AN: This is a series of related oneshots depicting an alternate view of Booker and Elizabeth's relationship. The big "twist" at the end of the game still stands, and yes, this is still a romance. Please take that into consideration when deciding to read this work.
Chapter 1
Elizabeth was reluctant to wake up. The sheets cocooning her were warm and soft, and the pillow cradled her head at just the right angle. She kept her eyes closed as she considered what to do that day. Practice French, I suppose, reread some of the classics. Again. Hmm, I haven't picked up the flute in—
Her thoughts halted as she stretched out her limbs; instead of her feet meeting cool air as they drifted off the bed, they met only slightly cooler sheets. Her bed, while comfortable, was not that accommodating. She opened her eyes and stared at the bright yellow pillowcase cutting out half her field of vision. Raising her head, she took in the matching yellow bedspread; it was far brighter and larger than the sky-blue linens she was accustomed to. The walls were not a neutral beige, but a warm red. This was not her bed, not her room, not her…
"Booker."
Elizabeth's head reeled as she recalled the last few days. Her ears rang with Songbird's screeches and gunshots while airships and hungry children flashed before her eyes. And last night…She sat straight up and her muscles screamed, the sheets slipped down and goosebumps trailed up her arms. Elizabeth looked down and didn't see her pajamas. She didn't see anything.
"Booker!"
She went from a soft murmur to a panicked hiss, clutching the linens back up to her chest. The bedroom was large, but not large enough for a man Booker's size to hide in—and he never struck her as the type to pull a prank. She scanned her surroundings for her clothes, but when she spotted her corset, her torso ached. Lady Comstock dressed for fashion, not adventure, and small bruises lined her skin where the bodice's rubbing had been particularly fierce. The First Lady airship had no spare undergarments in stock, and Elizabeth's had been spoiled by sweat, grime, and the blood of a certain revolutionary.
A black shirt was rumpled at the foot of the bed—Booker's. Elizabeth pulled it over her head, realizing it was no cleaner than her old chemise, but unquestionably more comfortable than the corset. It smelled of cigarettes and salt, and another odor she couldn't name at first. She slipped out of the bed and spotted the dried, red-brownish stain not far from where she had been laying, and then remembered. The shirt smelled like blood. Had she really become so familiar with the stench that it no longer stood out to her?
The cloth fell down to her thighs and provided nowhere near the level of modesty Elizabeth was used to—but modesty wasn't much use here. She glanced out the window; the room was on the second story and provided an excellent view for a tragic scene. Red streaked through Emporia, on banners and posters and the abandoned corpses that littered the streets. No, Elizabeth thought wryly, it doesn't quite matter if my knees are covered.
She stepped around the furniture and paused at the threshold. A small tornado of crows awaited anyone who dared sneak up the stairs down the hallway. Elizabeth tiptoed around Booker's trap and followed the sound of water hitting porcelain—the bathroom. A lamp's light poured out of the room, casting a man's shadow on the floor and up the opposing wall, as if DeWitt really needed to look any more imposing.
His back was turned to her, and he was much more exposed than usual. Elizabeth felt almost chaste in comparison—Booker's boxers hid only so much. He had a straight razor in one hand and held the other to his face, keeping his gaze focused on the mirror above the sink. She waited until he was wiping the edge clean on a nearby towel before speaking up.
"You'd do well to be more aware of your surroundings."
Were it not for his lack of clothing, Elizabeth may have never noticed him tense up. He had exceptional control over his body's movements, but she could still spot his shoulders tighten and his back muscles knit together, preparing for action. Booker's grip on the razor slackened when he noticed her through the mirror.
"You oughta reconsider sneaking up on someone with a weapon," he retorted, but not unkindly.
Elizabeth leaned against the threshold, half in and out of the room, imitating her own internal waffling. Neither said a word or made a move. When the silence stung more than her various aches and pains, Elizabeth finally muttered out "I didn't know where you were. Why didn't you wake me?"
"Figured you could use the rest."
It wasn't untrue, after all. While Booker wasn't used to the level of combat he'd faced in the last three days, he knew it lay nowhere near Elizabeth's own level of experience. However, he certainly wasn't eager to have a conversation with her. Not about the night before.
"What we did, last night—"
"Was a mistake."
