Chapter 5

It had been three days since his last drink, and Booker felt he had a very keen understanding of what hell must be like. He gripped the sides of the basin in front of him and glared at his reflection. The surface was interrupted by the slight shake in his hands and the drops of perspiration falling from his face. In all his half-hearted attempts at quitting before, he never remembered the sweats being this bad.

He never remembered making it three days, either. Shit, wasn't it supposed to get easier?

Booker soaked the drenched washcloth in his fist once more before dragging it over his face. Some of the cold water trickled into his half-open mouth, but it had none of the bite he needed and it fell flatly on his tongue. Fresh beads of sweat were already forming at his hairline, and it was all Booker could do not to tug his hair out by the roots in frustration. He tossed the rag back into the basin, not caring about the splatter across the bathroom tiles, and he leaned down to pick his undershirt up off the floor—and nearly collapsed from the effort. Booker caught himself on the wall and hissed through the dizziness, trying to remember the last time he had managed to eat something and keep it down. It was proving harder to recall than it should have been. Elizabeth had damn-near forced some soup down his throat…last night? And though the nausea came without fail shortly after, Booker was sure he hadn't wretched all of it up.

He glared at the sweat-soaked undershirt in distaste and kicked it away feebly. Twenty years of poisoning himself and now the reckoning had come—a reckoning that could be avoided if he could just get his hands on a bottle of something. Anything. Unfortunately this house was dry as a bone—and Booker hated himself for knowing that, for having even looked when they first arrived an hour ago. He barely managed not to beg Elizabeth to open a tear to a version of the cottage that had a stash of whiskey; perhaps only because she looked at him with a pity he hadn't seen since that night in Paris, when she told him to say her name.

Even with his outburst at the cemetery, she hadn't asked him to give up drinking. She shouldn't have to, Booker thought crossly, though with a determination that had been much stronger three days ago. Maybe she didn't believe he could, and with everything she'd seen through the doors he wouldn't blame her for a lack of faith in him. After losing Anna he'd had no reason not to let the booze wash him into an early grave—but he did now, and every time he imagined the sweet burn of scotch on his throat, Booker had to force himself to think of the hurt in his partner's eyes. Pain and guilt were the motivators DeWitt was most familiar with, and so far the latter from hurting Elizabeth was outweighing the former from his body's cries for alcohol. Barely. In a morbid sense, Booker found himself jealous of Comstock—the prophet was even worse than him in a great many ways, but at least he wasn't a lush. Don't think Elizabeth much cared how sober he was when he locked her up in that tower, Booker thought darkly, peering into the basin helplessly, as if the cold water could offer some miracle cure.

Of thy sins shall I wash thee.

For a brief moment, he entertained the notion of shoving his head beneath the surface, deep enough to kiss the bottom of the basin, long enough for everything bad to go out of him—all the air and poison and sins would bubble up through the water and he would be clean. Booker jerked away from it uneasily, pressing his palms against his closed eyes and sighing heavily. Strange thoughts like that had been spinning through his head more often than not the last few days, and he didn't like it one bit. Just gotta get some sleep, he told himself wearily—not that sleep had been easy to come by, either. He was exhausted, but every cat nap he'd managed amounted to little more than fitful tossing and turning. Though the two of them had been skirting around the issue of his newfound sobriety, Elizabeth was adamant that Booker at least try to get some shut-eye between each prophet; he knew they wouldn't be leaving this house until he made an attempt at rest. Ever since she spotted the broken shards of the bourbon bottle, she'd given him his space and kept to her own bed, and Booker felt he ought to be grateful for that—but instead he found himself missing the way she curled up around his back in the middle of the night, and he now dreaded collapsing into yet another empty bed.

"Plan on brooding here long?"

Booker jumped at the voice, and tore his gaze away from the wet tiles to glance at the ginger-haired man standing on the other side of the basin. His empty stomach lurched—intrusive thoughts were one thing, he could deal with those, but hallucinations were quite another. He hadn't seen the Luteces since that night in Paris, and they were always together. Robert stood alone now, peering at him inquisitively with his hands clasped behind his back and looking rather incomplete without his sister in tow.

