A/N: This chapter takes place immediately after the drowning at the end of the game.

Chapter 6

The world was swimming, blurring, dancing. Even though Booker could see the young women drowning him, all identical, all unique, he also saw a baby, a lighthouse, a bloody baptismal font. He sucked the water in, trying to picture her face before the light went out one last time. The sudden pressure on his back jilted his focus. He coughed harshly and marveled at the feeling of air worming its way to his lungs. Booker's hands stretched out, scrapping at wood and rug. The sun was gone, the river was gone, they were gone. Instinct prompted him to roll over onto his elbows and knees, expelling the last of the water.

I'm dead, he thought blankly, his eyes straining to adjust to the dim light. And death is a hotel room. Huh. His chest was burning and his clothes were soaked, chilling him to the bone. Drops of river fell from his face to the floor in a steady, tapping rhythm. Booker sucked in a breath too fast and brought on another fit of wheezing. It's not supposed to hurt anymore, why…

A rustle of fabric alerted him to another presence in the room. He peered at the figure by the window and slowly registered the blue skirt and jacket. God help him, it was her. Booker grabbed a nearby dresser and tried to pull himself up, still sputtering water, but his knees buckled under him and he landed with a thud. She didn't so much as turn to him. Her gaze was fixed to whatever was beyond the window.

"I couldn't," she murmured, so softly he questioned if she said anything at all. "Couldn't let them."

The baptism. Booker brought his fingers to the side of his throat and felt the erratic pulse beneath the skin. He was alive—Comstock was alive. No, no no no no no—

"You have to finish it," he gasped hoarsely. She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Only way."

"I can't," she replied, almost pleadingly. Her fingers went to the charm on her necklace, tracing the cage he picked out for her. She wasn't there, at the river. It wasn't her.

He somehow stumbled to his feet and clutched at the dresser for support. The rug he'd been half-laying on was ruined by the water. "Y-you said so, every world, he's there, I'm there…" he trailed off into another fit of coughing, and he found himself hating his survival instinct. I should be dead.

"I know. I can't." She took a step toward him and wiped the tears away with a sleeve. "I won't."

"You have to," Booker argued, hunching over the furniture to combat the spinning. Drinking and drowning seemed to affect him much the same. She raised a hand to his shoulder and he retreated from it hastily. "Don't."

Hurt poured out of her eyes and he stared at the puddle he left on the floor. Shit. He felt the urge to run and fight and smoke, as if any of that could help him forget the revelations of the day. The branding on his right hand twinged under the stiff fabric of a long-abandoned skirt.

"You're all I have, Booker," she said quietly, standing on the other side of the dresser. Good, he preferred the boundary. "I can't lose you."

Despite the omniscience she had shit taste in company. "What I did to you, what I…I will do to…" He left the thought hanging, unable to picture the damage his very existence caused in every world. One reality was already enough to put him in a drunken stupor for two decades, but all of them…

"You didn't take the baptism."

"You can't let me choose," he snapped, fighting off the nausea in the pit of his stomach. "Even before that…you don't understand—"

"The doors are open, Booker, and I understand better than you can imagine," she retorted. Her eyes were on him, but she seemed to be looking far away. "I see everything. Wounded Knee. Everything you…the scalps." A pained look flashed across her face and she stared at the wooden surface of the dresser, gripping it with white knuckles. "The youngest you ever took was thirteen years old. He had an arrow pointed at your head, and you…you could have just killed him, but you…" Booker was grateful when she didn't finish.

"And you…forgive that?" He—or at least this version of him—had refused absolution from God, but maybe, if it came from her…

Her voice broke, and he saw a drop of water fall from her face to the wood. "I don't know." Not the answer he was expecting from an all-knowing being. She chewed at her lip and sucked in a deep breath. "Can you forgive me for letting you live?"

His sins were hard enough to swallow, but Comstock…by saving one she saved the other. And after what he'd done to her, what he was to her, how did it make sense to keep him alive? She was damning every world with one of two devils, when she had the power to end it all together. She really has gone crazy. Booker glanced at his holster and considered the pistol pensively.

