Chapter 2

His mother had never been a godly woman, and at sixteen years old he wasn't sure what to expect when hearing his first sermon. He felt dirty and poor and out of place among the middle-class congregation in the country chapel—but forgot about all of that once Preacher Witting began speaking. There was such conviction in the man's voice, it oozed in every promise of redemption that it had to be sincere. Two hours slipped by in seconds, and the young soldier was hungry for more divine reassurances; the idea of waiting another week frustrated him beyond all sense. His sour mood halted when, after beginning the trek home down an empty alley, he was approached by a pretty girl with a brown bob who asked him for the time. She had such a lovely smile—it persisted even when he never answered, even when a rough hand clamped over his mouth and a blade sliced through his throat.

Zachary Comstock lived for two days before his corpse was left to bleed out among the rats.

For once, Booker didn't feel like absolute shit when he woke up. Usually he was reluctant to return to the waking world, where a hangover was likely waiting for him—if he wasn't still drunk—or his muscles would be in aching revolt after taking care of a particularly brutal job. He was a bit sore, perhaps simply from his age, but he couldn't muster any resentment toward the sunlight for rousing him. Booker tried to stretch and found his efforts impeded by the young woman twisted around him from behind. He sighed, wondering what it would take to convince her that sharing a bed was not exactly proper.

"It's not like we haven't done it before."

"Jesus, that's not the…I'll just be in the next room, okay?"

They had variations of the same argument over and over, night after night, from one world to another. He inevitably woke up to Elizabeth stubbornly sleeping right beside him. Even when there wasn't a next room in whatever empty house they "borrowed" and he took the couch, Booker would find the girl curled up on top of him the following morning—in those cases, he regretted not joining her in bed. At least on a mattress there was space enough to keep his back to her, although Elizabeth always wrapped herself around him like a vine during the night. Even now, her calf hung over his hip and her arm hooked up around his chest protectively. I've got your back, her pose seemed to say. Booker winced through the stirring of his morning wood and decided to appreciate her contentment with being the larger spoon, as silly as it might look with their size difference. Besides, there were worse things to wake up to than the steady rhythm of his partner's breath on his neck, reassuring him that she was safe and close.

Partner, he thought to himself, carefully unwinding her limbs from his frame so he could roll out of bed. The word had become a source of comfort over the last two weeks. Booker still wasn't quite sure what it entailed, but a clearer picture was forming with every dead Comstock they left in their wake. They barely had to speak to get the job done anymore, and even the silence carried a sense of ease. A partner looked out for you, aided you when you were wounded, talked you through the flashbacks and motivated you when there was nothing left but fumes to run on. Elizabeth mewled in annoyance when she couldn't leech off his body heat and curled into herself, still half-asleep. Booker smirked and covered her back up with the sheets. This impulsive, affectionate, hard-headed twenty-year-old girl was a better partner than any man he served with at Wounded Knee. He couldn't see himself ever being a decent father or lover or even a friend, but a partner? That was one role Booker was confident he could fill, at least for her.

The customary stiffness in his joints was muted as he padded toward the bathroom. There was something to be said for quiet assassinations, they were a hell of a lot easier on the body than working through wave after wave of soldiers. Still, something about cutting out a man's throat from behind didn't sit right with Booker—it stung at whatever ghost of a sense of honor he had. And how is threatening a defenseless factory worker to their face any better? he chided himself, musing over his time with the Pinkertons. He had done his job then and he was doing it now, there was no room for honor. If anything, his only complaint should be that using a more delicate hand with the would-be prophet was slow-going—they never managed to get through more than five or so in a day. However, Elizabeth was adamant that they maintain discretion by way of alleys and forests and other secluded areas, never drawing too much attention to themselves. Fine, they would do it her way. He just wished she wouldn't smile so much when he did it—Comstock was the worst kind of bastard and deserved every death Booker could give him, but there was something off-putting about the way Elizabeth's face lit up during the act.

The bathroom was quaint, just like the rest of the farmhouse they had set up camp in for the night, and more than met Booker's low standards for freshening up. He scrubbed his nails over his two-day-old beard as the ice-cold water slowly gurgled from the faucet—he supposed he ought to be grateful the house had running water at all. Booker washed the sleep from his eyes and worked the shaving soap into a decent lather before spreading it over his damp face. The razor he found wasn't too dull to get the job done, at least, and he dragged it over the stubble in small, practiced motions. Unfortunately the mirror was warped and streaked with grime, making it difficult to get a good look.

"You missed a…lot of spots."

Booker no longer jumped at the sound of her voice, nor did he berate himself for not sensing her approach. He'd come to accept her knack for making a silent entrance. Booker grunted softly in greeting as he shaved the underside of his jaw, more by feel than by sight, only stopping when her hand closed lightly around his. "Let me help."