His firmness took Elizabeth by surprise. Booker was rarely indecisive, but if anything should prompt some ambivalence…
"I don't see it that way," she replied, trying to match his certainty and almost succeeding. A woman's chastity is her crowning jewel, she recalled from one of the many guides on etiquette stocked in her old library. Damn the jewels, she thought. Being a proper bride for her wedding night had plummeted on her list of priorities.
Booker sighed, running his thumb over the razor's edge to focus himself. Not too hard to break the skin, just enough to feel anything besides shame. "I did wrong by you. Can't take that back. Won't happen again."
"I asked you to," Elizabeth shot back hotly. "I pulled you into bed, I-I kissed you, I…" She trailed off, blushing furiously as years of indoctrinated propriety admonished her from within. Booker's neutral expression was hardly encouraging. She suddenly felt very small, and sagged slightly against the door frame, folding her arms and ducking her head in a defensive stance.
The movement dragged the back of the black shirt up, revealing even more of her pale legs in a tempting contrast. Booker had turned halfway around to reply but froze when he saw more than just her face and shoulders from her reflection in the mirror. His shirt shrouded everything above her thighs, but he could remember the curves underneath well enough. There was something very appealing about her in his clothing—he even preferred it over the corset and skirt. DeWitt hissed as his thumb slipped and split open over the razor, and he quickly turned the water back on to run over the fresh wound.
"Let me see."
Where Elizabeth had found a small medicine kit without him noticing was beyond Booker, but she set it on the counter top beside the sink all the same. It wasn't well stocked—hardly anything in Emporia was at the moment—but it had enough tape and gauze to do the trick. Elizabeth was grateful the scratch wasn't big enough to need stitches, but worried that there was nothing to sanitize the wound with. His right hand was stabbed clean through and there's no infection yet, she reflected. Maybe there's more to the Lutece's shield than meets the eye.
Booker bit the inside of his cheek as she tended to his thumb, determined not to take advantage of the view down his own shirt on her. Christ, he was stupid. His thoughts followed the same pattern of Preacher Witting's sermon at the entrance of Columbia. If I'd never touched her, it would have been enough. I'd still be headed to hell. If I'd pushed her off of me, it would have been enough. If I'd kept my damn belt on, it would have been enough…No, now DeWitt was destined for even lower levels of eternal torment.
Even though she'd finished, Elizabeth kept hold of his hand in both of hers. He didn't pull away, that was a good sign. She took a deep breath, considering her words carefully, then murmured, "Last night was…the only good thing that's happened to me since…" Since when? Getting a child to trust her enough to accept some food? Dancing on the boardwalk? Some fond memory in the tower she couldn't even remember? "…If you didn't enjoy it, too, well, I-I'm sorry," she finished lamely, wincing through it. There were moments last night where she felt positively boneless—now she only felt spineless.
"You ain't got a damn thing to apologize for." Booker wrapped his fingers around the hand she had pressed to his palm, but forced his gaze to the side at some imaginary spot on the wall. "I just…it's the sort of thing you don't do with someone like me."
Elizabeth thought back to when they first arrived at this abandoned house. They had immediately scoured the place for any lurking enemies, then for any useful supplies, and found it as good a place as any to set up camp for the night before resuming the trek toward Comstock House. Both of them were exhausted, but were still riding an adrenaline high from a firefight against the Vox. There were several available bedrooms to Booker's relief; he wouldn't have to take the couch out of courtesy. But when he made to go settle down for the night, Elizabeth had called him back—she wasn't even sure why. She remembered taking hold of his forearms and finding solace in his sturdiness. Finally, something stable in this damned flying city. She'd pressed herself against him in a desperate hug that wasn't returned. Her eyes had stung with tears beaten back by sheer stubbornness, and she clutched at his vest to walk backwards to the bed. This much he'd obliged her. They never even kissed until they were both half naked, and only by her own initiative.
"I needed it…needed you."
Booker scoffed. "What you need is a fella your own age." He didn't believe it, and a part of him didn't want her to, either. But he was hardly the tender hero she'd grown up reading about, and it seemed he couldn't let an hour go by without showing her the ugliest parts of life outside a tower. Even the ugliest parts of sex. The broken whimper she let out when he first entered her wouldn't be forgotten any time soon. Their "courtship" consisted of corpse-looting and lock-picking, the only flowers being the ones they trampled over while escaping. There was no good reason for her to share herself with him.
