A/N: This work just hit 1,000 hits, and I'm very excited! I hope everyone is enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it. This chapter takes place immediately after chapter 4.

Chapter 5

Elizabeth jumped when Booker moved off the bed, the springs bouncing from the rapid shift in weight. She whipped her head around as he stormed to the desk on the other side of the room and grabbed his signature melee weapon. "W-What are you doing?" she stammered.

"What do you think?" Booker snarled, testing the skyhook for good measure before veering toward the door. "I'll be right back, just…just stay here!"

"No!"

Booker had almost gotten a grip on the doorknob before the wind pushed him, stumbling, to the back of the room. He caught himself on the wall and jumped at the sight of racing automobiles blocking the threshold, but…they were unlike any he'd ever seen on Earth. They were half as tall, maybe less, and zoomed faster than…anything. The ones closest to the tear were only blurs, the ones furthest—was it some sort of horse track?—zipped by too fast to get a decent look. Cheering could be heard from deep inside the tear, and any attempt to approach it sent Booker reeling back toward the wall.

"What happened to not being able to do this without me?"

Elizabeth was standing over him now, her hair flying in the inter-dimensional breeze. He could see the drying wetness on her face, but her eyes were chips of ice. Booker swallowed hard when he saw how the welts extended to her stomach, mixed unevenly with smears of bruises that could only come from a long series of beatings. There was no shaking now. She stood firm as any statue, half-naked and completely enraged. The air around them felt electric; all his hair seemed to stand on end.

Booker had never been more terrified.

With a flick of her wrist the tear closed in on itself, but the static feel to the room persisted. "Comstock is mine," Elizabeth seethed acidly, hovering over him with a presence no girl her size should have. The open welts on her back ached, the humiliation of her "penance" being seen burned, but nothing could compare to the insult of anyone else dispatching the prophet. "You were gone, Booker. For months. He might have tried to kill you, but what he did to me…He's mine. Do you understand?"

Booker was at a loss for words. This whole job started out so simple, but now…he couldn't even remember the address in New York he was supposed to take her to in the first place. And now this teenager—was she even that anymore?—was the only person in the world who mattered, and she wouldn't let him make this right. She'd been whipped like cattle, for Christ's sake, how could she ever want to see Comstock's face again? The scars go deeper than the skin. She's…turning into him. Booker straightened himself up and slowly reached out for her hand, with all the care of reaching into a lion's cage. Elizabeth's gaze never softened, but her fingers spread for his without resistance.

"Okay," Booker murmured cautiously. "All yours. But you're not going in alone, you hear? Never." Support, that's what she needed. A brother-in-arms to have her back, to remind her that something existed outside the enemy.

Elizabeth searched his face, as if prepared to jump on the slightest hint of a lie. Apparently she found none, because the atmosphere in the room shifted back to normal and the glacial quality in her eyes melted. She looked down at their joined hands and ran her thumb over the fabric from her old skirt that dressed his wound. She suddenly felt very tired. One of the fresher stripes near her navel throbbed and she pressed her free hand against it, groaning through the pain.

"Let me…let me clean you up a bit, okay?" Booker was hungry for violence—that self-destructive solace that had followed him since childhood—and the idea of tenderness railed against his instincts. But it wasn't about him, now. It was about her. Maybe he was wired to always think with his fists first, but Elizabeth…she could go beyond that, if she could just get past this. Besides, if he went off now to indulge in his more brutal impulses, Elizabeth would probably push him through a tear off the flying city all together. She leaned against him, letting him guide her back to the bed.

Elizabeth bled easily, making it look worse than it was. A ribbon of silver in the corner of the room caught her eye. Wish fulfilled, she thought darkly. She opened the tear with some effort, then pointed Booker in the direction of the newly-arrived basin and rags. He grunted and hauled it over, somehow managing not to spill any of the water. He must be exhausted too, but he never lets it show. What would it take to break a man like him?

Booker clenched his teeth when she tensed under his touch—these wounds only opened because he touched her in the first place. He rubbed the cloth against her back with all the gentleness he could muster, but the tiny spasms of pain came all the same. To her credit, she never made a sound. A sight like this made it easy to forget his promise. I'll gut the son of a bitch. Booker reached around her awkwardly to wipe any blood away from her stomach, freezing when she sighed. Elizabeth leaned back—relaxed, even—into the necessary embrace, although it must have hurt. Everything she's been through, and she still wants to be held. Even setting aside the strange business with the tears, Booker doubted he would ever understand her.

