A/N: And here I thought this chapter would be shorter. Oops. Updates will probably come out less frequently now that school is starting back up, but I don't plan on abandoning this story. I bumped up the rating because of the content of this chapter, but the rest of this fic will probably be T-rated.
Chapter 4
The nomadic life suited Booker DeWitt. After twenty years in the same filthy apartment, it was almost refreshing to wake up each day in a different bed, in a different world. In New York his home had been a place to hide from the debt collectors, with only a bottle for company as he tried to drown out his mistakes from his memory—but after enough time even the peeling wallpaper seemed to throw Booker's regrets in his face. Constant travel solved that problem rather nicely; none of the empty cottages or barns or villas they stayed in held any reminders of his past—save for the girl he traveled with.
Booker ran his fingers against the now-smooth skin of his jaw one last time before changing into the fresh clothes Elizabeth had pulled last night from somewhere, or somewhen. He thought back to Columbia and the way they always scrounged for extra silver eagles, as every weapon or vigor upgrade could be the one that saved them. They didn't want for anything now, not with the masterful control Elizabeth had over her tears. Booker never cared much for laundry, anyway. There were times when his old joints ached for the beat-up chair at his whiskey-stained office desk, for the equally comforting and shaming familiarity of his apartment—but for the most part, Booker was content to be homeless, with nothing to his name but his weapons from Columbia. Jeremiah Fink was a bastard through and through, but the man produced a solid firearm and Booker wasn't looking to replace his rifle or hand cannon any time soon.
Though their lodgings were always changing, he and Elizabeth had developed a sort of routine over the last few…weeks? Perhaps even months? Calendars weren't much help with their lifestyle. Nevertheless, Booker could count on waking up each morning with her snaked around his back—a habit as endearing as it was frustrating. There was something innocent about the way Elizabeth seemed compelled to cling to him, considering the extent of her powers. The way Booker's half-conscious body responded to that affection was decidedly less innocent. Still, DeWitt managed to maintain certain boundaries between the two of them—they were never in the same room when one was getting dressed, and only Elizabeth ever reached out for physical contact. Booker always felt as if he walked a fine line when her hand brushed his or her lips pecked his cheek. She was, at her core, a very affectionate person, and he didn't want to discourage that by withdrawing from her. Not when Elizabeth had changed so much in other ways. If he reacted too warmly it might give her the wrong idea—or worse, a more accurate one—about how he saw her. As it was, the way she touched Booker hadn't strayed too far from filial territory since the incident at the farmhouse, and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that. Perhaps she was learning to see him differently after all.
He found himself looking forward to the evenings most of all, when they would wind down wherever they set up camp and share a cigarette or two, sometimes chatting, sometimes silent. Either way it was…cozy, just sitting next to her. Even when she was too tired to talk, Elizabeth was better company than a bottle. Booker would still drink whatever he found lying around; never enough to get drunk—there was rarely enough to do so—but just enough to ease the shakes and keep the sweats from setting in. Elizabeth never said a word about it, but he was always half-expecting her to ask to experiment with that vice as well. Booker wasn't sure what he would say if she did. Young lady, do you have any idea what alcohol does to the body? Now, finish your cigarette and head straight to bed, we've got a long day of slaughtering tomorrow. So far she acted uninterested in whatever glass of poison Booker poured himself; Elizabeth seemed content with one of his hands in hers and a roll of tobacco in the other. He tried not to think about the intimacy of their little rituals, or wonder if she struggled in the same way. It wasn't nearly as difficult to be around Elizabeth as it was when they first started this endless mission—no sense in ruining that by thinking about it too hard.
Booker ambled lazily down the hall back to the bedroom, just beginning to sort out his necktie as he crossed the threshold to the room. The door was along the same wall that the bed was set against—it was the first thing one saw upon entering and it dominated much of the space inside. Elizabeth was sprawled out on top of the sheets, her eyes still closed, and Booker nearly called out to wake her before he got a better look at her. The girl was on her back, her knees raised and parted—not a position she had been sleeping in when he first left to get changed. Her chemise had bunched up to expose the soft, scarred flesh of her stomach, and her hand…her hand was buried in her drawers, though Booker could see the rhythmic motion pulling at the clothing from within. He stiffened up, his fingers still at the tie around his neck, and everything seemed to slow down—the way her head tilted back to reveal eyes creased in concentration, not slumber, the way her hips moved in tiny, desperate circles against her tiny, desperate hand, even the way her chest rose and fell in unsteady, faltering breaths.
Booker licked his lips without meaning to, and then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth as he leaned against the doorway for support. Elizabeth didn't seem to be aware of his presence, and yet she remained remarkably quiet—he'd never known her to keep hushed in the throes of passion before. Booker grit his teeth into the meat of his palm as remembered moans rang in his ears, but he couldn't rip his eyes away from her. A million questions were swimming through his mind—had she always done this, even back in her tower? She certainly didn't move with the timidity of a woman unfamiliar with herself. Was it always in this position, her legs splayed for some imaginary lover, with only her dainty fingers to rise to the task? Was she as delicate with herself as she was in everything else? Did she—
"Booker." Her voice registered in his groin before he heard her properly with his ears, and the arousal gripped him before the panic did, keeping him in place. He held his breath, kicking himself for not leaving before she noticed he was there, especially when things had finally seemed to settle between them into something nearing normal—"Mmm…oh, Booh—"
He watched her teeth sink into her already-swollen lips as she stifled the groan, and his knees nearly buckled under the dizzying realization that Elizabeth had no idea she wasn't alone—she wasn't talking to him, she was thinking about him. Booker stood frozen, and he wasn't sure if it was out of fear that she would hear him move or a lewd compulsion to watch her finish, to hear her hiss his name again like a curse word in that low, throaty voice. What would she do if she opened her eyes and discovered him watching her? Cover herself with the sheets to preserve any remaining shred of modesty, blushing all the while? No, even with her ladylike tendencies, Booker couldn't see her shying away from his gaze, though it would be the proper thing to do. Maybe Elizabeth would merely gasp in surprise at the intrusion before pulling her hand from her drawers and wriggling out of them, beckoning him home between her legs with her eyes and hips. Or perhaps her neediness would overwhelm her entirely, perhaps she would launch herself at Booker and climb him where he stood, pinning him against the doorway with her embrace and dragging her mouth over his body like she had once done to his face.