"Or gape at me, by all means, if that will make you feel better," he quipped in response to Booker's silence, shrugging casually. "Though I'm not sure how much good it will do you."

"What…do you want?" Booker finally growled, uncertain if he was merely talking to an empty room or if Lutece was really there—and seeing as the man rarely came bearing good news, Booker thought he might prefer a hallucination after all.

"Just checking in," Robert answered simply, quirking his eyebrow with a curiosity that made Booker suspicious. This wasn't right, he was always with his sister, always, the only exception being the night he came to collect Anna—

This is the man who took Anna from me.

No, this was the man he'd sold Anna to. Lutece had only been the courier, and he'd done his level best to make amends for his part in Comstock's plot—but Booker found his fists clenched all the same. If he landed a punch, wouldn't that prove that Robert was truly there? But it wouldn't just be one punch, it never was with Booker; one punch turned into a bloody knock-out, one card game turned into a week of starving, one drink turned into a hangover that left him wishing for death. Moderation was a virtue that DeWitt had always lacked, and this was hardly the time to exercise something he'd never had.

"I never dared to guess how things might play out with you and the girl after being reunited," Lutece spoke airily, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall opposite Booker. "I'd hoped for a happy ending, of course, but Rosalind and I were a bit preoccupied with getting you two out of Columbia in the first place." He paused, and now the curiosity in his gaze was mixed with a distress that made Booker even more uncomfortable. "Although I can say I didn't expect this."

"This isn't your idea of a happy ending?" Booker retorted hollowly, flexing his fingers in agitation. He wiped them dry along the legs of his pants, clutching at the fabric when another spell of lightheadedness settled over him.

"You certainly don't look happy."

Booker glowered at the physicist. Was Robert only there to taunt him? Hadn't he and his twin gotten enough entertainment out of the DeWitt family tragedy? "Is there something you wanted?" A spiteful part of him hoped Lutece had a legitimate request that he could deny.

"Rosalind believes the job is done, now that you and the girl are together once more. I…don't." It was a rather ineloquent answer, coming from him, and Booker frowned at the anguish that seemed to slowly seep through Robert's face. "You're the first Booker we managed to get out of that city alive, but instead of settling down in Paris, you…well, you've turned into a serial killer. With a faithful audience, no less. Why?"

Booker grimaced, as if he was being scolded like a child. So Robert had been keeping an eye on them all this time, and obviously didn't approve of how he and Elizabeth had chosen to spend their time. Fuck him. Doesn't matter what he wants. "She doesn't wanna go to Paris anymore," he snapped hastily. "And you knew what I was before you sent me to that flying hellhole."

"Yes, yes, we're all well aware of how comfortable you are with murder," Lutece waved off his excuse with a dismissive hand and a roll of his eyes. "But you never sought out particular victims before. And you haven't enjoyed it since you were her age. Seems she got that from you."

He's not half the genius he thinks he is if he believes I get any pleasure out of it, Booker thought sourly. "Get out—"

"You really think you're doing Elizabeth any favors by pulling the trigger in her stead?" the physicist continued rudely—god, even a conversation with just one of them was proving to be insufferable. "You've seen her, Booker, the way her face lights up when you put the prophet down. She's made it her purpose in life to see it as many times as she can. Is that the life you want for her?"

Booker felt a burning surge of rage mixed with self-pity well up inside of him at the critique of his "parenting". "What would you do?" he demanded in a low growl. "Put her in a goddamn tower? This is what she wants. This is the only thing I can do for her." Elizabeth had told him as much, in that hotel room in Paris. He had failed her in countless ways, but he was a still a good killer. He felt no pride when it came to that talent, not since the Pinkertons let him go, but at least it was something he could offer her.

"That's not why she spared you from the baptism," Robert chided him softly. "I believe Elizabeth made her intentions with you quite clear back at that farmhouse last month."

"Jesus, are you two ever not watching us?" Booker hissed, ready to pounce on Lutece with a fury the rest of his body couldn't match. His legs shook after the first step in the other man's direction, and he braced himself against the sink. There was never a good time to give up drinking, but even so he wished he had timed it better. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Rosalind and I have been quite busy, as a matter of fact. Now that we know it is possible for the two of you to escape from Columbia alive, we've been exploring the…other options."

