As Booker set the coordinates, he hears a door open behind him. He turns to see Elizabeth, lobbed-off ponytail in hand, a blank and solemn expression on her face. "Elizabeth..." he says, trying to get her to lift her head. She shifts from one foot to the other, realizing her dress was revealing as much as it was supposed to but too much for her comfort. "This is all they had," she says, to apologize for the tight bodice and low neckline. He doesn't say anything about it, but she can tell he's thinking about her looks. At least, that's what she hopes he's thinking about. Part of the only reason she wore it was so he would finally look at her.
And look he did. A non-conservative look is pretty nice, he thought. I wonder what her dad would say if she saw his "Lamb" in a working girl's clothes. He would've chuckled to himself, but realized he needed to assure her somehow. "Listen," he started, but before he could give any word of comfort, she interrupted him.
"How do you do it?" she asks, not sure if she really wanted to know the answer to that.
"How to do what?" Booker asked back.
"Forget. How do you...wash away the things that you've done?" She searched the floor for an answer, feeling angry she couldn't find one, and sad that she expected it to be there.
Booker sighs, trying to find the words she wants to hear. He wanted to tell her it was all going to be forgiven, that it would just go away as soon as it was done. "You don't," he decided on saying, with his experiences of Wounded Knee behind him but still there with him in that airship with Elizabeth. "You just live with it."
She looks out the window in front of both of them, disappointed but content with his honesty. "So the moment of truth between us, huh? New York, or Paris?"
He sees the side of her face, her jaw peeking out under her newly cut hair. The brown silks waves and dances as the ship glides along the sky. The light from the afternoon sun in the sky bounces of her skin, casting shadows on her pearlescent face. He walks over to her, slowly, like trying to approach a wounded animal in a way it wouldn't get scared. Elizabeth turns her head towards him, tilted in confusion. Booker reaches for the back of her head and pushes it gently closer to his. He kisses her, softly but passionately. He hears Elizabeth yelp on contact, her body tensing. Booker responded by tightening his grasp in her hair, trying to make her understand not to be scared. Her body starts to welcome the invasion and relaxes, hands leading up to his shoulders to pull him closer.
They stay that way for a while, the colors of the sky painted across their faces as they keep intimate embrace. Booker finally pulls back, opening his eyes which he just realized were shut. He sees Elizabeth, huffing and wheezing with her chest undulating with her breaths. Her lips looked pink and swollen from their kiss. She tries to regain her breath when he says, "I'm sorry about that."
"Why? I thought it was pretty good, if I don't say so myself."
"I...I shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that. I'm sorry."
Elizabeth stands up straight and starts walking to the panel where all the coordinate-setting levers were. She changes direction, the numbers spinning. N 48.8742, E 2.3470. Paris.
Booker doesn't object.