He bit harder into his hand and forced his eyes shut, trying not to see any version of her, real or imagined—but doing so only made the wet little noises Elizabeth coaxed from herself that much louder, and his cock was straining against the confines of his trousers to match the tempo she had set. What was she even thinking about? That night in Emporia, or the morning after? Or the morning at Comstock House? Or maybe it was some creative fantasy of the two of them that had the girl biting back moans—and in that moment Booker thought he might have given anything to know the details.
That's your daughter, DeWitt, he berated himself, willing his feet to shake out the imaginary lead and move. That's Anna. Except she wasn't. Booker had struggled to reconcile the two identities of the girl for weeks, and every time he delved within himself in search of any fatherly feelings, he only seemed to find a weighty mix of guilt and desire. His protectiveness of her might be the closest he came to paternal—and Elizabeth sure as hell didn't need his protection anymore, despite having asked for it. Elizabeth. Christ, she certainly wasn't making it any simpler when she went and did things like this. She thinks she's alone, asshole. Give her some fucking privacy. Yes, that would be the conclusive evidence that DeWitt was a better father than Comstock—he would let their daughter pleasure herself to the thought of him in private. Thinking of the prophet made Booker's temper flare, and the rage outweighed the lust just enough for him to push himself past the threshold and down the hall, too angry to appreciate the carpet for muffling his footsteps, not stopping until he reached the kitchen and could only hear the sound of his pulse thumping between his ears. He landed in a chair at the table with a thud, raking his hands through his hair painfully hard to ignore the indignant throbbing of his erection. No way. Not now. Booker was finding it difficult to even recall the name of another woman, let alone picture one naked.
Anna.
DeWitt hunched over the table and tensed every muscle, half-expecting to fall apart on the spot if he dared to relax. He was so pissed, and it was hard to tell who was upsetting him the most. Booker himself was usually the top choice, and he had more than earned it. If Comstock didn't count as the same person, as Elizabeth was so adamant he didn't, then he was a very close second. God, he was even a little mad at Elizabeth at this point—if she could just see him as a father, it might be easier to see her as a daughter. Whenever Booker needed a release, he managed to get off by fantasizing about other women—and he damn well made sure she couldn't walk in on him while it happened—so why couldn't she think of anyone else? You've got twenty years of one night stands to jerk off to, she's only got you. God damn it—he blamed Comstock for that one, at least partially. Elizabeth had never even met another person until he crashed through the ceiling of her library, and since then she hadn't had much time to mingle with the opposite sex. They'd both attracted some attention in Columbia, but none of the boys who had eyed Elizabeth with appreciation went so far as to approach her—perhaps it had something to do with the broad and bloodied gunslinger in her company. He wasn't sure what he would do with the first boy who took the risk. Booker tugged harder at his hair, trying to direct any anger at Elizabeth back toward himself; she was a grown woman with a grown woman's needs, and they weren't being met—what else could he expect her to do? What was a father supposed to do in this situation? I'm supposed to take care of her, he thought suddenly, and the double entendre made him shudder.
He didn't know how much time passed as he sat there, growing tenser every time his thoughts veered back to his partner. A cigarette helped, barely, the relief of the nicotine only just eclipsing the association smoking now had with Elizabeth. Booker would clench his teeth whenever he slipped and pictured the way her free hand had traced the back of her thigh, just as he had done at Comstock House—Comstock. Think of Comstock. There was something comforting in that fury, he didn't feel any guilt when it came to hating the prophet. It might just be the closest an ungodly man like him could get to a sense of righteousness. Anger was easier than arousal, and lucky him, he had an entire day ahead of him to act that anger out.
"Good morning."
Booker couldn't even muster a grunt in response when he heard her approach. He hoped she wasn't hungry; he wasn't in the mood to delay the day's work for breakfast. Elizabeth strolled into his range of vision and past the table—did her hips always sway that loosely?—and looked him up and down with a bright smile. There wasn't a trace of guilt in that sweet face, though her lips were rosier than usual and he could swear he could still make out the teeth marks. She didn't want me to know. She didn't want me to hear. But he had, and Booker found himself desperate to know and hear a whole lot more. He wanted to feel Elizabeth's bruised mouth dance along the shell of his ear as she told him just how long it had taken her to finish with his name on her tongue—
"You didn't finish your tie."
Short of shoving her back—and he really didn't want to touch her if he could help it—there was little Booker could do to keep her from leaning against the edge of the table and taking the fabric around his neck into her hands. He kept a firm gaze on the cigarette and took a needy drag. Her fingers were quick and decisive, and smelled like soap. Booker wondered if they tasted like it, too—no he didn't. He steered his focus to the taste of the cigarette, even as Elizabeth finished and leaned back to admire her handiwork, a neat four-in-hand knot.