Booker recalled Elizabeth's vague yet upsetting explanation of her issue with the doors, how they were closing to her because of their…interference, was it? And how the Luteces used an infuriatingly light hand to avoid such restrictions. "And I'll just bet you're helping so much."

"You'd be surprised how much things can change with only a slight nudge in the right place. And Columbia in July of 1912 is at the crux of a great many timelines, it's quite fascinating to watch—especially when the two of you stop dying within the week." Robert hesitated, eyeing Booker with that same distressing sort of compassion he'd had earlier, and he cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing. "If it helps at all, you aren't the only Booker who developed a more…carnal relationship with her. Just the first."

The beads of sweat that had been rolling down his back suddenly felt like ice, and Booker's mouth was even drier than usual. Christ, was that supposed to make him feel better? Congratulations, you're still a dirty old man, but at least you're not the only one. "The other Elizabeths, do they…are they okay?" Do they hate me? Do they love me? Did it matter? He had told himself three days ago that he couldn't worry about that anymore, not about Anna, not about anyone who wasn't his Elizabeth, but Booker felt concern and curiosity gnawing in his gut all the same.

Robert offered him a melancholy smirk, as if he both expected and dreaded the question. "Depends on your definition. If the two of you make it out of Columbia, you hardly ever part ways—not by choice, anyway. Sometimes you escape without ever even discovering who you are to each other, and, sometimes…" He sighed again, then squared his shoulders. "Elizabeth would be a wonderful mother. And you make for a much better father, the second time around."

DeWitt's stomach lurched, and he slumped against the sink to let the porcelain cool his forehead. Shit. Shit. He couldn't stop himself from picturing her, all round and heavy with child, his child, his child with his child, and glowing as brightly as her mother had, and oh god Annabelle must be cursing him from Heaven right now, even if it wasn't this him, even if he never meant to—

"The children are almost always healthy, too, despite the circumstances."

Jesus, was Lutece trying to comfort him or torment him? "They don't know," he groaned hoarsely, more to the sink than the man, holding on to the fixture as the bathroom took to spinning again. "We do…we won't…I won't…" I don't want to. I swear. But that wasn't true, the idea of Elizabeth carrying his baby stirred up something inside of him, something primitive, much like that morning in Emporia when she had walked into the bathroom wearing nothing but his shirt.

Mine.

He could sense Robert's presence closing in, and flinched when the ginger-haired man crouched down next to him on the floor. Booker wasn't sure what he was afraid of—even in a state of detox, a man of Robert's build was hardly a threat—but he clung to the porcelain desperately, willing the dizziness to end. "Fatherhood is one of the greatest struggles a man can endure," Robert said gently, coaxingly. "Perhaps you should feel fortunate that you no longer have to."

Booker gaped at him silently as his words clicked into place, and knew they were supposedto be consoling, even forgiving, but once they settled he only felt anger and confusion coursing through him. "Then what was the fucking point?" he spat acidly, his knuckles as white as the porcelain as he gripped the bowl of the sink. "Why go through all of that if you don't…if you don't even care if we…" He hiccupped on the tightness of his own throat. "I thought you wanted her to be with…her father."

It shouldn't have sounded like a curse word.

Robert's mouth was set in a stiff line, even as he let himself relax against the wall to take a seat on the floor, his hands hanging limply over his knees. What a sight the pair of them must have made: one half-naked, soaked in his own perspiration and hugging a sink, the other well-dressed in a suit but posed as a beggar. Maybe Booker really was hallucinating the entire conversation after all. "I do care, Booker. Far too much, according to my sister. I've tried to rationalize everything I've done—I watched you drink away twenty years in that apartment, and I told myself that…that she'd be better off with Comstock, instead of you."

The suggestion should have made Booker furious, as it always had in the past, but now… "Might be you were right," he mumbled with something nearing meekness. Comstock had raised—in a sense, anyway—a lovely, spirited woman, full of empathy and grace. Two months in DeWitt's company had cut through all of that. Every time he saw a wisp of the girl he'd met on Monument Island, whether in giggle or grin or teasing gibe, it all seemed empty compared to the look of satisfaction on her face when she watched the prophet die. Booker couldn't bear to imagine what she would have become if he'd had her all to himself for the first nineteen years of her life.