He turned his head to the side to glance at her and promptly regretted it. Elizabeth had taken to sleeping in her new chemise and drawers and still hadn't dressed. The white underclothes and mussed up hair made her look innocent, angelic, even. It was a far cry from the last time she'd approached him shaving, wearing only his dirty black shirt and smelling like sex and blood. Booker's stomach lurched at the memory and he shook his head, boring a hole into the filthy mirror with a focused gaze.

"I got it."

Her grip on his hand loosened just long enough for her to slide between him and the sink and prop herself up onto the surface. The space between the edge of the counter and the bowl of the sink made a barely wide enough seat for her, and her knees clamped around his sides for stability. It was all done in such a fluid motion, Booker was hardly aware of the change until she pried the blade from his fingers.

"You can't even see what you're doing," Elizabeth teased, scraping over a part of his cheek he was sure he'd already gotten to. "You don't expect me to be seen in public with you when you're so unkempt?"

Booker chose the safety of silence, not trusting the obscene route his thoughts were taking. This scenario was far too familiar for his comfort. At least this counter was higher than the one in Emporia, leaving his groin with nothing to press against but the cupboard door under the sink—but she had to have felt the stiffness when she moved into this position. She's just trying to help, he told himself resolutely, keeping his eyes shut. That's what partners do. Never mind that Booker never once considered helping his fellow soldiers with their grooming, and they certainly never took hold of his face with all the care of handling fine china. The counter gave Elizabeth the height advantage and she tipped his head back for better access to his throat, skimming just above his Adam's apple. His cool slipped at that, and he swallowed hard.

"This would be easier if you relaxed," Elizabeth scolded him gently, wiping the razor clean on a nearby rag.

Booker might have laughed at the idea of ever feeling relaxed around her if he wasn't so focused on not moving. Was this what life would be like from now on? Always tense, always toeing a line of propriety, always trying not to remember? It was so much easier when they didn't know, if they didn't know he'd be inside of her right now, half a beard scratching at her neck—Stop. His grip on the sides of the countertop tightened when she shifted, her knee pulling at his undershirt. Last night Booker had held a blade to a teenage boy's neck with nothing but cold malice. The cut had gone crooked when the young Comstock twisted, but he didn't care, it was deep enough to get the job done, deep enough to ensure Columbia would never rise in this world. Now Elizabeth held one to his with a thorough tenderness, as if sparing even a single bristle would be a crime. How could she ever be mine? he wondered desperately. Even her breath landed on his cheeks like soft strokes of a feather—she had none of the coarseness required to be a DeWitt. There was nothing rough about the girl, aside from the healed welts along her back and stomach. Booker's knuckles went nearly as white as her chemise when he remembered that detail—no, life in her company would never be easy, and it definitely wouldn't be relaxed.

Elizabeth shaved more slowly than she needed to, trying to savor their closeness with some subtlety. Over the last fortnight Booker had managed to stop withdrawing from her every touch, but he never sought it out, and he always seemed to suffer through it. Except for when they slept. She didn't feel any guilt about defying his attempts at decorum, not when he relaxed into her embrace with an ease he never carried in the waking world. Why couldn't he just enjoy it the rest of the time? Elizabeth had craved him for months at Comstock House, and now that he was finally in her reach, Booker kept her at a distance. It was like a cruel plot to one of the tragic plays stocked in her old library—although she was sure this particular story wouldn't be deemed appropriate by those who censored her reading material. She could only assume his edginess stemmed from the revelations shown in the sea of doors. It was so much easier when they didn't know. How could Elizabeth make him understand that it didn't matter, that it didn't change anything? You can't be my father, Booker, I already have one. I've become rather fond of watching you kill him.

When she could no longer draw the task out with any tact, Elizabeth wet one side of a washcloth to wipe away the leftover soap, then began patting his skin dry with the other. Booker barely held back a sigh of relief when he realized it was coming to an end. 8 AM be damned, his nerves could really use a drink. The comforting idea of a glass of whiskey for breakfast vanished when he felt her plant a warm peck on the side of his face—this was how it started last time. Maybe it's already started, a vile little voice inside him crooned, the same voice that spurred him on in every card game, the same voice that never got him into anything but trouble. It was only encouraged when Elizabeth didn't pull away, instead kissing him again lower down against the hollow of his cheek, and then again further to the right. That's just the way she is, he thought fiercely, not daring to open his eyes. Nineteen years in a tower with no one but a mechanical bird for company would make anyone a bit too touchy-feely—it wasn't personal, it wasn't him, she was being affectionate, not intimate.