"The hell did you learn how to do that?" Probably the same way she learned how to shave a man's face, one of her many books in the tower no doubt. Still, the question was more innocent than damn near every other one floating in his head.
"I've watched you do it dozens of times."
Booker had never noticed her watching him get ready in the mornings, and it made him a bit uneasy, though he wasn't sure why. Quit being such a hypocrite. How would you feel if she spied on you jerking off? Now that was a question that didn't need an answer, especially with her skirt brushing against his knee as she plucked the cigarette from his hand. Elizabeth had already seemed unnervingly serene, but she relaxed even more after her first drag. She had picked up the habit, all right.
"Didn't you sleep well?" she asked through a cloud of smoke, brushing her hand over a stray lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, her right hand, the same hand she'd used to—
"Fine," Booker snapped, rising to his feet and crossing the room to pick up his holsters. "Ready to go?"
Tiny lines of worry creased Elizabeth's forehead at the gruffness of his tone, but she managed a half-smile after finishing the cigarette. "Sure. Let's go."
Zachary Comstock lived for four months and two days before being strangled in a church graveyard.
"Come on, one more."
Booker had said the same thing three dead prophets ago—Elizabeth didn't even have the energy to feel a sense of relief as she peered at the corpse at her feet. Usually it washed over her like a wave; she would remember all those sessions of penance at Comstock House, the agonizing hours of electroshock therapy, the way she had begged her father for mercy, and the way she had always been denied it, and she could take comfort in knowing the prophet would never have the chance to hurt anyone ever again. All it had taken was a brief hand signal before her partner came up behind the boy with a short length of rope, and the teenager had died writhing, his desperate eyes imploring her for a reason why—because you took everything from me, Elizabeth had thought coldly. Or he would have, anyway. Killing him this way transcended justice; there were no wrongs to right if they had never been committed in the first place. All the pain and suffering he would cause were wiped from existence on her command. Zachary Comstock made her feel powerless. Booker DeWitt made her feel powerful.
Now, however, she only felt exhausted.
"We should turn in for the night," Elizabeth muttered, almost disappointed in how little the death had meant to her. This Comstock's future wasn't special compared to any of the others—but no matter how average it was, she usually found a sort of solace in seeing him put down. Weariness seemed to mute every other emotion. "You must be tired by now."
"I'm fine," Booker retorted, coiling the rope with more focus than necessary. The sheer length of the day had made the fact that he wouldn't look at her even more noticeable—what the hell was his problem? Whatever it was, a good night's sleep would help. "Let's keep going."
"Booker, he was the ninth one today, we've been at this too long. We'll start making mistakes if we don't get some rest—"
"Nine's a pretty small number, considering how many are left out there."
"We've never gotten nine in one day before," Elizabeth reminded him sharply—and for good reason, it had taken Booker two shots to put the eighth one down, with the way his hands were shaking. They would only slip up worse if they kept going.
"We would if we didn't take our fucking time getting it done," Booker growled, dragging the corpse into the shallow grave he had dug while Elizabeth had lured Comstock to the isolated cemetery. The surrounding headstones were cracked and bare of any recently paid respects—one more addition wouldn't be noticed. "It took you an hour just to get him here."
"I had to get him alone, and make sure we weren't followed."
"What's it matter if you were?" he demanded impatiently, keeping his eyes on the task of burying the prophet. He suddenly wished he'd thought to lay the body to rest face-down—it was a little too eerie to shovel dirt over a pair of green eyes he saw every day in the mirror. Not me. That's not me. One more. Booker wasn't ready to set up camp just yet, not when that meant Elizabeth would be curled up around him, her hands clutching at his undershirt as she slept, not after what he had seen her doing with those hands this morning—one more. Just one more. He clenched his teeth when he saw the way the spade trembled in his hands; god damn it he needed a drink. "We're not staying here, so what if someone saw you?"
Elizabeth paused her own shoveling to scowl at him. "We have to be careful—"
"Why?" Booker snarled, spraying more dirt around the grave than in it as he did so. "He's dead, Elizabeth, the job is well done, so why—"
"Keep your voice down," she hissed, scanning the area for any mourners who might overhear. The cemetery would be empty all day, or at least it was supposed to be, but they were sure to attract attention if Booker didn't quiet down.
"If you're so worried about being seen then let's just go," he snapped, flinging the shovel to the side. The corpse was barely covered, but what did it matter? "Let's just go back to when he was born, like we did when we left Paris. Let's just knock him off the cliff and be done with it." A part of him immediately regretted the suggestion—he didn't want to be anywhere near that river again and she knew it. But it was one of the fastest ways they'd found of getting it done, so why did Elizabeth bother jumping around the timeline at all? She obviously didn't give a damn about his comfort, else she never would have asked him to join her on this mission in the first place.
Elizabeth spared a passing glance at the fresh grave before dropping the shovel. It was good enough, and whatever was going on with her partner was now a much bigger concern. Booker had never questioned how she picked their targets before, and she'd been hoping the trend would continue. She approached him carefully, noting the feral glint in his eyes and the tremors in his hands. She knew he was an alcoholic, but she'd never seen the withdrawals set in before—not with this Booker, anyway—most likely due to his knack for scavenging and his lack of pickiness. Elizabeth wasn't sure if his irritation was just another symptom, or if it was what kept them on the grueling pace that deprived him of any chance to get his fix in the first place, but she did know one thing: there would be no tenth corpse today.