"Booker, don't," she growled, taking a threatening step toward him. "This isn't 1890, the only life you'd be ending is this one."

"Then take me back."

"No."

Booker clenched his teeth, trying to fight off the shivering. He was freezing, but at least it was something else to focus on. "How can you not want to kill me?"

Two more tears raced down the apples of her cheeks. "A part of me does…other versions of me do, were willing to…but I need you, Booker."

It couldn't just be her personal affection for him—misguided as it was—that kept him breathing, there had to be a bigger, more sensible reason. "You see all these doors, then?" he asked slowly. She nodded, and it was like a shot in the gut when he realized she had Annabelle's eyes. "S-So I'm supposed to stay alive for…for what?" Was it possible to undo everything without dying? Was that even preferable?

"Whatever you like, Mr. DeWitt."

"Or rather, whatever she likes."

The twin physicists—how long had they been there?—stood behind the far side of the bed, a barrier between them and the god-forsaken DeWitts. Booker might have launched himself at them if his chest wasn't still on fire and his limbs weren't tingling from the cold. As it was, he settled for throwing the most contemptuous look he could muster in their direction. "What the fuck is wrong with you two? How…how could you let me do all that?"

"You were offered a choice, Mr. DeWitt," Robert answered politely. "Your decision was your own. I'd say we've gone far beyond our obligations to reunite you and the girl."

"And what an interesting reunion it was," Rosalind noted coolly, as if it was worth noting in a journal of scientific observations. "Our tests for variability between this reality and those before showed no distinction. We feared this trial was doomed, until the two of you coupled in Emporia."

"It makes one wonder if any of the dozens of prior trials would have been improved by similar sexual relations," quipped Robert thoughtfully. "Though we've had trouble pin-pointing what brought on the girl's advances in the first place."

"Stop!" Booker's knees gave out from underneath him, bringing him back to the floor. "Just…just stop."

He was damned, he'd always been damned, ever since Wounded Knee. Booker accepted he was bound for eternal torment; now he only wanted to get there. Eighteen scalps—four of them from women—five occupied teepees burned, knocking up a sweet girl who was sympathetic to a soldier, letting her die in childbirth—so much blood—assaulting countless laborers under the pretense of supporting their daughter—but God did it give him a rush—ignoring that daughter for yet another night of cards, once the Pinkerton's denied him the thrill, selling that daughter to fucking strangers, taking on the shadiest jobs if it meant a month's rent and liquor for two decades, slaughtering hundreds of men in front of and then fucking that daughter—

The last meal Booker had eaten was a box of dry cereal. It looked much worse when it came back up on the floor. He winced through the wretching—he hadn't vomited since he was a much younger, drunker man. Booker kept his head bowed, yet the twins continued their speculation.

"It seems he doesn't appreciate the success."

"I'm not sure I'd call it a success."

"They're together, brother, which is exactly what you wanted—"

"Not this sort of together, that was never the intention—"

"But the fact remains that they are together, alive and able to do as they please."

"Well, as she pleases, anyway."

She hadn't said a word since the Luteces appeared. When Booker regained some confidence in his stomach he forced his gaze toward her, or at least the blurry blue vision he could see through the tears stinging at his eyes. She leaned against a wall of the hotel room defensively, staring at her boots. Her voice was harsh and strained. "You think I did the wrong thing?"

"I think you've been wronged," Robert clarified, not a hint of judgment in his face. "You've escaped a terrible evil in this world, and you're entitled to enjoy that freedom as you like."

"And that evil still exists in all those other worlds," she snapped. "I can put a stop to it, you don't think that gives me the responsibility?"

"You and my brother are entirely too moral for your own good," Rosalind sighed, looking equally affectionate and exasperated. "Why should you suffer any more than you already have?"

"Because of all the suffering Comstock is causing elsewhere!" she retorted, hiccupping on another sob. "I can see it, all of it, but I can't…I can't…"

"Perhaps asking her to give up both a father and lover is simply too much."

"You think she would have chosen differently if Mr. DeWitt had only been one?"

