A/N: This chapter was getting very long, so I decided to split it in two. Inspiration has been hitting harder than usual, so I hope the next update won't take too long to be published. This chapter and the next take place at Comstock House, immediately after Elizabeth's liberation.
Booker DeWitt got into his first fist-fight at the age of six years old—and even then, he was big enough to hold his own against a boy three years his senior. His mother admonished him, but the local boys knew from then on to leave him alone. Violence had been one of the only things to ever come naturally to him, making the military seem like a good fit. He'd had his share of losses and broken bones, but no one could doubt his skill when it came to dealing with an opponent.
Verbal arguments were another story.
"We are not stopping."
Elizabeth scowled indignantly as she brushed past him, making for the door to the courtyard outside Comstock House. She knelt down to pick the lock and wobbled precariously. Booker knew nothing of this "rogue-ish" art, but noticed her fingers seemed clumsier than usual as they fumbled around the hair pin. She was clearly exhausted.
"Only for a bit, just a short rest," he promised, wincing when the hairpin broke and she smashed her fist into the lock in frustration.
"Do you have another airship I don't know about?" snapped Elizabeth. "If we don't get out there right now Comstock could completely disappear!"
Booker hesitated, then gingerly laid his hand over her fist, still pressed against the challenging lock. "He won't leave the city, and we will find him. But you're not fit to—"
"To what?" Her snarl could barely be heard over the sound of a tear ripping open and a torrential storm of lightning and thunder opening over their heads. Whether it was purposeful intimidation, like the tornado, or an involuntary emotional response, Booker wasn't sure. "If you don't want to come—"
"God damn it, Elizabeth!" he sputtered through the rain. "You think I want that son of a bitch to live? He and the skyhook are gonna get real acquainted by the time I'm finished, got it? But I need your help to do it, and I can't have my partner fatigued in combat!"
Her hair was plastered to her face, hiding most of her expression, but her fist relaxed under his hand. The tear zipped up as abruptly as it opened and goose bumps cropped up on his skin where the rain had landed. Progress, for sure, but this fight wasn't over yet. "How can you be so sure we'll find him?"
He wasn't. "You'll have to trust me." Maybe the Luteces would pop in and be of actual assistance. Booker had never been the type to plan things out too thoroughly—experience had taught him to spend more time adapting for when shit inevitably hit the fan. Besides, they'd made it past impossible odds countless times already. Finding a prophet in this hellstack of a city wouldn't be their most impressive accomplishment.
"I'm not even that tired," she protested stubbornly.
"You've got a gaping wound in your back." Tact fell neatly into the group of Booker DeWitt's many weaknesses. "At least let me patch that up." She raked a careless hand through her hair, revealing a mouth set into a stubborn line. "Please, Elizabeth. I can't get this done without you. And I need you in the right state, so just…let me fucking help you already."
Elizabeth would have laughed if she hadn't fallen out of the habit. Of course even a simple, polite request was beyond him. In a way it was comforting, however—it really was him, he really was there. She was no less furious, but the rational side of her could see his point. The rage that had been building up in her for months was hard to ignore, but as Elizabeth took note of the strain in her limbs and the heaviness of her head, she had to admit that her internal burning fire was more likely to scald them than the enemy. I can't even pick this stupid lock, how could I ever toss him ammunition?
"You're asking me to spend even more time in this place." She couldn't keep a last rebuttal from slipping out. "If you knew…if you had any idea what they…" Her mouth went dry before she could finish and her nails dug into her palms. Whore. Blasphemer. Failure. Elizabeth jerked her head, trying to silence Comstock's voice from within.
"There's no other way," Booker replied curtly. Shit, this would be so much easier if she would just stop trembling. It doesn't matter what happened before, he thought brusquely, as if this wasn't the only person he cared about. Caring got you killed. Comstock House is too isolated to get anywhere else before nightfall. She'll have to just deal with it. "You're about to collapse as it is, we won't make it twenty yards if we leave now."
Fuck you, Booker. The thought came as instantly as the guilt did for thinking it. If it weren't for him she'd still be strapped to a chair with a needle inside of her—but where the hell had he been for the last half year? If he had come sooner, maybe the thought of staying even five more minutes in this dressed-up prison wouldn't make her nauseated. She was suddenly grateful they hadn't fed her today.
Elizabeth scanned the rest of the wing; she'd never been to this part of the mansion before. Perhaps she could pretend they were somewhere else entirely. The nearest door on the left was as promising as any, and she started shuffling toward it. Her skirt got caught between her legs—when did walking become so difficult? Booker's arm hooked under her shoulder before she hit the ground. At least he had the grace to refrain from an "I told you so". The two greatest threats to Columbia hobbled awkwardly across the hallway, and Elizabeth thanked the god she'd come to loathe when the door opened without resistance. It was either a sparse guestroom or a lavish servant's quarters, but it had a bed—a real bed—and she managed the last few steps on her own in a rush to fall onto it. The bounce of the springs caught her by surprise, causing her to yelp and Booker to cock back the hammer of his pistol.