"We'll get up early," she promised, as if the concept of time had any real weight on their lives anymore. Elizabeth frowned when he tensed under her hand on his arm—he usually didn't mind when she touched him, and lately even seemed to relax more when she did. "But first we need to get some rest, and we'll find him again well after the baptism—"
Booker ripped his arm away from her to pace past the crumbling headstones. He needed to move, or fight, or drink, but mostly he needed to get the hell away from her. As much as he loathed that river and the idea of Elizabeth being without protection, the brief time it would take for her to go out on her own and lure Comstock to the cliff seemed mighty precious. Would he even be able to make the shot with the way his hands were trembling? Jesus, what if he missed—what if he hit her, close as the two would be standing along the edge? The thought sparked a fresh wave of rage and fear in DeWitt, and it had nowhere to go but out. "What are you so fucking afraid of, Elizabeth?! So what if we're seen, or a body gets found? You think we're gonna be arrest—"
That peculiar static-y sensation seemed to stop up his throat as Elizabeth pulled them through realities. Everything crackled in black and white and all his hair stood on end. Booker tensed on instinct, though he knew she would never take them anywhere unsafe, and yet he couldn't bring himself to relax until their surroundings shifted back into focus. Elizabeth hadn't brought them to the woods near the river bank, however—they stood in the kitchen of what looked like a modest little home, and where only a moment before the mid-day sun had been hidden by clouds, it now glared brightly at the two through a single window as it set over the horizon.
Booker didn't much care for traveling through tears, and he certainly didn't take kindly to being brought somewhere he didn't ask to go, but a sense of relief washed over him anyway—booze of any sort would be easier to find in a house than a forest. Elizabeth moved without a word, beginning their usual routine of searching their lodgings for food, ammo, and salts—though he rarely got the chance to use his vigors anymore, it was always better to be topped off. Booker followed suit, though he aimed for something a little stronger, and found it within minutes stashed in the back of the pantry. The half-empty bottle of bourbon sloshed temptingly as he pulled it out, and he didn't bother with a glass.
Elizabeth scavenged half-heartedly. The house was small, with only one bedroom, and the man who lived there was away on business more often than not. There wasn't much to find, and though her stomach had rumbled demandingly ever since their rushed lunch, she didn't feel very hungry anymore. She watched Booker slake his thirst with his back to her, and saw the way his whole body seemed to loosen within the first few swigs. Surely the effects of alcohol didn't work that fast—his addiction had to be just as psychological as it was physical. She set the bread and cheese she'd found on the table and took a seat, waiting for him to come to her. For a few long moments he only stood at the counter, not looking at her, nursing at the bottle with far too much practice, and Elizabeth felt a twinge of fury at the notion that he might just be waiting her out. She was the one who had wanted to turn in, after all, perhaps he expected her to simply go to bed. I'm sorry if you prefer the bourbon's company over mine, but that's not going to happen, she thought spitefully.
Booker finally steeled himself enough to face her and slowly turned around. She hadn't even touched their meager supper, and her brow was knit into a frustrated expression. The cool glass of the bottle had felt comforting in his hand just a moment ago, but now it felt like a heavy weight. Shit. How the hell am I gonna make this right? He'd had his suspicions about the discreet way Elizabeth demanded the assassinations be carried out, as well as the fact that she never brought them to the same point in time twice—wouldn't it be easier to stick to familiar territory?—but he hadn't yet found the right words or moment to pry into her reasoning. The way Booker had blown up at her at the cemetery absolutely wasn't the right way to go about it, and he glared at the bottle bitterly. He hated needing it as much as he did, especially when Elizabeth needed him as much as she did. Every attempt he'd made at quitting when she was…when Anna was a baby had backfired into an expensive relapse at a card table, and once she was gone Booker had embraced the vice wholeheartedly. He reluctantly met Elizabeth's eyes and flinched at the obvious hurt he found in them. An exceptionally pathetic part of him wondered if she missed Father Comstock yet.
Feeling better? Elizabeth nearly snapped when Booker took a seat across the table from her, but somehow she held her tongue. Perhaps because he'd left the bourbon on the counter instead of bringing it along. It was something, after all. She sighed and propped her elbows on the table to fiddle with her thimble, mulling over what to say. He wanted an explanation, and she owed one to him, didn't she? They were partners. But Elizabeth wasn't sure how to put it without upsetting him—and if the scene in the graveyard was any indication, just about anything would. If that was the case, she may as well be blunt. It was the DeWitt way of doing things.
"We can't go back to just after the baptism because…I can't take us there." Elizabeth finally spoke in a mutter, but it seemed to echo against the previous silence. "Anymore, I mean. The doors…they're closing."
Booker frowned in confusion. He'd been expecting a well-deserved reprimand, not a cryptic confession. "What do you mean, closing? Why?" His surprise made the questions come out sharper than he intended, and he winced. He pushed the plate of bread and cheese toward her, unsure of what else to do to show he cared, to show he wasn't trying to be a jackass. "You should…you should eat."
Elizabeth didn't see the peace offering for what it was and kept her gaze fixed to her thimble. "The Luteces warned me, in Paris. After you fell asleep. Killing Comstock over and over again has…consequences. We've been interfering in too many timelines, causing too many changes, and…and it's like I'm going blind." Her voice wobbled toward the end, but she managed to keep it from breaking.