"They don't hurt that much," she whispered—best add mind reading to her many talents, he thought. "When nothing pulls on them, anyway. The corset just…"

Her belly was clean, the bruises could be seen unobstructed. Booker took a deep breath to ground himself. "Why'd they make you keep wearin' it?" The job was done, he ought to push her away to dress the open welts. Ought to, anyway. He couldn't help but notice her breasts remained unblemished, and his stomach turned—he didn't know if that was better or a sign that something worse had happened.

"Hairshirt," she muttered softly. The back of Booker's right hand ached under its dressing. "To remind me…to punish me. And he liked the idea of me looking like…my mother." Anything to better endear her to the citizens of Columbia.

"Punish you for what?" Some nonsense out of scripture, no doubt. The girl had a moral compass like no other. Punish was just a sanctimonious word for torture.

"For debasing myself with the false shepherd, among other…infractions."

Elizabeth winced—there had to be a better way to say that. For becoming intimate with her rescuer. For making love to her only friend. For fucking Booker DeWitt. Yet Comstock's version was the first to slip out. Maybe some of the brainwashing had stuck after all. Maybe Booker had come too late.

"They checked me, when I first came, to see if I was still...he thought I was raped, he…he assumed it happened in Shantytown, and threatened to burn it all down…" she paused to take a shaky breath. She was grateful Booker's hands were still on her, one holding the damp rag to her stomach, the other on her shoulder, but he sat impossibly still. "I couldn't…I had to tell him, Booker."

That settled it, then. Elizabeth would never so much as breathe the same air as Comstock again, Booker would make sure of that. The prophet would die in the most gruesome manner at DeWitt's disposal and she'd be in Paris by tomorrow's end, or wherever fucking else she liked. He forgot about their deal, forgot about the way she nearly made him piss himself in fear not ten minutes ago, forgot about everything besides the scars in front of him. Straying from that risked reflection on the role he played in her "punishment"—and that downward spiral required more whiskey than Booker had on hand.

"Can you…lean forward a bit?"

Elizabeth complied, expecting something…more. She wasn't sure what; none of this was going how she imagined it. Her reveries of their reunion had more constants than variables—namely, Comstock's corpse thrown off of Columbia, the Vox rebellion peacefully resolved, and her legs wrapped around Booker's waist. Baring her penance while Comstock roamed free had never been part of the plan. She waited pensively as he finished dressing the open welts and fiddled with her thimble. At least Booker wasn't trying to make another solo charge against the prophet.

When he was done Booker hesitated before slipping out of his vest. She needed to wear something, for his sake if not hers. The contrasts in her skin, from soft ivory to coarse garnet, provoked too many conflicting feelings. He let his suspenders slide off his shoulders and made short work of his button down shirt, then held it out to her. "Here."

Elizabeth accepted the offering silently and pulled it around herself. Her head was feeling heavier by the second, and the buttons were proving to be as difficult as the lock she failed to open. It was mostly dry from the rain, at least. She rolled the sleeves back several times just to see her hands, and pondered on how she must look in an over-sized male shirt paired with a once-elegant long skirt and boots. Ridiculous, and uncomfortable. Her quick exhale was the closest she'd come to laughing in months. She kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of the skirt and stockings, leaving only her drawers.

Booker heard the rustle of fabric and planted a vigor trap with far more concentration than necessary at the threshold, keeping his back to Elizabeth. "Try to get some sleep," he called out, reloading the carbine for good measure and tucking the pistol in the back of his pants.

"Aren't you…?"

He glanced over and sighed. Elizabeth had already crawled under the sheets and kept to one side to save room for him. "I should keep watch," Booker said, hearing the bullshit as it passed his lips. If they were going to be attacked it would have happened by now. Comstock had most likely mobilized his remaining forces to stay close to him for protection. It was the idea of lying next to a girl who was flagellated on his account that put DeWitt on guard.

"Booker…please." The heat in her lower abdomen had cooled with exhaustion, but the fact remained that no one had touched Elizabeth without gloves in seven months. Feeling the warmth of another human being would be a welcome change. She never yearned for it in the tower, because she'd never had it; Booker was the one who changed that. "You can do that from here, can't you?"

"That's not a good idea," Booker replied, wary of provoking her wrath. He expected her to curse him again, and hoped it wouldn't come to opening another tear. With the scars out of sight and Elizabeth back in his clothing, the same sense of longing from this morning was slowly smothering him.

"You need to sleep, too," Elizabeth argued—no surprise there, he thought wearily. Was there anything they did agree on? "And I'd feel safer with you next to me." Booker nearly snorted—as protective as he was of her, the girl was plenty capable of holding her own, provided no mechanical birds or mind-altering procedures were involved.