"I'm fine…sorry." Elizabeth leaned back on her elbows, stretching out her limbs and taking stock of which body parts hurt the most, so as to avoid relying on them too much in the next firefight. With Booker DeWitt, there was always a next firefight. As usual, her lower torso ached more prominently than any other area. Bending for cover would be a chore. Booker busied himself with looting the armoire for spare change, a small med kit, and—eugh—a piece of long-forgotten cake. The Sodom Below had some questionable nutrition safety standards.
When Booker finished his search he hesitated, then sat beside her on the bed and gestured to her sleeves. "Your jacket…can you…" You mind stripping for me after god knows how long you've been tortured by the psychopath who kidnapped you? He found himself craving a tussle with one of the Founders soldiers, or a strong drink, or both. Elizabeth complied, wincing when the fabric pulled at her back. It came away with a dark stain. There wasn't too much blood, but the puncture was deep—he was surprised she didn't scream louder when he pulled the needle out.
"How long," Elizabeth started, running her hands up and down her arms to keep warm. The rain was slowly dripping out of her hair, and she wished she had exercised better control earlier. "H-How long has it been for you since I was…gone."
Booker took his time cleaning the wound as he fumbled for the right words. "I chased after you and didn't stop, so…half a day, maybe more." It had felt like much longer. He reached for the bandage when she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands. He looped an arm around her, only then realizing how cold she was. "Hey, hey, shh, come on, it's okay now."
Sweet nothings put Elizabeth more on edge. Comstock often waited until she broke down to speak through the glass in a soft, comforting, despicable voice, promising her the love and forgiveness of the lord. It only taught her to stop crying in front of him altogether. She wasn't quite sure why she was starting now, or what answer she was expecting, or what Booker could have possibly said that wouldn't provoke a sob. But the feeling of his fingers brushing against her cheek satisfied a craving she didn't know she had. No one had touched Elizabeth with their bare hands in months, and never with any tenderness. She cupped one hand around his and the other around his jaw, gasping a little less with each passing moment.
Booker was different than she remembered—but how could that be? He'd only aged hours. There were crow's feet that she could have sworn never bordered his eyes, and a tiny mole on his cheekbone she should have recalled from shaving his face. His nose couldn't have been that crooked when she saw him last, but it didn't show any signs of being recently injured. I've fantasized about him every day for months, why don't I remember this? She wondered if that was what happened when only knowing someone for half a week before making mental love to them for several months. Perhaps there was a study done on this phenomenon in one of the more liberal journals by a less prudish scholar. Booker's thumb brushed over her remaining tears, and Elizabeth decided it didn't matter if the little details seemed different. This Booker DeWitt was here, and he was hers.
Booker's first response to her kiss was a confused grunt, then a short second of savoring it, and finally an abrupt retreat. The way she embraced him was desperate and pained, nothing like how she'd acted just this morning—something wasn't right with her. Her shoulders felt so small under his hands as he pushed her back. Her eyes were still watery, and her chin quivered despite her clenched jaw. "'Lis'beth, you…don't wanna do this now."
"Fuck you, Booker". There was no shame this time, not when voicing it out loud. The wound in her back throbbed painfully. "I've been told what I want here every day, that I want the grace of God, that I want to repent for my wickedness, that I want to lead my flock against the Sodom Below, but do you have any earthly idea what I want, what I've wanted every single day since Emporia?" Booker, taken aback by her outburst, blinked as neutrally as possible. She leaned in, grabbing a fistful of his still-damp hair and pulling him toward her. "You."
Booker swallowed hard. The stammering, blushing girl he had bedded only last night was gone, and in her place was an angry, lusty woman—the two key characteristics for any good one night stand, he thought in spite of himself. Her fingers were tugging at his roots, hard enough that he couldn't tell if she wanted to sleep with him or beat him. Ain't in her right mind, the hell did they do to her?
"Look, I'm, I'm sorry that I didn't get here sooner," he murmured, doing his best to ignore the stirring in his groin. "I couldn't control…when the tears took me, else you never would have been here in the first place." He watched a single drop of water drip down her nose and steeled himself against wiping it away. The sound of her breathy moans from earlier echoed in his ears—he wondered if Elizabeth would sound different now with an ardor fueled by rage. Jesus, DeWitt, is that all you can think about? Girl's been through hell, find out what happened. And then…maybe... "How long were you here?"
Her grip on his hair softened into a caress and the desire in her eyes faded with fatigue. "Seven…about seven months," Elizabeth muttered, dropping her gaze to his chest. It swelled in anger—she didn't need to see what his expression looked like. Saying it out loud brought on a new wave of exhaustion, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. "I-I hate him, Booker," she croaked, her words muffled by his shirt. "God, I just…I just…"
Booker stayed silent and cupped the back of her head, smoothing out the damp hair. How the fuck had seven months gone by? The old woman—the old Elizabeth—why did she send him this late? What was the fucking point in her suffering for over half a year? Comstock, be pissed at Comstock, not her, he thought bitterly, moving his fingers almost mechanically through the wet locks. Keep her alive, then kill him, then get her to Paris, then…Shit, he sure hoped Elizabeth proved better at long-term planning then he did. After a few moments her shaking subsided, but she clung to him anyway. Booker resented his libido for not being dampened by her tears. Could help her forget, get her shivering in pleasure 'stead of pain—she was still in pain. Fix it, focus on the task at hand, nothing else. Booker carefully reached for the med kit and tucked her head under his chin to get a better view of the puncture between her shoulder blades. He sighed in relief—it didn't look like it needed stitches.
