't exactly the knight-in-shining-armor the fairy tales and ladies periodicals described as the ideal hero. His laundry list of flaws...the extreme self-loathing, brusque manners, and jaded outlook on life were enough to mark him as a villain in that confectionary literature. In her eyes it was offset by his physical and mental strengths to adapt in dangerous situations and the biochemical effects of Vigor potions. His courage was a hard-won supplement that stemmed from those ordeals, and so was his profound common sense. She knew that the Songbird would succeed in taking her back to her father and the Monument Tower if anyone other than Booker DeWitt had been the one to free her.
Elizabeth chose to take further advantage of the soap, warm water and semi-privacy. Once she had taken care of her legs, feet, and stockings, she tugged her blouse from her skirt's waistline and undid the tiny pearl buttons. Leaving the ragged material on, she cleaned her face, neck, chest, and underarms. The wool blanket on the top of the pile was used as a makeshift towel and set aside. With most of the past two day's filth and sweat washed away at last, Elizabeth felt infinitely more relaxed and comfortable. She noticed an old comb among the bits and scraps as she draped her damp stockings on the edge of the divider shelf, and decided that using it wouldn't cause any harm. She picked it up and blew across the surface, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.
"Thank-you again for the soap, Mr. DeWitt," she said as she meandered back into the main area of the room, reaching behind her head to untie her hair ribbon. Booker glanced up at her and waved off her gratitude with a nonchalant gesture.
"Booker...just Booker."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes and smiled as she took the opposite seat from him and swept her hair around her right shoulder. She collected the mass of it and began to run the comb through the last five or so inches, adjusting the angle of the broken teeth when they hit a larger snare.
"What gave you the idea to do all of this?"
Booker heaved an exhausted sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck and brought a pack of cigarettes out of his left pocket. "I've had some experience finding places to get a few hours of shut-eye on the run."
"And bar basements are the ideal places?"
Booker smirked as he tore a match out of the paper book that was sitting beside the oil lantern. "For us...yes. The way Fink runs this place, no one is going to be poking around the local gin-joint until someone doesn't show up to work. By then we'll be back on the move."
Elizabeth nodded as a curl of fragrant, blue-gray smoke floated out of Booker's parted lips. "There's plenty of soap left if you would like to freshen up."
"I do need a shave," he said, passing a hand over the day-old beard covering his jaw. Elizabeth eyes caught the scrap of blue fabric she'd torn from her skirt and wrapped around the knife wound in his palm from the airship station. Since the incident, the fabric had turned stiff and discolored to an unsightly shade of dark maroon from the blood it had absorbed.
"How is your hand?"
Booker raised his wounded palm to the dim shaft of light above their heads and slowly flexed his fingers. The gesture was made with a visible effort, but his middle and ring fingers bent only somewhat - not that she was surprised, since the blade had gone right between the tendons of those fingers. "I'll be all right."
He dropped his hand back to his knee and gave her a slight, reassuring smile. Elizabeth returned it with a humoring nod, but didn't believe for a moment that the injury wasn't causing him pain. According the ladies periodicals and psychology texts, men were always reluctant to admit any sort of vulnerability or discomfort. At least that seemed to be holding true, right up to her misunderstanding about why the male species thought it was a necessity to begin with.
With the tangles in her hair smoothed out at last, Elizabeth retied the ribbon at the base of her neck and placed the comb on their makeshift table. She looked over their stockpile of items, wishing that the Dollar Bill automan upstairs had been stocked with a larger Health Tonic bottle. It would be better than nothing of course, and at least repair a little more of the torn flesh in his hand.
Their eyes met for a long, silent moment. Elizabeth immediately found herself caught in a strange kind of enthrallment as the seconds rolled by, feeling as if a swarm of butterflies had filled her stomach. Booker was a handsome man...so much so that none of the others in Columbia had looks she preferred over his. There was no comparison between their shingled, pomaded haircuts and meticulously groomed faces against Booker's roughish, dark green eyes and rumpled, side-swept hair.