If she touches me, I'm damned, Booker mused—as if he wasn't already. Songbird had taken her so soon after they'd resumed the journey to the mansion this morning, and after that his only focus was on getting her back; there hadn't been time to think about the new nature of their relationship. Hell, he didn't want to think about it at all. There were too many questions and complications, and that was before Elizabeth had endured months of suffering—a crime in which he certainly couldn't claim innocence.

Booker wanted her, that was one of the precious few truths he had. He wanted to see Paris—well, see her seeing Paris—and listen to her chatter about all that artsy crap she loved so much. He wanted to keep her safe and close, to watch those blue eyes dazzle at a world that had long struck him as mundane and cruel. He wanted to look at her in a dress that wasn't covered in blood—and then rip it off her. As of this morning, he'd thought she might have wanted those things, too. Now, as much as he cared for her, Booker had to admit he was clueless as to what was really going on inside that pretty head—and Elizabeth's rapid mood swings weren't helping. The current look of pleading on her face was glazed with a sweetness he'd sorely missed, and he wanted to encourage it before it disappeared. If she touches me, if she means to bed me, I'll give in…Jesus, wouldn't that make it worse? Fuck it. Do what she asks.

Elizabeth was relieved when, after a long pause, Booker pulled out his pistol and walked toward the bed to slide it between the mattress and frame. He toed off his shoes and undid his belt, keeping his eyes firmly set on the floor as he did so. He still wore a thin undershirt that clung to his torso, and she felt a stirring inside her. Not now. You can barely move. Rest. She rolled over and shut her eyes, appreciating the deep breaths she could now take without the corset. Booker's shirt was filthy—she could smell the blood, and knew hardly any of it was his—but the familiar material was comforting and didn't pull too hard against her skin.

Booker settled on his back and finally let himself feel the ache in every muscle. Hell of a week. Thankfully Elizabeth had her back to him, and the covers pulled over them hid most of her from view. Now all he had to do was not spoon her and they'd be fine. Well, she'd be fine. She's gotta be. Wouldn't have made it this far if she wasn't tough as steel. He closed his eyes, acutely aware of the few inches of space that separated them, and sighed in frustration.

Most dreams weren't this vivid. Elizabeth could feel the individual folds in the sheet under her legs and the steady up-and-down motion of Booker's chest under her arm. He was sleeping, looking almost serene in the pale sunlight. She dragged her palm down the fabric of his undershirt, willing it to disappear. It stubbornly continued to exist. The motion roused him, light sleeper that he was, and his fingers coiled around her wrist in an instant.

The pacing of this dream was…strange.

Booker stared at her face, his expression annoyingly neutral. His grip softened but he didn't let her go. She tilted her head up from his shoulder, accidentally meeting him halfway when he kissed her. His face was warmer, rougher than usual. Elizabeth mewled into his mouth and was rewarded with a firm caress on her thigh, up past where her drawers ended. She twisted to adjust, to fit better in his grasp, but the pain made her pause and—

There shouldn't be any pain. Booker DeWitt was not a soft man in any sense of the word, and even through two layers of clothing his side jutted into one of the bruises near her navel. Bruises that weren't supposed to be there. Elizabeth froze. This is when the nightmare starts. She waited for him to transform, for the white beard to grow out and his touch to grow cold…but the only change was Booker's confused expression.

"Are…are you real?"

Booker felt three fingertips and a thimble skim down his face, and for a moment he saw himself in a library. "Yes," he murmured resolutely. Her eyes clouded over—he'd seen that look before, he'd had that look before. Few men left the 7th Cavalry Regiment without it. "Hey, Elizabeth. Stay with me."

She was awake. Elizabeth brushed her finger over the crow's feet, circled the mole, traced the outline of his nose—she remembered this. She remembered everything. Elizabeth shifted on top of him, the friction rubbing against the contusions on her stomach. Seven months. She was out, it was a new day, but why was she still so afraid? She pressed her hand back to his chest and focused on the solid thudding of his heart, wishing her pulse would slow to his.

"I thought you were a dream," she mumbled. I thought you were a nightmare. "It happened a lot here."

"You dreamed I rescued you?" Booker queried, immediately regretting the word choice. It made him sound like a knight or something.