"I don't understand, those two…all they ever did was interfere, that whole time in Columbia!"
Elizabeth shook her head and reached for his branded hand, as if he might better comprehend through touch instead of speech. She molded her fingers around it with the same sort of neediness she'd felt that night in Paris. Booker ran his thumb over her knuckles with an unusual tenderness, and the tears that had begun to prick at her eyes seemed to sting a little less. "They only got involved when they had to, just enough to keep us alive." And it took them over a hundred trials to risk that much. They didn't even step in to prevent her from being tortured for half a year, and even now she found it hard not to resent them for that, despite understanding their reasons. "The Luteces didn't want the prophet dead, Booker, they just…they just wanted us to be together." Elizabeth squeezed his hand but didn't look up at him; she didn't want to see the guilt flash through his eyes again at the reminder of Anna. "They've involved themselves as little as possible to achieve that, though they have more reason than most to want Comstock dead, and because of that they've…kept their options open."
Booker bit the inside of his cheek hard when he noted the glassy quality of her eyes. He wasn't sure what all the implications of this nonsense with the doors were, but he didn't like how much it seemed to upset her. Going blind? It sounded a bit overdramatic, but…at one point the girl had been able to see everything. He supposed anything less must seem like an infirmity in comparison. But just how much less was that? "And our options…aren't?"
Another shake of the head. "More doors close, every time we put him down. I'm…I'm not even sure of how many I've lost, and I can't…I can't open a tear into what I can't see." Elizabeth stared at the plate of food in front of her and her stomach churned uneasily. "Do you…have a cigarette?"
Booker rummaged through his pocket with his free hand to oblige her. She'd never asked for one before, only ever sharing the ones he'd lit for himself. He knew addiction, he knew what it meant to turn to something in times of stress, but at the same time he was grateful to be able to offer her something. He couldn't bring the doors back, but he could give her this much. She pursed the filter between her lips and leaned forward to catch the Devil's Kiss dancing at his fingertips with the end of the rod. After her first drag Elizabeth offered it back to him, and Booker nearly shook his head—she seemed to need it a lot more than he did, and he could easily light one for himself—but then it occurred to him she might be craving the ritual of sharing a smoke just as much as the cigarette itself, and he accepted it with a nod of appreciation.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked gently, stroking his thumb over the paper-thin skin on the back of her hand. It felt bizarre, being so delicate with anyone, but he felt compelled to prove to her he was capable of more than violent outbursts, and his touch seemed to soothe her—or maybe that was just the cigarette. Either way, Elizabeth locked her fingers through his possessively.
"I didn't know how to tell you," she mumbled quietly, pausing to puff on the cigarette before tapping it across the rim of the ashtray on the table. "I'm not even sure I understand how it works, really. Comstock has such…influence, and removing him creates an imbalance."
Booker scowled as he tried to understand, and he took a pensive bite of bread. "Wouldn't that have happened even if you…uh, if they drowned me, before the baptism?" He almost missed the slight way she winced; the way she then pulled his branded hand to her mouth to brush her lips against the back of it was much more obvious. His throat tightened at the affectionate gesture and the near-unbearable sweetness the girl seemed to have, and his mind began veering back to what he'd seen this morning. He clenched his teeth and tried to force the memory out of focus, suddenly wishing he'd brought the bourbon with him when he sat down. As if on cue Elizabeth passed him back the cigarette, and he let the familiar, heavy taste drown out the thought of any other sensations from his mind.
"No," Elizabeth murmured into his knuckles, pressing a last kiss against them before setting their hands back on the table. Booker might be a man with countless regrets, but he would not be one of hers, and no matter how difficult it might be to explain the doors, he at least had to understand that much. "That would have been the cleaner way of doing it, but now that he's been born in the first place, the way we pick him off one by one, over and over again, has a destabilizing effect and…" Her head was swimming with concepts of quantum physics and trans-dimensional cause-and-effect, and trying to translate all of it into something an ex-Pinkerton could comprehend was proving to be a struggle. The why didn't matter nearly as much as the repercussions. "…and I'm losing the doors…and I think it will only get worse, the longer we do it."
Booker took a needy drag off the cigarette as he tried to make sense of her explanation. "Cleaner way," he repeated, handing the little white stick back to her. "Is that why you always…want the body taken care of?"
Elizabeth nodded stiffly. "Corpses bring up questions, investigations…the last thing we need is for him to be made a martyr, and let him keep that influence even after death." She sighed heavily in frustration at the thought of a Columbia rising in the prophet's memory, with only men like Fink to run it. "It was…so much easier when he was a nobody, just after the baptism, but now I can only seem to find him after he's gathered a following." She spat the word as if it was a profanity. Her eyes met Booker's with a bitterness that made him uneasy. "And the messier we are about it, the more doors shut, and…and it's only going to get harder…"
Booker flinched when he heard her voice crack before trailing off. "We don't have to keep doing this, Elizabeth," he muttered softly, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. "We can just…go back to Paris. Or wherever you want."
She shook her head earnestly, wiping the back of her hand across her eye to catch a tear before it got the chance to fall. "There are only three years between the baptism and the launch of Columbia." She spoke harshly, as if to compensate for how vulnerable her progressing "blindness" made her feel. "And six months between then and Comstock getting his lamb. And every day the number of tears I can open in that period is getting smaller, and…I don't know how long it will take, but eventually…" Elizabeth faltered, hoping Booker could figure it out on his own.
