Booker woke to a warm pressure on his left side and a heavy rocking in his head. He groaned and the pressure shifted in response, but didn't move away from him. His eyes fluttered open reluctantly—the beams of sunlight pouring into the room were offensive despite their dimness—and he felt something small and light tracing indistinct shapes against his sternum.
"Shh, it's okay."
Elizabeth's voice was low and close, and he flexed his arm around her without thinking, not bothering to wonder how it got there. Booker turned his head and winced at the grogginess, and found comfort in the way her hair slipped under his chin like silk. Her face nuzzled against his throat, each breath landing on his skin like an airy kiss. He felt her fingers travel up his chest to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. The intimacy of their position should have bothered him, they hadn't been like this since that morning at Comstock House, and even then he'd at least been wearing an undershirt—in the beginning, anyway—but Booker noticed the sheets were pinned underneath him and over her, and somehow that thin veil of decorum was enough to put him at ease. The barrier did little to keep Elizabeth's warmth from seeping through, especially with her halfway on top of him. He shouldn't have been so comfortable. Booker dragged the back of his free hand across his brow, and the skin was blessedly dry. That god-awful infusion might have been worth it after all.
"How long was I out?" His voice was a croaky growl, and hearing it didn't help the pounding between his ears. Elizabeth squirmed until her weight was off of him and reached back for a glass of water on the bedside table, guiding his head so he could drink without sputtering. Even the half-sitting position was somewhat dizzying, but the water slid down his throat and soothed a dryness he didn't realize was there. Elizabeth helped him ease back to recline on the pillows, but kept herself propped up on her elbow right alongside him.
"All night," she murmured softly. "You've been in and out the last few hours. You should keep sleeping, if you're tired. Your body must need it."
Booker scoffed as his head cleared, and he tensed the muscles in his limbs one by one to make sure everything was in working order, and to wake himself up. "You try'na make me feel old?"
Elizabeth hummed a little giggle that pierced through the cloudiness of his mind. "I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, sweet and teasing. That's my girl, he thought idly. Elizabeth looked down at him, warmth pouring from her gorgeous blue eyes—and in that moment they truly were hers, and no one else's. Booker sighed in content as he gazed back at her, but it must have sounded pained, because concern wormed its way into her expression and she cupped a hand around the side of his face. "How are you feeling?"
It was the most explicit either of them had been about his new sobriety. I'm fine had always been his standard answer, and he nearly let it slip out, but something about the sincerity in her eyes made him pause. Booker didn't have to pretend anymore, not with her, and if anyone was owed his honesty, it was Elizabeth. However, he didn't want to worry her even more, nor did he want to explain Robert's unexpected visit. "Better," was the answer he finally settled for—it was true, after all. The sweating had stopped and his stomach felt wonderfully still. Elizabeth's half-scowl was proof enough of her disbelief, and he smirked despite the slight rocking in his head. "Not great, but…better."
Elizabeth's stern look softened as she traced the lines of his forehead. "I just…I hate it when you're in pain," she muttered, dragging a finger softly down the ridge of his brow.
Booker felt humbled by the admission, as he did whenever Elizabeth was especially kind to him. The girl was the closest thing to a god he'd ever meet, and yet she remained so devoted to him—she chose him. She's no fool, so what is it she sees in me? he wondered, and his thoughts began veering for the familiar, self-loathing path they always did. "Ain't no one's fault but mine," he grumbled, and it bordered on a warning, but he was relieved when she didn't stop caressing his face.
"I know." Elizabeth softened the bluntness of her response with a tender peck on his temple. His eyes snapped open, two green pools of desperation, and she painted his stubbly cheek with long strokes of her thumb. Booker hadn't four days, longer than she'd ever seen with this him, and the scruff only added to his disheveled look. "I just wish there was some way I could help."
Booker lifted the arm he had around her to brush a loose lock of hair back behind her ear. When he didn't pull his hand away, she rested her cheek against it. "You do," he sighed, almost whispering. She slowly shifted more of her weight from her elbow and back onto him, and he found he liked supporting her. It was hard to see Elizabeth as that vulnerable teenage girl he first met in the tower, but a glimpse of her was with him right now, depending on him. Needing him. He'd been needed before, by his wife, by his child, and a part of him wanted to recoil from any further responsibility—it only ever ended in pain and disappointment. Yet Elizabeth relied on him with such certainty, and for just a moment it was easy to believe he'd done something to deserve that trust.