Elizabeth hissed through her teeth at the pressure on the wound but stayed as still as she could, and—as she had become wont to do whenever experiencing pain—thought of Booker. He smelled bloodier than usual—or maybe she simply lost her tolerance for the odor. His stubble scraped against her forehead as he worked on her back, and she closed her eyes to briefly relive what was only this morning for him. By now she could scarcely separate memory from fantasy, but he had been gentle, as gentle as he was being now, that much was certain. Even when he finished applying the bandage he ran his fingers down her shoulders soothingly. Dusk was closing in and the light was fading through the single window, but she could see the tent in his trousers clearly enough. Her hands were bunched around the sides of his shirt, but it would only take a quick slide and zip to—
God, what was wrong with her? They'd narrowly escaped Comstock's forces with their lives—again—and she couldn't decide if she was furious or miserable or aroused. Surely she hadn't been this muddled before Songbird brought her here, even after the night in Emporia. Elizabeth wished it was as easy as picking an emotion and sticking with it, or shutting them down all together. Anger would be the most useful when she finally faced her "father", but it only came in bursts, and it wouldn't help her rest. Sadness made her feel weak, and she'd had enough of that for a lifetime. Giving into desire was the most appealing, but because of some spurt of propriety Booker was against that. Elizabeth clenched her fingers around his shirt again and forced them up instead of down, until they curled past his back and over his shoulders. She lifted her head from his chest so that her lips were almost touching his ear. "I…I missed you." It was one of the only truths she was sure of.
Booker shuddered at the sensation of her breath on his skin and felt his restraint abandoning him. "I missed you, too," he reciprocated tensely, but honestly. Against his better judgment, he let his hand slip down from her wound to tug at the small of her back and pull her closer, causing her to cry out in pain. Elizabeth slid out of his embrace and wrapped her arms around herself, a fluid motion that spoke of too much practice. "What's wrong?" She shook her head mutely and hunched over, as if there was a desperate need to make herself small and unnoticeable. Tiny spots of dark red had blossomed through the fabric of her corset. "Elizabeth…what's wrong with your back?"
"Please…please don't get angry," she pleaded quietly, her voice high like a child's. Her gaze was fixed to her lap and her nails dug into her arms hard enough to leave a mark. She had her back to him now, and even over the curve of her spine he could see the bobbing motion of her head. She was rocking.
Booker knew his rage could get out of control—the drinking and gambling had helped mitigate that somewhat—but couldn't remember her ever being afraid of that. She'd never been afraid of him. He gently set a hand over one of hers, which was clutching at her bicep. "Can I take a look?" The rocking stopped and a little noise came from her throat, but it wasn't a clear affirmation. Booker laid his free hand feather-lightly on the lacing of her corset. "Elizabeth? Is this okay?"
She inhaled sharply, the breath hiccupping in her throat, and then went still as she held it in. She kept her muscles so taut it must have hurt, and only when the need to breathe overwhelmed her did she wheeze out a response. "Yes. Okay."
Booker had to force himself not to undo the garment too quickly. He wasn't sure what to expect, and visions of blood and bruises swam through his mind. Despite his attempts at tenderness, every slight tug provoked another yelp from Elizabeth, until it became clear she was weeping again. Goddamnit. Focus, DeWitt. At least he couldn't see her face. When the ribbons were completely loose he eased his fingers underneath the bottom edge, trying to ignore her pained hissing. "Ready?"
Elizabeth couldn't rip her mind away from the intake examination she'd undergone when she first arrived at the mansion. This isn't the same. This is Booker. And I'm…sullied. She cringed—that had been one of Comstock's many insults. A part of her was so tired of trying to reject the indoctrination. Her eyes ached from the crying and for the first time she wished that Booker wasn't there, that she could simply curl up into a ball far away from anyone and everyone. A particularly fierce sob burst from her lips when she felt his fingers dip between the corset and the fabric of her skirt. The suffocating garb now felt like the only thing in the world holding her together. She felt foolish now for never considering how Booker would react when he found out, as if she could live the rest of her life without ever taking it off. She'd only been thinking of how the rescue went in her dreams, where the lashes were never dealt in the first place.
Booker trained his eyes on the garment, watching it carefully as it moved up her spine and over her head, and laid it down almost reverently on the bedspread. Only then did he let his gaze be drawn to the welts. They criss-crossed, zig-zagged, arched all through the expanse of her lower back, from the corset's upper edge to down past the boundary of her skirt. Whoever did this wanted to keep it hidden. The air seemed to go out of the room as he compared the oldest stripes to the most recent—some were almost entirely healed into barely noticeable discolorations, others were only days old. A few of those had blistered over and burst from rubbing against the corset, and they oozed redly.
Booker remembered running his hands along this very part of her, just last night for God's sake, reveling in the smoothness and warmth. Now there were more scars than skin.
"What the fuck!"