"No, I wasn't. I doubt you would have whipped her for taking a lover, no matter how awful you thought he was." Booker chose not to respond, and instead stumbled back to the basin to wipe the fresh sweat off his brow. Robert didn't seem to need a response, and was undeterred by DeWitt's silence. "In any case, Elizabeth seems to prefer your company over his, so I'm pleased to see you reunited, but…you have to stop looking back, Booker. She's not Anna anymore."

Hearing that name out loud again was like a swift jab to the gut, and Booker curled his arms around the basin for support. The branding on his hand prickled painfully. I forgot my baby girl. He found himself grasping for some hint of propriety in the whole mess, and he wasn't quite sure why. Things would never be proper between them, not this them, not anymore, but… "Aren't there…aren't there any worlds where she and I could be…shit, where everything's just decent between us?" he demanded, glaring at his own reflection. Where I'm not the worst thing that ever happened to her? Where she doesn't think about me when she's getting off?

"You mean where the two of you are the very picture of a loving and chaste father and daughter?"

Booker clenched his teeth at the unnecessary implication of everything he and Elizabeth were supposed to be, and weren't. Yes, you smarmy son of a whore.

"Of course. The possibilities are endless, after all, and there are plenty of Booker DeWitts who wind up a great deal more…paternal. But they're not you," Robert spoke pointedly, yet somehow there wasn't a trace of blame in his voice. "Elizabeth chose you."

Booker scowled into the cold water, mopping the cloth down his neck and almost proud of how steady he kept his hand. He'd been chosen—him, the White Injun, the ex-Pinkerton agent, the baby-seller, the gambling alcoholic. He still wasn't sure if a life with Elizabeth was meant to be a precious gift out of her own misguided mercy, or some convoluted punishment from God, so he could stare his regrets in the face every day.

But he'd stopped believing in God a long time ago.

"So you've got no quarrel with what we've…" Christ, after all the time he'd spent trying to block out those memories, he could hardly go out and describe them. He felt ashamed of the tone in his own voice—he couldn't tell if it was accusing or beseeching.

"What's done is done, Booker. There's no point in repressing it like all your other sins. There's no point in seeing it as a sin." Robert sighed again and got to his feet, clearly unhappy with the direction of the conversation—though Booker couldn't fathom what Lutece meant to gain from it. "You weren't trying to hurt her, in Emporia. You've never meant her any harm, it's one of your constants. The main variable seems to be how your…affection for her manifests. It was no more wrong of you to be her lover than it was to pick the cage for her necklace, instead of the bird."

Booker could hear his words, but found it impossible to truly listen to them. Of course it was wrong, why didn't Robert see that? He didn't need Comstock's religious fervor to know that much—fathers did not sleep with their daughters, especially not after selling them. Partner, she's my partner, he thought desperately, aching for the comforting neutrality of the term. Her name is Elizabeth, and she's my partner. She's clever and kind and mine—but what right did he have to any sense of claim on her, if not as her father? The aloofness of "partner" didn't come close to accounting for the near-paralyzing possessiveness he felt for her, it couldn't explain the need he had to keep her or hold her or protect her, though she was hardly helpless. Was that how fathers were supposed to feel? Or lovers? His grip on the basin tightened when he realized that Comstock had certainly felt much the same way, and the similarity repulsed him. Not me, that's not me, one more, Booker thought frantically, more out of habit than anything else—but there was no younger, baptized version of himself in front of him to punish. There was only Robert.

"She needs better," Booker hissed, his breath coming out in broken gasps. Surely Lutece couldn't argue with that. After everything Elizabeth had been through, hell, she deserved Santa Clause for a father and one of those genteel princes in her books for a husband.

And he didn't. "So be better." Robert's voice was almost…pleading, and DeWitt looked up to see the familiar shape of an infusion flask that the physicist had pulled from god-knows-where, sitting in the palm of Robert's hand. The sickly green color of the liquid inside was off-putting, to say the least, but Lutece offered it out to him with a strange earnestness, the kind one has when tossing a rope to a drowning man. "You've already started something most Bookers never do, this will help you."