Elizabeth molded herself around his side, happy to be snug against him once more. With the morning beams of sunlight slanting through the window, she could shamelessly take advantage of the fact that Booker was now on display. Throughout the dark night she settled for leeching off his body heat, and sleep came easier than she expected—but since waking up some time after dawn, Elizabeth had allowed herself to admire the view. The muscles that framed his torso were more accentuated than hidden by the sparse, coarse hair that dotted his skin, and she found herself captivated by the way they moved with each breath; Booker was broad and bumpy and scarred and wonderfully alive—a miracle in itself, considering everything they'd been through. She let a hand wander down his ribs and paused over a healed gunshot wound—one she had stitched up herself after a particularly bloody scuffle near the Luteces' laboratory. Elizabeth could feel his breath hitch in his chest at her touch, but he said nothing and didn't pull away, and that had to be a good sign. "I feel much more useful when you're just getting shot at," she joked, circling the scar with her thumb.
It may have started as a snort, but Booker let the sound drag out into a complete chuckle. "Much as I'd like to oblige, I think I'll pass on the next firefight," he countered, closing his eyes again to appreciate the soft feel of her. A little pang of guilt shot through him—he shouldn't be savoring this as much as he was—but the grogginess that persisted in his head took the edge off the shame.
Elizabeth barely heard his response; it was his laughter that rang in her ears. She'd only heard that sound a few times before, and only as a part of the nervous teasing that relieved some of the tension during foreplay. She shivered against him, remembering the way Booker had chuckled into her neck that morning in Emporia, amused by the moans he coaxed out of her with nothing but a few fingers. His laughter carried the heavy implication of intimacy, and as she drew her eyes away from his chest and back to his face, she was delighted to see it also carried a smile—a rarity all on its own. A small smirk, to be sure, but the dimple to the right of his mouth certainly hadn't been there before.
"You're so handsome when you smile, Booker."
She hadn't meant to say it out loud, especially not with such a purring lilt in her voice, but the way his lips spread into a full-blown grin made it hard to focus on her own embarrassment. Elizabeth drank in the sight of gums and teeth and even a peek of tongue as if it was a personal triumph. The ever-taciturn DeWitt had finally given in to feeling a bit of joy, and all it had taken was a compliment. She cupped a hand around his cheek, the skin taut from holding the smile, and without thinking leaned down to introduce his grin to her own.
He didn't move at first. His passiveness made it feel less like an embrace and more like a conquering, as if she was claiming Booker in victory. In a way Elizabeth supposed she was, and her stubbornness would brook no retreat. His smile softened under the kiss, and she took his bottom lip between her own, reveling in the way his stubble scraped against her chin—the sensation was irritating and so very real. When his fingers knotted through the roots of her hair Elizabeth sighed into his mouth, expecting him to push her back—and instead he pulled. She gasped when his chest suddenly swelled up beneath her and she felt the tentative brush of his tongue against her lip. An excited, girlish squeal slipped out of her, and thankfully the lust translated it into something lower and more sensual. She slid her hand back from his face to his hair, tugging Booker closer, but his neck was already straining to meet her as best he could. His mouth was just as demanding as she remembered, but the taste was slightly off and Elizabeth couldn't place the difference. Booker's free hand wandered down her side, tracing the seam of her chemise in an agonizingly slow manner. Elizabeth twisted her hips against his waist impatiently and the fabric caught on the sheet pressed between them, resulting in the chemise bunching up just beneath her chest. Booker's fingers lost all sense of deliberation at the first caress of skin, and they roamed along her exposed torso greedily. Now who's claiming whom? she wondered through a heady fog of arousal.
What do you think you're doing, DeWitt?
Booker hadn't expected her to flatter him, and certainly not on his looks, but it was a welcome surprise. He was still south of forty and by no means hard on the eyes, if the attention of the women of Columbia was anything to go by, but their flirting was far more discreet. Asking for the time, inviting giggles hidden by modest hands, all initiations to an age-old pursuit that he had little interest in and even less time for. Despite all her book-learning and insights to the ways of the universe, Elizabeth was still too inexperienced to be anything but obvious, and it was so goddamn endearing he couldn't do anything but smile wider. Perhaps she'd reward him with even more praise.
Why do you want her to think you're handsome? Why do you want her to flirt with you? Remember who she is.
The kiss she planted on his mouth silenced the self-admonishment, for a little while. And what was so bad about one kiss, really? Compared to everything else they'd done, in battle and in bed, it was downright chaste. Booker didn't return it, and merely allowed himself to enjoy the affection until she saw fit to pull away—but of course she didn't. One kiss quickly turned into her keeping his bottom lip prisoner between her own, and her teeth nipped at the skin of his mouth. The slight prick of pain was immediately relieved by the gentle, needy movements of her lips—and he wanted more of it, all of it. Booker wasn't sure how his hand wound up tangled in her hair but it did, and the sound Elizabeth made when he pulled her against him shattered any remaining delusions of chastity.