Privately, Elizabeth admitted to herself that it was becoming more and more difficult to remember that Booker had no intention whatsoever to take her to Paris, as he'd promised back on the artificial beach on Monument Island. Those lies had been exposed during that terrible encounter on the First Lady Airship. He wanted to take her to New York and hand her over to...to someone...to pay off a huge gambling debt. She could only guess at who the someone was, why they wanted her, or even how they knew of her existence. Whoever they were, money was apparently no object - just as it had been for Comstock, and she had a lifetime of experience on how people like that treated their "investments." She would be alone, locked up, and hidden from the world again, with only the memories of her short jaunt at freedom to console herself with.
Yet, despite the knowledge of the terrible things Booker had done and was capable of doing, and the question of how they would part ways looming between them like a heavy morning fog, Elizabeth still trusted him. She couldn't understand the reason why, or identify the subtle, warm feeling that accompanied it. Was it her first real attraction to a man, or a twisted psychological response in the form of an attachment to the one who had freed her? She had no way of knowing for sure, and at this time of night, she wasn't inclined to ponder the complications of their relationship. She would simply have to remember that at the end of the day, she would have to keep living as she always had - relying only on herself.
Elizabeth's focus shifted from the deep, mossy green color of his eyes to the scar that cut across his right eyebrow, partially hidden by the sweeping layers of his hair. She wondered where it had come from, but chose to not ask, seeing as most of her previous questions regarding his past were all related to sordid, painful memories he didn't want to discuss.
"You all right?"
"Oh...yes, I'm fine, thank-you," she replied, her heartbeat turning heavy as she glanced around their dim surroundings for something to retrain her gaze on. The guitar sitting between them seemed to anxiously await being noticed, it's neck surface covered with a dull sheen of fingerprints from frequent handling. The pear shaped body showed similar signs of hard use, with scuffs around the edges and the faded, indistinguishable remains of a painted motif. She reached over and touched the surface, carefully trailing her fingers down the taught, thick strings and causing them to squeak and vibrate.
Elizabeth gave Booker a sheepish grin as he raised a questioning eyebrow to her.
"Wish I could play... might dispel some of the gloom."
Booker's eyes gradually closed and he shook his head, his mouth breaking into a rueful smile as wrapped his fingers around the neck of the instrument and pulled it into his lap. Elizabeth clasped her fingers together and bit her lower lip to smother her excitement as he began to strum and pull the strings while his free hand twisted a few of the ivory knobs at the top of the guitar. She'd always wanted to learn how to play a string instrument, but like so many things she had studied in her library, what tools she received for the practical application of her studies had been entirely up to her jailers. The way his index finger and thumb moved over the strings was fascinating, in complete coordination with his other hand skirting back and forth over the instrument's neck. She realized that different notes were created when the strings on the neck were pressed down at even intervals, even prolonged when pushed upwards.
The gentle, twangy sounds were eventually organized into a melody Elizabeth easily recognized, and the soothing notes gradually filled the dismal room. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to release the impulse climbing up her throat, taking soft, long breath.
"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."
Booker's eardrums pulsed with a rush of blood as he looked at Elizabeth. He hadn't expected her to start singing...but he also couldn't exactly account for why he began playing the damn guitar in the first place, considering he hadn't touched one since his career as a soldier had ended at Wounded Knee.
Booker watched his fingers strum and pluck the strings, trying to recall the soldier in his regiment that used to play a guitar during the long, dreary nights. There was a frustratingly blank place in his mind where the man's face and name should have been...all he could remember was how comforting the man's music was, and how he had pulled the guitar off the man's scalped, muddy corpse in the rainy aftermath of a battle. Booker had been the one to play the music that night...and the night after, and the night after, until he and the rest of the survivors all trudged away from the battlefields to go home.
"There are loved ones...in the Glory...whose dear forms we often miss...when you close your...earthly story, will you join them in their bliss?"
Booker's eyes drifted shut as Annabelle's face, or what remained that he could still remember, drifted to the forefront of his mind. He immediately forced the image away, but not before his heart tensed and...beat on as it always did. Nineteen years had had passed since Annabelle and his stillborn daughter's deaths - more than enough time for grief to be drowned in an ocean of alcohol and card games. He knew that eventually, the lingering impressions of her wavy black hair, her porcelain white skin, and almond brown eyes would completely vanish from his memory. If God existed and had any kind of mercy, Booker hoped he would see a small shred of it when he finally died - not to spare his wretched, blood-soaked soul, nothing could do that...but to make him forget Annabelle entirely before he crossed into Hell to pay for his sins.