"We won't be able to stop him before he takes Anna."
Booker didn't even remember saying the words, but the sound of them rang in his ears all the same, the statement only registering through the echo it made. Even then, he didn't quite believe it until Elizabeth nodded tightly. Anger prickled at his scalp and spine, but…why? He'd always known they wouldn't be able to kill every Comstock, so…of course they wouldn't be able to save every Anna. Somehow he had never thought it all the way through to its logical conclusion—perhaps because thinking about Anna at all was simply too painful, and he did his best to avoid it. It was hard enough traveling with one extremely altered version of his infant daughter, let alone considering every version of her. And suddenly Booker saw it, the confrontation he'd had with the prophet twenty years ago as they fought over a baby, his child, he saw it happen over and over again across countless realities and oh god he felt it, too, and there was no logic in it but rage and heartache and failure and—
"So we take her back," he hissed, clinging to the first solution he could think of. "We kill him and we take her back to her…" Booker. Father. Seller.
Elizabeth was biting her lip again, but there was nothing sensual about it now. She stared at their joined hands with a wistfulness he didn't understand, until she asked in a whisper, "And how long until she stops being Anna?"
Booker didn't know what to say to that. It doesn't matter what her name is, she belongs with me—but of course it mattered. It mattered as much as the difference between himself and Comstock, and Elizabeth didn't have the luxury of a discrete baptism to mark where her identities split off. Anna, Elizabeth…there's a world of difference between what we see, and what is. Booker could see that difference, he knew they were separate, but he wanted both, he wanted his child and his partner, because even if he didn't deserve either of them, Comstock had to be worse…didn't he? There was a fierce throbbing in his head—it was too much, all of it, all the potential of all the people the two of them were and weren't, and god knows there was enough pain between the two of them in this room alone. He swallowed hard as he came to the decision that the only girl he needed to care about—the only girl he could care about—was the one sitting in front of him, holding his hand across the table.
I'm sorry, Anna.
"We could still just…we could go back to Paris," he offered desperately, loathing the tears he could feel burning at his eyes. Christ, what kind of a father was he, to even suggest that they leave his baby daughter to be kidnapped by the prophet over and over again? It would happen regardless, there were simply too many realities to get to in a lifetime, but they could try and make up for where another version of him had failed—wasn't that the right thing to do? I'm not a father anymore, Booker thought numbly. I'm her partner. Gotta take care of her. A thousand Annas he'd never met might need him, but he belonged to this Elizabeth.
"No," she snapped, clutching tightly at his hand, not even seeming to notice when the long build-up of ashes fell from the end of the cigarette and scattered over their barely-touched supper. "We are not stopping."
Her reaction startled him, and Booker nearly pulled away from her in surprise. "We don't have to live like this, if it's not going to help Anna…"
I don't care about Anna, Elizabeth almost snarled. She knew that sort of talk wasn't likely to win DeWitt over, but now that the time was coming for Booker to make a choice of his own, a sense of panic was threatening to completely overwhelm her. He had to stay with her, that's why she saved him, and if all he cared about was a version of her that she could never be, that she'd stopped being nineteen years ago… "You said, at Comstock House, that…that you're with me, as long as I want," she reminded him, leaving him to remember the way they'd sealed the deal on his own. "You still mean that, don't you?"
Booker really wished she wouldn't bring up promises he'd made when she was straddling him. He shifted uncomfortably as memories of that morning and this one fought for his focus, and he tugged his hand from her grasp to rake through his hair restlessly. "Of course I do," he snapped, more harshly than he meant to, and he paused to take a hasty drag off the cigarette. "I'm not leaving you."
Elizabeth was more discouraged than anything else by his reaction, and she wrapped her arms around herself before pressing the issue further. "Even if it gets to a point where it's too late for Anna? You'll still…you'll still help me with him?" Hell, he didn't even have to help, Elizabeth would gladly kill the prophet herself—she just needed to know that Booker would still be in her arms at the end of each day. "Do you still want to stay with me?"
Booker's stomach lurched as the full weight of her request settled over him. It was always about Comstock for Elizabeth. She looked as nervous now as she had in Paris when she first asked him to be her partner in this…whatever this was. The idea of refusing her then was just as ridiculous as it was now, but he felt a much bigger sense of dread this time around. Not like I can stick her in a suitcase and catch the next boat to France. Elizabeth would hate him for even trying—Paris had stopped being her idea of a happily-ever-after a long time ago. The girl was owed some happiness after everything she'd been through, but what would that look like for her now? Watching her father be murdered all day before being pleasured all night by her…
Fuck.
It was so much easier when they didn't know.
Most men, most fathers, would say no. They would put their foot down and do whatever was necessary to prevent their precious daughter from turning into even more of a monster. The word made Booker shudder—it was nigh-impossible to see Elizabeth in such ugly terms, especially when she looked at him now with those pleading blue eyes, the only hint of impurity being the nearly-spent cigarette she kept a desperate pinch on. Most men would give anything to preserve her, just as she was. Comstock certainly had. Booker DeWitt wasn't like most men—he considered himself more monster than not. Perhaps that was why he and Elizabeth fit so well together; it wasn't the shared blood flowing in their veins, but the shared blood they sent flowing in the streets. Perhaps there was something of a monster in her, lurking behind that lovely face…and somehow he felt compelled to care for that monster just as much as he did the rest of her. He was the one who had brought it out.
"I do."