What are you gonna do, fuck her?
No, of course not, that would be…would it be wrong? It didn't matter, that wasn't happening, it was just a kiss…and then another, and shit why wasn't it ever just one with him? DeWitt was an addict at his core, and none of his experience with vices had prepared him for her. Trying to find a rush in anything besides killing had only been possible with the loss of Anna, trying to quit the booze felt like it was destroying him from the inside out—but murder and drinking had never physically reached out to him, needing him, desiring him. The sweetness of Elizabeth's mouth was a bit more muted than he remembered, and somewhere in the back of his mind Booker realized it must be the smoking habit he'd helped her pick up. He didn't care, she still moved with the same eagerness, she still knew all the right ways to get his blood up—
Comstock changed her name, not her blood. Remember who she is.
She was Elizabeth. He let the kiss grow messy in a successful attempt to coax more moans out of her, finding a strange sense of validation in the shaky timbre of her voice—Anna never made a noise like that. She was Elizabeth. He wasn't trying to hurt her, this was what she wanted; god, if there was anything in the world he could believe in right now, it was that she wanted him. The feeling was unbearably mutual.
The girl needs a father.
The girl let out a husky groan that would make a whore blush. Booker bent his knee up between her legs, her thigh brushing against the tent in his pants, and he couldn't tell if he was grateful or frustrated for not having stripped down to his boxers the night before. His free hand slid up and down her side, getting reacquainted with the way she curved through the soft chemise, reminding himself that girls didn't feel like this, girls didn't want like this. Maybe Elizabeth did need a father—look how well he'd turned out without one—but Booker could hardly be considered a decent candidate. For Christ's sake, he'd sold his daughter! He didn't want to fuck up like that again, especially not with someone as precious as the woman in his arms. Perhaps she had a right to the paternal side of him—if it even existed—and if Elizabeth ever asked, he supposed he'd do his best to oblige her.
But she never did. Booker had thought her to be confused at the farmhouse, but if anything she seemed like the only one who knew exactly what she wanted out of this partnership. There was no hesitation in the way Elizabeth bucked back against his thigh, craving a friction she'd never known until Emporia. There was no shame in the way she dragged her hand up and down his side, only teasing as she snuck closer to his waistband with every pass. Anna had made him feel like a failure with every tinny wail in that tiny apartment—she was just a baby, it wasn't her fault, but each fit of bawling sounded like an accusation. Elizabeth's shivers and gasps and licks were little praises, promises of want and need and perhaps even forgiveness. Maybe she needed a father and simply didn't realize it, but he needed her just as she was right now. His own selfishness had stopped surprising him a long time ago. Booker smirked against her mouth when he felt Elizabeth grinding against his thigh—Is this what you thought about when you touched yourself, baby?—and somehow the movement pulled up her chemise until there was nothing but bare skin under his fingertips. The covers were still trapped between them, denying his torso the pleasure of contact with hers, and he flattened his hand over her, eager to feel everything she had to offer. For a moment he was confused by the roughness he felt on the small of her back.
Remember who she is.
It wasn't hard to sense the change in Booker's mood, as wrapped up as Elizabeth was in him. His limbs had been so in tune with hers, but suddenly they froze, and the fast breaths that swelled in his chest beneath her slowed to a heavy sigh. His leg flattened back against the bed and the throbbing between her thighs cried out for attention. She finally pulled away from his unresponsive mouth, and Booker's hand snapped from her back as if he'd been burned. Her back.
"Shit," he mumbled, and Elizabeth felt a spurt of pride when she noted the redness of his lips. It was quickly dampened by the shame that flooded his expression when his gaze settled on her exposed stomach.
She looked down and eyed the welts with some surprise. Is that what upset him? That's all? Elizabeth barely noticed the scars anymore, now that they'd been allowed to heal and rarely hurt. She supposed Booker wouldn't notice them either, as easy as they were to hide—that had been what her father intended, after all. The only lasting aches from Comstock House seemed to be inside her head. Booker stared at the scars as if witnessing a tragedy in the making, with a helpless glint in his eyes that she didn't like. Elizabeth wasn't sure what to say, but she felt compelled to say something. "Booker…"
"I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. He wanted to look away from the lines that marred her skin, but he couldn't. Seven months, all because of him. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment? Booker had taken her—but she wanted to go—and deflowered her—but she wanted me to—and Elizabeth had been the one to pay for it, over and over again, all because of some deranged other version of himself.