"In the joyous days of childhood...Oft they told of wond'rous love ...Pointed to the dying Saviour...Now they dwell with Him...above..."
God...despite his comfortable, albeit brief childhood, Annabelle's unshakable faith, and religion being thrown in his face every waking moment, especially Columbia's Americana brand of Catholicism...Booker could never bring himself to believe in any if it. The concept of God, the bible's teachings, the supposed endless mercy and forgiveness...it was all too damn good to be true.
"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."
Booker considered himself damned even it all turned out to be exactly as the preachers said. Wounded Knee...if he could go back he would seize his sixteen year old self by the scruff of his neck and explain, while dunking his head repeatedly into a horse trough, that he wasn't a man, wouldn't be one for years, and had no business participating in a war just because he could.
That time had bred some savage part of himself into an uncontrollable demon, far worse than any Indian he'd slaughtered. Back then, Booker had reveled in the brutality of the kill and subsequent trophies...watching life fade away as he flayed skin and hair from his victims heads. Lucifer himself would have shunned the macabre belt he'd strung his prizes into. Worse was that Booker hadn't felt remorse for any of it until much later in his life, after Annabelle had passed and true adulthood set in…far too late for any kind of real hope or redemption.
"You remember songs of heaven...Which you sang...with childish voice...Do you love the hymns they taught you? Or are your songs...of earth...your choice?"
Elizabeth's voice came through the overwhelming tide of his thoughts, the gentle softness eroding Booker's bleak reflections like a burst of moonlight breaking through rainclouds. He looked at her and saw that she too, was lost in the song and her thoughts, her eyes closed and face tilted up to the ceiling. With most of the filth from their troubles washed off at last, she looked like an angel that had tumbled off a cloud.
Booker had never met anyone like her before - an otherworldly creature filled with innate kindness, selflessness, and compassion that possessed a terrifying, world-altering power. As far as he was concerned, if Elizabeth wanted to rule the earth, she could very well have it groveling at her feet. He'd known many men who would have done just that if they had her abilities...but she regarded them as a curse more than a means of world domination, and used them to dream or defend herself against bees.
"One by one their...seats were emptied...one by one, they went away. Now the family...is parted...will it be complete one day?"
Booker knew that he was becoming too involved with Elizabeth, but he would have to be heartless, blind, and cold-blooded to not be attracted to her beauty, intelligence, and adventurousness. Her delight was infectious, from her overzealous excitement for exploring and using a sky hook to ride Columbia's cargo rails, to the pleasure she took in trying confectionary sweets like cotton candy, caramel popcorn, and ice cream. She stubbornly held on to her optimism and hope for life, despite the terrible cards she had been dealt in her upbringing and her turbulent present circumstances - including the ones that he was responsible for.
Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt.
The deal that had seemed like a God-send when it was made to him had turned into something far more dangerous and complicated. As hard as he fought it, Booker didn't want to give Elizabeth to anyone, especially whoever was willing to free him from his financial problems with Portland's kingpins. He could no longer envision the new life he had planned for himself without her, the dream now taking the shape of escaping Columbia and going on the lam to disappear in her dream-city...
"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, Lord...by and by... Is a better home awaiting? In the sky? Oh, in...the sky..."
Elizabeth brought her hands up and ran her palms over her cheeks as the last handful of notes drifted into the shadows, hoping her blush wasn't noticeable. It had been the first time she'd ever knowingly sang in front of someone, and she was grateful that Booker hadn't seemed to mind it.
"You have a nice voice."
She raised an eyebrow as he leaned the guitar against the dividing shelf. He smirked and took the spent cigarette from his lips, the two-inch line of ash collapsing into the air as he dropped the smoldering butt to the floor and crushed it beneath his boot.
"Its soft...soothing."
"Thank-you...I never would have guessed you could...play guitar..." she said through an immense yawn that required both hands to hide. The second wind from her makeshift bath was wearing thin, and the lead weight of exhaustion was quickly coming back to her. She leaned over her lap and rubbed her eyes as they began to burn with tired, salt-filled tears.
"Eat something and get some sleep. We only have a few hours until dawn."
Elizabeth shook her head as Booker got to his feet and stretched, lacing his fingers together and bending his palms outwards to crack his knuckles .
"I'm too tired to eat just now..."