Elizabeth didn't have to look at him to see the tension in his body, she could feel it in the clench of his jaw under her fingertips and sense it in the grip he had on the counter on either side of her thighs. She didn't want it to be over yet, and a frantic impulse told her it would be if she didn't keep him exactly where he was. Elizabeth kissed him in cursive, her lips never quite leaving his skin, instead moving in slow, light drags across the planes of his face, skirting around his mouth and over his chin to attend to the other side with equal care. Even clean-shaven his skin felt rough. She slipped one hand down to cup around Booker's throat, delighting in the rapid thudding of his pulse, and moved the other to the back of his head, her fingers finding purchase in his hair. Her neck ached from angling down to maintain the connection, but she didn't care, not when she began to feel the weight of his frame and realized he was gradually leaning into her. There was a familiar, needy throbbing quickening between her legs, and Elizabeth strained to spread her knees further apart. Even as Booker let himself push against her, he still held every muscle taut—it was like clinging to a statue. A part of her was glad he kept his eyes closed, for fear they would only hold his usual guilt. Don't think about it, she pleaded silently down the bridge of his nose. Just feel it, just enjoy it. In Emporia he had soothed her by speaking directly against her skin, grounding her in the moment and making it impossible to worry about anything but where his mouth would go next. Perhaps it worked both ways.

Get out, get out, get out. Booker felt like he was falling, and the anticipation hurt worse than the landing ever could. There was something strange about a woman's touch—no matter how small they might be, their embrace always managed to be all-enveloping. His hands were screaming from his prolonged hold on the unforgiving counter, especially with the softer flesh of Elizabeth's thighs only inches away. Get out, get out, get—god, were those her teeth nipping at his chin? She moved on to peck at his jaw too quickly to tell. Get out, get out…the alarms in his head faded when Booker registered the heat from where her legs parted, seeping through her drawers and his undershirt to press against his stomach. He didn't even notice the way he bowed against her, eager to smother her warmth with his. Falling into Elizabeth was as easy as instinct—and instinct didn't give a damn about partners, only that there was a man and a woman and why weren't they lined up and—

"Booker."

Her voice came out in a husky groan, kissing his name into his cheek just like he had taught her to. He hissed when he lost control of his hips and they slammed forward into the cupboard door beneath the sink, causing it to rattle. The loud clap of wood on wood made both of them jump, and the distraction was reprieve enough for Booker to rip himself away from her, leaving Elizabeth to teeter precariously on the edge. For a moment she sat frozen, her hands cupped in the air around where his face used to be, her legs still splayed wide to accommodate his broad frame. Then the coldness closed in on her, chilling the skin that Booker had been keeping warm, and Elizabeth shivered as she hugged herself tightly and hopped off the counter. She half-expected him to storm away, but instead he stood remarkably still at the other end of the room with his back to her—and then she realized she was blocking the only way out. Elizabeth leaned against the door, trying not to suffocate on the tension that had settled in the room like wet concrete, and doing her best to ignore the unfulfilled ache between her thighs.

"You called me Elizabeth," she reminded him, her voice still throaty with arousal. "In Paris, you said my name—Elizabeth." He remained silent; perhaps he hoped she would simply leave him to fume alone. He's had twenty years to be alone, she thought angrily. He can't just shut me out like all his other problems. She didn't want to be another problem—she could help him, if he would only let her. "That's all I can be, Booker. I can't be anyone else." I can't be Anna. Not in this world. Not with him. She winced under the overwhelming potential of what she could have been, of a girl raised by an alcoholic gambler instead of a racist zealot, of a tomboy who found her pleasures in skulking the streets of New York, not assassinating prophets. It stood out so clearly inside her head, as clear as the man in front of her, and for a moment Elizabeth struggled to remember which was real. That's not who I am. That's not who we are.

Booker raked his hands down his face, as if the roughness of his palms could scrub away the memory of being kissed by anything softer. He glared at the wall in front of him and let her words sink in. Is that what she thought? He wanted her to be someone else? The girl was as close to perfect as one might find in this world, even in the way she made him feel more damned with every glance—and for that he refused to turn around, not when she might look as hot and bothered as she sounded, not when it would take three steps in her direction to give in to goddamned instinct. Not when his erection stirred so demandingly in his boxers. Women were lucky like that, they could hide their readiness for as long as they liked until a man was practically at the entrance—and god Elizabeth had felt ready. You're sick, DeWitt. What would Annabelle think? If his dead wife wasn't already cursing him from beyond for the meager crime of selling their daughter, she certainly was now.

"I'm trying," he croaked to the chipped wallpaper. "I'm trying to do right by you now, I'm—I'm trying to change, okay?" So don't you dare think you have to.