You need to forget about Emporia.
The guilt landed in his stomach like a heavy blow when he remembered snapping at her in the farmhouse bathroom. How could he have expected that from her, when all Elizabeth needed to do was look down to see her penance? It would be like her asking him to forget about Anna. She would always remember what happened to her—and somehow she still desired him. Doesn't make a lick of sense, he thought desperately, almost recoiling when Elizabeth took his hand—the branded one, was that on purpose?—in hers.
"I can't forgive you for something you didn't do," she murmured, rolling her thumbs over his rough knuckles. She kept her voice soft, but the thoughts in her head were sharp as the Skyhook's blades. You didn't come, Booker, why didn't you come sooner? I've seen you do the impossible, why didn't you come? She closed her eyes to try and trap the brimming tears in place, reminding herself of the facts. He had no choice. He couldn't control the tears, it was her. It was me. It didn't help. "It's over now." She spoke more to herself than to him.
Booker dragged his eyes away from the welts to watch the tremors in her hands, and he couldn't tell which one of them was shaking. Why was she trying to comfort him? He didn't deserve that grace, not when he was the reason she'd been tortured for months on end. Elizabeth had been just as kind to him that morning at Comstock House, but now that they knew about his connection to the prophet, now that they knew about their connection to each other…
It was so much easier when they didn't know.
His breath caught in his throat when Elizabeth suddenly bent over him, planting her lips on the skin just below his collar bone. There was a remembered pain to that softness—it was where a bullet had grazed him from one of his more incompetent fellow soldiers at Wounded Knee. Without hesitating she moved further down, pecking him on the ribs where the Vox had nailed him with one of those goddamn repeaters. And then even lower, near his navel, she brushed her mouth across an old scar dug into his skin by an extremely foolish mugger. Elizabeth never had to move far to find another healed wound along his stomach and chest and arms, and she kissed each one she came across with all the deliberation of a blessing. It was too solemn to be sensual, and somehow that scared Booker all the more. "W-What are you doing?"
Goddamn he wanted a drink.
Elizabeth still had his hand captive in hers, and she pulled so that it was flush against her stomach. His fingers flexed nervously on top of her skin, but she refused to let him pull away from her. She sat back on her heels and tried not to blush at the act of purposefully putting her penance on display. Booker's hand felt even larger and rougher than usual, his palm smothering the skin between her hip bones, and her heart leapt when his pinky swiped along the path of one of the shorter welts beneath her ribs. Maybe it was only an accident, but it was something. It wasn't all in her head, she wasn't crazy, he saw the scars, too.
"I don't hate your scars, Booker," she murmured, letting her hand hide the initials branded into his skin from view, as if doing so would give them privacy from their own memories. "I don't want you to hate mine, either." When something was hated it was shunned and ignored—in a way she'd felt hated her entire upbringing, locked away from anyone who might care for her. He didn't need to adore the marring in her skin, she only wanted him to acknowledge it. Her penance was supposed to be a private shame, one her father meant for her to carry alone. Help me with mine and I'll help you with yours, Elizabeth thought distantly, letting her eyes roam down his body once more to take in each blemish.
Booker clenched his jaw when his hand was pressed against the soft flatness of her belly. Like most parts of her, it was delicate, save for the few particularly rough welts that had healed with more texture than the others. His vile little mind found it hard to focus on her scars, though—he began imagining what she might look like with a stomach swollen and heavy with child, his child, with stretch marks instead of welts and a blissful glow about her. Annabelle's pregnancy had gone so smoothly, making the grueling delivery that much more shocking; would Elizabeth's slight frame be able to handle childbirth, or—Goddamn you, Lutece. His head was spinning when she spoke, but the word "hate" brought his attention back to the present. It was such an ugly word, how could Elizabeth ever think it might apply to her? "I don't, baby," he mumbled frantically, forcing his thoughts back to the welts and not the womb beneath. "I just…I wish I got there sooner. Before he…"
"I know," Elizabeth replied, but it was hollow. She knew a great many things, what would it take for her to believe him? His face was sincere and pained, and it only brought a curl of anger twisting in her gut. You weren't the one stuck there. You don't have the right. God, what was wrong with her? How could she go from wanting his sympathy to resenting him for it, all in the span of seconds?
"Want me to kill him?"