Booker's fingers trembled as they closed around the neck of the cool bottle, and if he closed his eyes he could pretend it was a bottle of something else, of something better, perhaps his favorite brand of scotch or maybe a dry gin, he'd never been too picky—so he forced his eyes open to keep the daydreams at bay. "What is it?"

"Detox doesn't suit you, Booker," Robert remarked candidly. The change in demeanor was jarring, and made Booker eye the flask with suspicion. "Three days in and you look dead on your feet. This will relieve some of the worst symptoms of withdrawal."

DeWitt uncorked the bottle with a practiced ease and took a wary sniff—it smelled electric, much like Shock Jockey, but no sparks were crackling along the green surface of the liquid. "Why are you…?"

"It's more for her, than for you," Robert admitted with an air of sheepishness. "As you said, she needs better. It's hardly the only obstacle between the two of you and that happy ending I mentioned, but if you've made it this far, well…I'd hate for the effort to go to waste." He made an indifferent gesture in Booker's direction, as if DeWitt needed reminding of how much of a mess he looked.

"You think one of these is gonna make me kick the habit?" Booker demanded skeptically.

You think a dunk in the river is gonna change the things I've done?

"I only said it would help. The temptation will always be there, but this should make it less physically demanding."

"Should?"

Robert quirked an eyebrow. "What have you got to lose?"

After having downed all those Vigors in Columbia without hesitation, Booker supposed he didn't have much in the way of an argument. He'd stopped caring about the long-term effects of strange substances a long time ago, and if this had a chance of setting his body back to rights, well...He brought the bottle to his lips and gulped down the infusion in a few hasty swigs—and immediately regretted it. The taste burned all the way down, and not in the comforting manner of alcohol. It didn't settle in his stomach, the liquid seemed intent on melting him from the inside out, and his knees jolted painfully when they slammed against the bathroom tile. This was no hallucination.

"Easy now, try not to throw up, that's the only one we've made."

The scorching turned to chilling as it spread from his stomach to his limbs, and Booker hissed through his teeth, curled up on the floor and suddenly desperate for warmth. Spots of black and white danced in front of his eyes, clouding out everything else, and for a moment he feared he was losing the sense of sight all together. Then, as abruptly as the burning blizzard had begun, it stopped. The thudding between his ears ceased just enough for Booker to hear his own panting, and his vision cleared in an instant to reveal Robert looking at him from above with idle curiosity.

"Feeling better?"

Booker stumbled to his feet with more ease than he expected, but when he rubbed his hands over his face the skin felt clammy. "I…I don't know," he murmured numbly, peering back into the basin to see if any changes would show on the outside. None did, but his stomach still tingled unnervingly, and not with hunger. "How exactly is it supposed to work?"

"Can't give away all my secrets, now. You should find the next few days much more bearable." Robert's smirk hardened as he adjusted his tie, and he gave DeWitt a stern look. "You're all Elizabeth has, Booker. The two of you belong together, and it's not for anyone else to say how. I hope I didn't bring you back to her just so you could guilt yourself into an early grave."

Booker let the empty flask slip from his fingers to crack against the cold floor. "I wanna do right by her," he mumbled, fervent as any prayer. He was beginning to feel lightheaded again, and he lurched forward to grab the wet washcloth out of the basin, as if holding onto something might ground him. "But the things I want, from her…it ain't right…can't stop seeing her…hearing her…fuck, I just, I just want her, and I…" He wasn't sure why the admission slipped out, and wondered if there had been some firewater in that god-awful infusion after all—but he drank to feel numb, and the prickling sensation that covered him was something entirely new.

"Elizabeth is a grown, willing woman. Regardless of right or wrong, she can make her own decisions. She's not a child, Booker."

"But she's mine." He flinched, but he didn't know if it was because of the crack in his own voice or the gentle press of Robert's hand on his shoulder. His touch was cold, but Booker was already too tense to recoil.