"I don't want you to change! I just…I just want things to be like they were in Emporia!" Elizabeth felt like a child as the words burst out of her, as if throwing a tantrum would get her what she wanted. Anna did that a lot growing up—the DeWitt household was rarely quiet. She tried to shut the door and planted her palms along the wooden one behind her, reminding herself which world was real, which one she was in—my name is Elizabeth. It would be easier to remember if Booker would treat her like it.

"You need to forget about Emporia," Booker snapped, just as much to himself as to her. Please, baby, don't make this any harder.

The request stunned her for a moment, as ridiculous as it was. "You think that's…that's possible for me?" Elizabeth asked incredulously, taking a step toward him. She didn't need any help remembering where or when or who she was now, not with memories of Comstock House threatening to swallow her whole. "You met me, what, a few weeks ago? Booker, I've known you for months. I was stuck in that mansion, for months, and Emporia was all I had. I've…" Elizabeth's voice broke as she watched tiny spasms race along Booker's back, but she managed to push on. "I've relived it, over and over again, for months! How can you expect me to just forget?"

Booker barely kept his trembling under control as he recalled yet another parenting failure on his part. Even if it wasn't this him who had ordered the lashes or tried to brainwash her, he still felt the weight of responsibility for it crushing him. She'll get past it, she has to. We both have to. "It'll…it'll take time, but…"

Elizabeth was glad when he didn't finish, the first few words were infuriating enough. Why was he doing this to her? Why did he insist on seeing her as the baby he sold, instead of the woman he rescued? She saw the doors, the infinite ways things could have gone, the way they branched off into their own discrete little realities—she saw all of them, and still chose to focus on this one, so why couldn't he do the same? Why didn't he want to do the same?

"I suppose you'd be an expert," she seethed in frustration. "Well I'm sorry, Booker, but I don't have twenty years' experience of drinking my regrets away, so forgive me if I have my doubts." Elizabeth cringed as soon as the words slip out—why was she trying to hurt him? I don't know. I know all the ways we could have been, all the ways we might have loved each other, and none of it matters here. The doors only showed theories, worlds that never touched and had no influence on each other, unless someone with a severed pinky decided to rip a hole through them. The only world she wanted to be in was this one, the only Booker she wanted was this one. His memory had comforted her all that time in Comstock House, how could he ask her to give that up? "And I don't…I don't regret it, either." Even if he never touched her again, Elizabeth knew she would cling to those memories as tightly as ever.

Booker felt her accusation like a hit to the gut—it was cruel, especially for her. There was something of the DeWitt in her after all. The meekness of her following confession hurt worse. It made sense, though, didn't it? If seven months of forced indoctrination weren't enough to make her wish she'd never taken him to bed, what would be? The girl was confused and hurt and too damn sincere for her own good—and god help her, he was all she had. For all her doors and tears, Elizabeth was still a sheltered twenty-year-old who was only looking for what felt good, and he was the only person she could look to. He had to be better than that—she needed him to be better than that.

It was so much easier not to know.

He turned to find her a few feet away, arm outstretched and fingers floating near his shoulder in hesitation. Her cheeks were flushed, either with rage or arousal—god, let it be the first—and the pure whiteness of her chemise and drawers made the tent in his boxers twitch. She looks like an angel. You don't fuck angels. Booker brushed past her arm as he cupped his hands around her ears and pressed a chaste kiss to her brow. Elizabeth gasped and leaned into him, her hunger for his affection as plain as day, but he pushed her back with a gentle firmness and reached past her to open the bathroom door.

"I know you don't," Booker murmured quietly, one hand still tracing the curve of her ear. He watched the way her hair fell around his fingers, so he wouldn't have to watch the way her eyes flooded with excitement at his touch. She would learn to feel differently, given enough time—but her scent had settled over him in a haze when he pecked her forehead, and brought with it the damning certainty that he would never be that lucky. He pulled away and tried to ignore the obvious disappointment in her face, sidestepping around her to leave the room. "Go get dressed, okay? We should get moving soon."

Life with Elizabeth would never be easy; it would be a test of pretending. Booker would pretend he had no idea what it felt like to have her pinned against a wall, naked and sweaty and trembling around him. He would pretend he couldn't hear the stifled sobs coming from the bathroom. And an hour later, when he trained his rifle to aim between the green eyes of a boy he came so close to being, he would pretend he hadn't seen the spark of triumph in her face through the scope. If she found joy in a man's death—his extremely repeated death, no less—that would be a sign that something was wrong with her, that Elizabeth was broken on some fundamental level. But she wasn't, because Booker didn't see anything of the sort, because she was fine. He would pretend it wasn't too late for her.