Elizabeth replaced the hand on his chest with her ear. Thud-thud. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Sometimes we were…distracted." The blush stung at her complexion—when was the last time she'd done that? Booker hadn't moved his hand from her thigh yet, and she didn't want him to. I'm free, and I can do whatever I wish. I wished for him, and he came. Even with the surges of timidity Booker inspired in her, his presence sheltered her with a sense of security. It wasn't the weapons or vigors or his sheer knack for bloodshed, either—there was a bulletproof persistence to the man that conquered anything daring to oppose him.

Booker sighed heavily, watching the mess of brown hair move with his breath. He could recognize that lilt in any woman's voice, and it only meant one thing. His thumb moved of its own accord and sketched small circles on the back of her thigh. Her legs parted in response. Jesus. He slipped his hand under the hem of his shirt, from the swell of her rear to the valley of her back. The roughness of her skin around the dressings made his temper flare. Booker jerked his hands away from her to press his palms against his eyes, exhaling as steadily as he could.

Elizabeth smirked as she heard his pulse quicken—she didn't expect to ever see him blush, but it was satisfying to see any sign of her effect on the ever-detached DeWitt. She tensed on instinct when his fingers brushed over her scars, but it didn't hurt. He wasn't trying to hurt her—that would take some getting used to. Elizabeth frowned when she felt his hands slip away from her and lifted her head.

"Booker?" she murmured softly. Her neck ached at this angle, and she planted her knees on either side of him to sit up. He gasped when Elizabeth centered some of her weight on his groin and bucked his hips against her—much better than a blush, she thought smugly.

"Shit, Elizabeth!" Booker growled, pulling his hands from his eyes and promptly regretting it. He hadn't noticed the sloppy way she'd buttoned his shirt, leaving revealing gaps in the fabric. The neckline hung well past the curve of her breasts, her nipples only just hidden. Elizabeth looked completely disheveled—and entirely too tempting.

She bit her lip nervously at the tone in his voice. "Does it still work if I'm on top of you?" she asked curiously, applying what experience she did have to the theory of an untested position.

The look in her eyes made something in Booker ache—it was the same look she had when cracking a Vox cipher, or determining what to toss him next in combat. The spark was purposeful and excited. His gaze was drawn to a patch of her exposed stomach that was almost as dark as his shirt, raising his ire even further. "How can you want this?" he hissed. "After what Comstock did to you!"

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably, provoking another groan from the man beneath her. "Don't say his name, not here," she muttered numbly. I don't want to think about him right now, Booker, can't you see that? Can't you give me this much?

Booker wanted nothing more than to show her that yes, her being on top would work, and reward her for being so clever—but no girl with any sense wanted to bed a man after being tortured for over half a year because of that man. "You were beaten and whipped on account of me," he snapped, gripping fistfuls of the sheets to avoid gripping her. "If we hadn't—if I hadn't—"

The plushness of her lips flattened into a firm line. "You didn't order the lashes," she replied stiffly. "You didn't know Songbird would come." You didn't show up for seven months. Elizabeth tried to stuff the mental anger down—he didn't mean to come so late, for him it was half a day. The feelings of hurt and abandonment persisted all the same. She didn't want them, she wanted to feel him and forget about everything else; why was Booker making it so difficult? "And even though it happened, I'm…I'm glad we were…together."

Booker clenched his jaw when he felt her fingers cupping it. "When I was…repenting…it was like you were there, comforting me," Elizabeth confessed as her cheeks reddened. No psychology periodical she'd read had ever indicated hallucinations were normal, but she needed him to understand. "And when I was lonely, I could pretend you were holding me. And even when…when I had my doubts that you were even…I could still remember you, Booker. I would have lost my mind without those memories." Perhaps she already had. "Please, don't shut me out now."

Booker was dumbfounded. This woman had every reason to turn against him, and yet she continued to straddle him, afraid of losing him. It didn't make a lick of sense—the most powerful being he'd ever encountered was depending entirely on a small-time detective when she didn't need to. Elizabeth could just as soon kill him as kiss him, but her expression made it seem like he was the one in control of her future. Might be Comstock really had driven her insane. Booker considered the notion and found it didn't matter—most women he'd met were at least a little crazy, after all, and none of them compared to Elizabeth. She was more than worth the mood swings and occasional indoor rainstorm.

He eased himself up into a sitting position, cradling her close so she was flush against him. "Hey, I ain't goin' nowhere," Booker promised soberly, angling his forehead to brush hers. "Got it? I'm with you as long as you want."

Elizabeth curled her legs around his back to pull him nearer. This was more like what she had imagined before. "And that's what you want?" she asked earnestly—though the stiffness she felt underneath her gave her a fairly good idea of his intentions. Booker, always more a man of action than words, kissed her with a fervor that made his intentions even clearer.