"You've got a habit of shooting every 'fella' that comes near me, my age or otherwise," she replied tartly. He still wouldn't meet her gaze, but she could have sworn there was a ghost of a smile on his face. It was a handsome one, despite the roughness—Elizabeth was certain a grin would improve it. Dabs of shaving soap remained here and there along the outlines of his face, adding an inappropriate amount of levity to the otherwise serious discussion. "I wanted you. I-I want you." Heat spread through her cheeks again at the wanton admission, and she looked to the ground just as Booker brought his gaze to her eyes for the first time.
"I could be your father." His stomach knotted at the idea, but she had to realize there was more to their age difference than a few greying hairs—if nothing else would convince her they were a bad match. He didn't expect the biting glare she threw back at him.
"But you're not, are you," she replied coldly. Elizabeth pulled her hands away from his and crossed her arms over her chest again, taking a half-turn away from him. "My father is an insane prophet trying to…groom me to carry out his divine fucking will," she spat, flushing from anger rather than embarrassment.
Booker tensed at her vulgar language and immediately regretted drawing the comparison. "And that will never happen," he promised resolutely. "I will get you out of here."
Elizabeth noted the lack of destination in that pledge. Did it even matter? Anywhere was better than Columbia. Whatever Booker's employers had planned for her in New York, it couldn't be worse than Comstock's intentions. She wasn't even sure she wanted to be in Paris if it meant being alone, without him. This thug, this liar, he's all I have, she thought somberly. The protagonists in her romance novels were nothing like Booker. They never killed unless out of absolute necessity, their pasts were never so gruesome, and they certainly never bedded the leading lady within days of meeting her—no matter how insistent she was. Of course, no proper lady would act in such a way. I'm no proper lady. Not since Daisy…maybe even earlier. Perhaps he and I are just right together.
Her silence made Booker uncomfortable, and he hesitated before bringing his hand to the small of her back. She remained lost in thought, but eventually leaned back into his touch. Elizabeth was unlike anyone else he'd ever met. Had any other woman thrust herself upon him so suddenly, he would have enjoyed himself and then written them off as a tramp. But Elizabeth…she was the only person he'd cared about in a very long time—and God help her, he was the only person around she could care about.
Finally, she sighed and spoke up. "It wasn't a mistake, not to me. It wasn't…planned, but I'd do it again. With you."
Goddamnit. Booker condemned himself even as he pulled her into an embrace, nestling his head atop hers. Any purity she had when they met had been chipped away with each passing moment—and that didn't make her any less desirable. Hell, he'd never expected to depend on her as much as he did now, never would have guessed what that girl he first met in the library was capable of. "Well…what do you want to do about it?" Booker stuffed his own lewd ideas to the back of his mind; the choice ought to be hers.
Elizabeth looked up at him thoughtfully for a long moment, biting back a smirk at the pressure she felt against her stomach. "Why, Mr. Dewitt, I believe you've missed a spot." Booker was about to chide her for the formality, especially considering their new familiarity, but stopped when her fingers brushed against the hollow of his right cheek. "How careless. Allow me."
She broke out of his arms and planted her palms on the countertop that extended next to the sink, pushing herself up onto it. It was quite a lift, and brought her almost to eye-level with him. She turned the faucet to wet her fingers, then shut it off and dampened the unshaven skin. Pride stirred within her when she took hold of the straight razor and brought it to Booker's face, and yet he closed his eyes. He had the utmost confidence she knew what to do, and would do it well. There was a sort of trust somewhere between them. Somehow.
Elizabeth pulled the skin taut and scraped away the offending stubble, exactly as some obscure passage in some forgotten book had demonstrated. She seemed oblivious to the fact that her legs were open and that he stood between them to give her better access. Booker was much more aware of it, however, especially the way her knees squeezed against his hips to keep him in place. His boxers did little to hide his erection, which at this angle was left to press against her exposed thigh. It would be so easy to take her right there, to relive the best parts of the night before and make up for the worst—and it wasn't the blade she held to his face that stopped him, but the sudden gleam in her eyes that told Booker she knew exactly what she was doing.
Elizabeth grabbed a nearby towel and dabbed his face dry, removing any leftover soap in a frustratingly thorough manner. She pressed her thumb against the now smooth skin. And then her lips. Booker had no trouble catching on and returned the kiss.
This time will be different.