"She doesn't see it that way," Robert murmured softly, in the manner of giving condolences. "Elizabeth has a father. One who named her, and locked her in that tower, and died trying to groom her. And Anna…your Anna is gone, Booker." He said it with the gravity of announcing a death.

He might have cried, he should have cried, but Lutece's words seemed to slip over him like the water slipped over his hand. The fingers on his shoulder tightened to keep him in place, and he realized he was swaying. He glanced at his branded hand, expecting it to burn, but…there was nothing. There should have been something, if Booker was even a halfway decent father it should have ached to the point of him wanting to amputate. But he wasn't, he never had been…and he didn't have to be, if…if Anna was dead…wasn't she? In every sense that mattered, his daughter, the one he named to honor his late wife, had died the moment that portal shut twenty years ago, leaving only a pinky tip to bury. Hadn't he spent the last twenty years mourning her in a drunken haze? No, that wasn't right, chasing hangovers hardly honored her memory—he'd been trying to forget her. God, he still wanted to. Booker longed for those precious few days in Columbia when he could look Elizabeth in the eye and only see Elizabeth, not a baby, not Annabelle, just her. And if Elizabeth didn't see him as her father—no ifs about that, he thought dazedly, his ears ringing with the guttural lilt in her voice when she moaned his name. The usual sense of shame he'd attached to that memory didn't follow, or at least didn't register over the faded tingling that still settled over his skin.

"I meant to reunite you with your daughter, that much is true," Robert admitted when Booker seemed steady enough to stand on his own. "I didn't account for the possibility of you two developing any other kind of relationship. Just because you did doesn't mean this trial was a failure." He gave Booker a last squeeze on the shoulder before releasing him. "It doesn't mean you've failed her."

Booker felt a dizzying lightness in his chest—he wanted so badly to believe Robert, as badly as he'd wanted to believe a baptism would cure his wickedness, once upon a time. Somehow he doubted Preacher Witting would have been as forgiving of incest as he was of scalping. The voice of an elderly, abandoned, insane Elizabeth sounded in his head and made his skin crawl. As the days pass, I believe less in God and more in Lutece. Perhaps she was onto something. The twins were omniscient, or near enough to make no difference to mere mortals like DeWitt. He couldn't fathom how Robert could possibly approve of him having these…urges, especially when Booker no longer had ignorance to cling to, but he did. The Luteces obviously didn't mind putting Booker through hell, but it was equally clear they cared a great deal for Elizabeth. Why would Robert, with all those goddamn doors, give Booker's strange, needy, depraved relationship with Elizabeth his blessing if acting on those urges would hurt the girl even more? Where was the sense in that?

But where was the sense in anything the Luteces did?

"Get some rest, Booker. Things will be better in the morning."

Booker looked up from the basin, from himself, to try and respond to Robert's advice—but he was alone. For a moment he wondered if he'd been alone the entire time, but the acrid taste of that infusion still coated the inside of his throat as proof of Robert's visit, and the empty bottle hadn't moved from where he dropped it on the floor. Rude as it was, Robert's sudden departure was a comfort. Booker felt the sag of his eyelids growing heavier as he hastily scrubbed the washcloth over himself one last time. The exhaustion he'd been feeling over the last three days was now more acute than ever—perhaps he had a chance at a decent amount of rest.

The idea of crawling into a cold, empty bed was suddenly intolerable, especially when she was in the next room over. Booker had avoided sharing her bed since that last drink of bourbon, and now he wasn't sure why. He'd been in pain, and yes, maybe he deserved it, but her presence was a balm that he'd been depriving himself of for…punishment? Propriety? DeWitt had never been a man of good moral standing, and Elizabeth was all too aware of it. Why bother pretending to be anything other than what they were? He was so tired of pretending. He was so tired of everything.

He didn't even hesitate when he left the bathroom and passed by the door to the bedroom where he'd set his weapons and ammunition. Instead he made for the door further down the hall, his head rocking with every step. The door was cracked, and when Booker pushed it further open he could only just make out the shape of Elizabeth sleeping under the covers. His movements were stiff and thoughtless as he stumbled into the room and nearly fell onto the bed beside her, but she never even stirred—he was too weary to be grateful. There was no time to feel guilt or worry or even peace before Booker slid into unconsciousness.