Booker's voice wasn't as broken when he made the offer, and it almost made her smile. His first instinct was murder, as usual. Just like old times. She considered it for a moment, pondering the rush she usually felt when they carried out the act, the satisfaction that came from a job well done. They'd only managed one yesterday, and a part of her was already craving that sense of triumph again, not entirely unlike a cigarette.
And it suddenly occurred to her why Booker had tasted different—his mouth was missing the usual, harsh note of alcohol.
"I…later," Elizabeth finally muttered, and she wasn't sure why. Booker looked just as surprised by her answer, and then his face fell—he didn't seem to know what to do with himself. She released his hand and it came to a rest on her leg, just above her knee; Elizabeth was relieved that he didn't withdraw completely. The pressure that was building between her legs had eased and the flash of anger she felt at his sadness wasn't entirely gone, but she still wanted him nearby. "Can we just…stay in bed a while longer?"
Booker nodded silently, raising his arm so she could get comfortable as she curled around him. Elizabeth remained under the covers, though they'd fallen to her waist, and he made no move to slip underneath them. The passionate intensity of ten minutes ago was gone from the room, but there was still an intimacy, and somehow it didn't put him on edge. None of it made any sense—DeWitt never kissed a woman he didn't mean to bed, and he certainly didn't cuddle, the exceptions being his late wife and now his…hell, whatever they were. The pounding in his head hadn't completely stopped, and he was in no damn mood to contemplate the new circumstances of his partnership. Elizabeth ran a hand up and down his bicep, apparently content to just feel him, but not seduce him. Just when I'm finally starting to figure you out, he thought dazedly, lifting his jaw so she could tuck her head into the crook of his shoulder. Elizabeth never wanted to put their "mission" on hold, though she'd offered and then demanded more rest breaks in the last few days. Her enthusiasm for the job was off-putting—no one should enjoy another person's death, he'd learned that much the hard way…and yet, in this moment, Elizabeth preferred to simply stay in bed. With him. Booker felt a breezy little sigh against his neck and let out one of his own against the crown of her head. He let his hand settle on the small of her back, unsure if he could actually feel the roughness of the welts through her chemise or if the memory was merely too fresh.
"I know it doesn't change anything…us going after Comstock," Elizabeth finally mumbled into his collar bone, reaching down to skim the length of his forearm. Booker bent his elbow to give her better access. "But I…I hate him, Booker." It was strange how destroying the siphon had changed so much, yet here she was, an echo of the imprisoned girl Booker had to rescue. She was half-surprised that the welts didn't begin bleeding, fresh as the day she was liberated.
"He's given you more than enough reason," Booker replied. And so have I. At times it was still a challenge to think of the prophet as another person, especially when they were targeting a young man who could easily pass for his own son. Yet Elizabeth was somehow able to openly despise one while enjoying the embrace of the other. He didn't know how she managed it, but he supposed he'd just have to take it on faith that he and the prophet were well and truly separate, no matter what resemblance they shared on the surface. Comstock could keep his bible—Booker found Elizabeth's word a lot more comforting than God's.
Elizabeth dragged her finger down his forearm, then circled her hand around his wrist as best she could, her fingers not even close to touching each other. "I know I'm supposed to…move on, I just…"
Booker wasn't sure what to say—he was hardly an expert on healthy coping. Seeing as Elizabeth hadn't taken to the bottle or the card table, she was already handling everything a hell of a lot better than he had, especially at her age. And then he remembered the way her eyes lit up at that saw mill as she watched her father bleed out. Booker wondered if anything else would ever be able to get that sort of reaction from her again. "Whatever you need to do," he finally grumbled into her hair, kneading light circles into her back with his knuckles. "Whatever you wanna do, we'll do it."
Elizabeth moved her fingers up to wrap around his hand, bending each finger at the knuckle and appreciating every callus. She turned it over to see the one scar she hadn't yet kissed—AD. I'm sorry about your daughter, she thought, but she couldn't bring herself to say it out loud. Maybe Booker would never understand what it was truly like at Comstock House, or how devastating it felt to lose the doors, but he had his own pain that she had been all too eager to ignore. Elizabeth brushed her lips lightly over each initial and curled his hand in both of hers, holding it close to her chest.
"We'll go later, let's…let's just stay here for a bit longer."
AN: This story is far from complete-in spirit, anyway-so I suppose I'll leave it as "in-progress", but future updates are now extremely unlikely. It's a shame, I had so much planned for it and a lot of fun planning it, especially exploring Comstock's rise to power and every awkward angle of Booker and Elizabeth's relationship. Writing for this pairing has made a difficult summer much more bearable, and if you've read this far then I'd like to thank you for doing so, and apologize for leaving things unfinished.