His hesitation in speaking put Elizabeth on edge, but the sincerity in those two words was a comfort. She nearly reached out again for his hand but thought better of it—the stiffness in his posture and the way he stared at the cigarette, not at her, were clear signals that Booker was still upset. I shouldn't have kept the doors from him, she thought remorsefully. No matter how hard it was for her to talk about, or how little she liked him thinking about Anna, he had a right to know. "Booker, I…I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the doors," she apologized quietly, crushing the butt of the cigarette into the ashtray. "We're partners, we shouldn't keep secrets from each other…it's not like you can keep many from me." The teasing half-smirk she offered him was just as guilty as it was playful—Elizabeth couldn't help knowing what she did about his past, but it was hardly fair.
I watched you masturbate this morning, Booker thought dazedly, and he only had experience to thank for his ability to keep any shame from showing in his face. It now seemed like it happened a very long time ago, but if he let his mind wander back, the details flooded his senses with ease—stop it. He'd been repressing memories ever since Wounded Knee, he had to do the same now. He couldn't think about how she'd looked, or might have felt, or how she might have sounded if she wasn't trying to stay quiet—quiet like she'd wanted him to be in the graveyard as they buried her father, and shit this was all hurting his head, even as he rubbed idly at his temples to ease the throbbing.
"Booker, are we…okay?"
He forced his gaze back to her face, as much as it hurt and confused him to look at her right now. Cigarettes and reassurances, he could give her that much. "Course we are," he grumbled, and he wasn't even sure if he was lying or not. The resulting smile on her face made it hard to care. The two of them made a hell of a mess, but…they were together, just like the Luteces wanted. Just like he wanted. And for reasons Booker still couldn't quite fathom, Elizabeth seemed to want it that way, too. With her mind put at ease, an adorable yawn sprang out of the girl, and he sighed when he remembered the brutal way he'd pushed them through the day. "You oughta get some sleep."
Elizabeth nodded drowsily and rose to her feet. She was exhausted, but now that the air was clear between them there was a strange, energizing optimism tingling in her bones. Of course they were okay, they were partners, and they took care of each other. I do. The matrimonial air of his promise hadn't escaped her notice, though she was sure it wasn't intentional—Booker was just a plain-spoken man. Nothing like her father, who would spend hours painting wordy pictures of the hellish Sodom Below, and the eternal torment she was in for if she didn't see the error in her ways. Elizabeth leaned down to peck his cheek and pulled back before Booker could react. "Don't take too long coming to bed, all right? You need the rest, too."
"Right."
That was a lie and he knew it, but it sent Elizabeth to the bedroom without any fuss, and left Booker with a familiar isolation that he'd been craving all day. If he closed his eyes he could even pretend he was back in his apartment in New York, the smell of used-up cigarettes and cheap booze filling his nostrils. Twenty years of misery…but it had been easy, in a way. Always knowing how each day would end, never having to worry about anyone else, being able to shut out any unpleasant memories with no one around to bring them up—it was simple. Booker never wanted to set foot in that apartment again, and he didn't like the idea of a day going by without Elizabeth asking him some equally innocent and damning question, but life in her company had to be the hardest thing he'd ever done. And when things got hard…
The coolness of the bottle registered in his head before he even realized he was on his feet and back at the counter. There wasn't much bourbon left, but he wouldn't need much to get through the rest of the night, just enough to let him pass out in the armchair—because there was no way he was sharing a bed with Elizabeth tonight, and hopefully she would fall asleep before realizing it. One more broken promise. He watched the liquid ripple in the bottle, and noticed his hand was shaking again. Booker had told her he was trying to change, back at the farmhouse, but wasn't that just another lie? How was he any better than the man she'd met in Columbia? Than the man who'd sold her as a baby? Anna's wails echoed in his ears as he remembered stumbling into her nursery, their most peaceful moments being when they nursed at their respective bottles in silence. Sweet little Anna had been so oblivious to the shit hand she'd been dealt—but Elizabeth was overwhelmingly aware of his faults, and yet didn't ask him to change.
"I just want things to be like they were in Emporia!"
There was an unbearably ugly noise when the bottle shattered against the bowl of the sink, and Booker's fist tightened around the in-tact neck, as if someone else had made the sound and would need to be attacked. He watched the bourbon drain through the chips of glass with a surge of panic—why had he done that? What if there was nothing left in the house? What if the memories came flooding back, and he needed to forget—because he always needed to forget—and Booker dropped the neck of the bottle to scoop his hands past the shards, trying to cup what he could of the bourbon before it completely slipped away. He only got shallow slices along the skin of his hands for his efforts, and he nearly wept at the sense of loss. I can't do this, he thought desperately. It's too hard, and I can't, I couldn't with Anna, and I can't now…
He didn't know how long he stood hunched over the sink, watching little beads of his blood stain the glass fragments. His hands were prickling, but it wasn't insufferable. The cuts weren't deep and would heal within hours—one more reason to be grateful to the Luteces. Grateful. Booker had been given a second chance, and what had he done with it? He'd screamed at his partner over the fresh corpse of her father, all because he was too accustomed to his regular dose of poison. If anyone else had treated Elizabeth that way he would have shot them—and he hadn't even touched her.
God, did he want to, though.