He gestured to the bare mattress and straw pile behind the crate and chairs. "Try to sleep then. It probably won't be comfortable."
She glanced at the pitiful cot and shrugged. "I'm honestly so tired I don't think I'll notice."
Booker threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and heartfelt, the first she'd ever heard from him. She beamed and began to giggle.
"What's so funny?"
Booker shook his head and walked to the other side of the room, curling his fingertips and scratching the back of his head until locks of his hair began to form a cowlick.
"Nothing, just...any other woman would have been howling with complaints by now."
"Oh..." she reached up and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear before standing up and arching her back in a stretch. The top hem and boning of her corset dug into her skin, but her backbone and right shoulder released a soft, satisfying pop. She looked up upon hearing Booker whistle for her attention, and caught the mass of wool blanket that he had tossed at her. Murmuring her thanks, she turned and spread it across the expanse of mattress and straw, averting her eyes and mind from the possibility of rodents and insects.
Elizabeth sighed as she allowed her body to tumble onto the uneven cluster of surfaces. Thankfully the blankets weren't damp or unbearably musty-smelling. She took in a deep breath and shifted her position, trying to leave enough space for Booker, in case he chose to sleep as well.
She felt her heart go light at the idea - not that she objected to Booker getting some much-needed rest - she knew that he wouldn't hurt her, and she felt perfectly safe from outside intruders and the Songbird. No, the fluttering sensation in her chest she tentatively called self-consciousness was coming from the idea of him being sleeping so...close to her.
Elizabeth craned her head so she could look up. From her place on the floor she could see Booker at the sink, his form dimly lit from the flickering light bulb above his head. He was pulling his shirt off over his head, having already discarded his holsters, necktie, and vest. She froze, unable to stop herself from watching - she'd never seen an unclothed man in person before, and although Booker still wore an undershirt, enough of his body was on display to pique her interest. He was built like a cast-iron statue, his muscles heavy and rippling with every movement. The sleeveless, low-cut undershirt revealed a broad chest, covered with a dustingoff dark hair and an intricate, black shape on his right bicep... a tattoo?
Wanting to avoid a potential, terribly awkward moment, Elizabeth forced herself to lower her head and close her eyes. She spent a short moment berating herself - she now knew first hand how unpleasant it was to be watched without one's knowledge, and Booker had been a perfect gentleman while she refreshed herself. She took in a deep breath and folded her arm beneath her head as she always did. The room's dank warmth and her tiredness nearly fooled her into believing she was nestled deep in her tower's plush, downy bed.
As the minutes passed, the only sounds Elizabeth could hear were the water faucet and the blades of the ceiling fans whirling through the air. Although she wanted nothing more than to fall into sleep's merciful oblivion, it was the first time in over a day that the world had stilled enough for her mind to sort through some of the chaos of her new experiences. To her chagrin, her thoughts were permanently settled on Booker.
Earlier in the streets of Shantytown, the moments she'd spent standing in his arms had been soothing and oddly euphoric, washing away the bleak despair and guilt she had been drowning in. Seeing his great physical strength and actually touching it...feeling it through his clothes had sent a static like warmth through her fingers and down her spine. The sensation had lingered like the ghost of a lightning bolt within her body, coupled with the faint scent of tobacco and warm, male skin. She would have happily fallen asleep right then... if he hadn't suddenly pushed her upright and walked away.
The near...callousness of the gesture had confused Elizabeth. He hadn't offered any sort of explanation either, with her pitiful attempt at an apology dying in her throat at his brusque declaration to move on. What was it that what had upset him? She drew in a deep breath and slowly expelled it. Her corset's hemlines were causing more irritation than the uneven surface of the bedding, but she shied away from the idea of loosening it. For reasons she couldn't explain, the vice-like hold it had around her ribcage made her feel as if some strange part of her that she hadn't been aware of before was contained.
Elizabeth finally drifted off to sleep a quarter hour or so later, just as Booker, freshly shaven and rinsed, returned to the chair he'd occupied before. The last thing she heard before she surrendered her consciousness was the clinking sound of glass and Booker's soft cursing and grimacing as he set to work drinking the putrid yellow Lutece Infusion.
AN: See you next time, people. Hope those who ship BookBeth enjoyed it. I WRITE FOR YOU!