Booker turned the water on at full blast and vigorously rubbed his hands clean under the stream, the pain both soothing and stinging. Soon even the glass shards were spotless—the bleeding had stopped and the healing process was well-underway. He dried his hands with more force than necessary against his vest, eking out whatever last bit of soreness he could. The armchair creaked when he collapsed into it, and he tossed a longing glance at the couch—no. The chair forced him into a half-curled position, and there was barely room enough for him, let alone a twenty-year-old girl—no matter how persistent she might be. Booker shut his eyes without much hope for sleep; with no booze and no bed he didn't see how he'd manage it. His spent muscles clamored for the rest, however, and soon enough he drifted off into a light slumber.
Everything was good. Booker reclined on something firm in all the right places, his head propped in Elizabeth's lap at a comfortable angle. She dabbed his face and neck with a damp washcloth—somehow the gentleness of her touch and the coolness of the fabric registered more than the pain. He kept his eyes closed, but the mellow sunlight poured through his eyelids all the same.
"Can you even go a day without getting hurt?"
He didn't need to look at her to see the smirk; the music in her voice carried it well enough. Booker wasn't sure why she was complaining—a few scrapes hardly qualified as an injury—but he was enjoying the attention too much to defend himself. He hissed when the cloth went over a deep scratch near his brow, but her lips brushed over it with that special sort of delicateness only women seemed to have, and the stinging vanished instantly. The pads of her fingers traced the skin around the cut to push any remaining hair out of the way.
"You should at least take better care of your face, it's too handsome for this kind of rough treatment." He hummed a little chuckle into her hand. "It's true, Booker, ask any woman in Columbia. You seem to catch their gaze without any trouble."
The cloth was set aside and tiny circles were drawn against his temples. Her thumbs raked back into his hair, taming the unruly locks in slow, tender drags. Soft kisses were pressed along his hairline, drawing a content sigh out of him. Booker should have felt more on guard—no one was ever this affectionate, not to men like him—but the idea of pulling away from Elizabeth was laughable. Everything was good, why would he want to stop it? Her nails scraped gently at his scalp and his head tipped back further into her hands. She giggled at his reaction and inched her fingers down to explore Booker's exposed throat.
"Are you purring?" she accused, her hand flattened along his vibrating skin. He shuddered when her breath ghosted over the curve of his ear, and tensed up completely when her teeth nipped at a lobe. Careful, baby, that's not proper behavior. But he hadn't even finished the thought before her lips were back along the crown of his head, peppering his hair with more tender kisses. Nothing wrong with that, was there? She was just being her usual sweet self. Her thumb brushed across the underside of his jaw, catching on the grain of his stubble, and she tutted in mock disapproval. "Seems like you're due for a shave, Mr. DeWitt."
A strange surge of panic welled up inside him, and he didn't know why. A hot, damp towel was wrapped around his face before he could protest—where had she gotten that from? Elizabeth hummed a melody he didn't remember as she worked the fabric against his face, cupping her hands around his chin and cheeks and throat to soften the skin, pausing every now and then to peck him warmly on the forehead. When the job was done to her satisfaction she deftly pulled the towel away, murmuring, "I've been waiting all day to get my hands on you."
Booker shivered, and it wasn't from the cool air settling back over his skin. He felt her fingers spread the shaving soap across the planes of his face, though he never heard the familiar sound of her working it into a lather. Everything is good, he told himself sternly, willing himself to relax. Her fingertips pulled at his lips as she smeared the cream right above them, and Booker fought the urge to swipe his tongue out to get a taste. He clenched his teeth hard, reminding himself that such desires were wrong, that the two of them couldn't be like that, but…for the life of him, he couldn't recall why.
"Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?"
Her voice was husky and rough, but the strokes of the razor she dragged across his cheek were smooth and precise. His eyes were shut with so much force it was beginning to hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to open them—there was something about her he didn't want to see. Booker tried not to squirm as he imagined what she wanted—but he didn't have to imagine, because he knew, didn't he? He'd seen her somewhere, at some point, splayed out on a bed with her hand between her legs, hidden in her drawers, groaning out his name in spite of herself. Say it, he begged Elizabeth silently, curling his hands into tight fists of frustration. Say it again, I need to hear you say it.
"Booker."
He hissed as he felt the blade dig into the skin near the corner of his mouth, the soap irritating the wound almost immediately. Elizabeth pressed the still-warm towel against the cut to catch the blood, and cooed into his ear, "Do you like it when I hurt you?"
Booker wanted to pull away from her, to ask what was wrong with her, but it was as if his limbs were lined with lead, and he couldn't so much as tremble. Don't change, baby, he pleaded, but even his mouth was no longer in his control, and it stayed sealed in a firm line. Just stay sweet. Yet for as long as Elizabeth applied pressure to the cut, she obliged his silent request, brushing her free fingers through his hair and hushing him softly, comfortingly, although he made no noise. And then the towel was replaced with the razor, and she continued her way down his jaw to his throat, like she was merely tracing the skin instead of shaving it. Booker felt the blade's edge rest against his neck, and she cupped her other hand around his chin instead of pulling at the skin to keep it taut. Elizabeth's lips slanted over his hungrily and his mouth fell open in surrender, as if it belonged to her instead of him.
She tasted like blood and she shouldn't.
Her grip on his chin tightened just before she ripped her lips away, leaving Booker panting in her lap, though he still couldn't force himself to open his eyes. He didn't even feel it when Elizabeth sliced the razor across his neck, or the way the blood dribbled down to pool into her skirt under his head. Her voice was strained with a bitterness that hurt worse than any blade.
"Look at what you've done to me, Booker. Look at what you've turned me into."