"Merely a hypothesis, dear sister. I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Rosalind looked at the girl with an expression full of pity. "As it stands, you know how this will end, what lies beyond this door for you and him. You know the pain that will come regardless of your choice, and yet, you choose an ending that, in the utilitarian sense, will not bring about the most good. How did you ever come to that decision?"

Booker felt Annabelle's eyes on him again and he flinched. He almost covered his ears so he wouldn't have to hear her speak, so he wouldn't have to hear any of them. "I need him. This him. He's all I…"

Rosalind stepped forward to pat the girl kindly on the shoulder. Whatever bullshit code of ethics the twins followed, it was clear they genuinely cared for their "specimen". "A cruel joke, it must seem, to have powers so divine with a heart so…human."

Robert nodded his condolences. "Whichever path you choose, none of us are fit to criticize it. We all have our sins to bear." He tossed an appraising glance at Booker. "Present company certainly included."

The young woman held herself tightly, as if she might shatter on the spot. "Just…just go. Please."

The physicists complied in an almost rudely quick fashion, vanishing without a trace. Booker's stomach lurched when he realized it was only the two of them once more. I can't, can't be alone with her, can't, don't—

"Booker," she murmured, kneeling next to him. He tensed into the corner made by the dresser and wall. "I need two things from you, all right?" Her hand rested on his, light as a feather, and he jerked it away out of instinct. Her face fell for only a second, but she quickly composed a neutral expression. Wonder who she gets that from? "I need you to put on these warm clothes, you're going to get sick otherwise."

He took the bundle of material silently, eyes never straying from her face, as if she might attack. Her powers really must have improved if she could open a tear to fetch clothing without him even noticing. God, he was cold, but he didn't want to move, not when she was still watching him so closely. What else can she possibly want, if she won't kill me?

"But before you do that…" she started in a delicate manner, the kind one uses to coax a child into something. "Booker, I need you to say my name."

Booker knocked his head hard back against the wall, gnawing at his bottom lip to keep any more tears from slipping out. Her face wasn't neutral anymore, but it wasn't earnest, either. She looked at him with empathy. "Y-you already know what I'm going to say," he whispered unsteadily.

"I do," she admitted, a trace of guilt in her voice. "But you still need to say it."

Zachary Comstock was damned, he'd always been damned, even after the baptism. Rallies held in the name of a vengeful god—because fear got results love never could—allies made only to be exploited, a city launched on quantum physics and white supremacy, buying a child, ordering his wife's assassination—so much blood—locking that child in a tower for two decades, profiting off his racism—isn't that what the Lord had demanded?—sacrificing countless devotees and the Luteces in the fight against a false shepherd—a false him—hunting down and torturing that child for months for daring to go against him—because he loved her, couldn't she see that?—

That child kneeled in front of Booker, as patient and full of grace as any angel. It made him want to weep all over again, as hard as the night he lost Anna—so he did. When the water streamed down his cheeks the girl took him into her arms, and he didn't fight it, didn't withdraw, but buried his sobs into her shoulder, so that she might absorb the man's sins, both the men's sins, all the men's sins. A constant stream of transgressions from two halves of the same circle had resulted in this woman, so full of life and compassion that her warmth made Booker shudder even harder as she rocked him. What sort of girl would she have become if DeWitt had been the only one to ever wrong her? That girl isn't here.

"Elizabeth," he choked, and he wasn't sure if it was her body heat or the flames of hell warming him now. "Your name…is Elizabeth."

She took his face in her hands, a sad, encouraging smile at her lips, which she pressed to his forehead chastely. "It's okay, now, Booker. I'm here." It was the same voice she'd consoled Songbird in—why couldn't she drown me, too?

Booker didn't know how long they sat on the floor, or how many bars Elizabeth hummed into his ear to soothe him. She never shivered, despite soaking in her fair share of the river. All he was sure of was that he was still shaking when she finally pulled away from him, and he grabbed at her in a panic. Don't go, please, you should, but don't—

"You need to change now," Elizabeth chided him softly, reaching for the dry clothes. They were a perfect match to their drenched counterparts. Booker's fingers fumbled around his vest; the digits were numb and unresponsive. "I can help you."

He stumbled away from her abruptly, not even bothering to shake his head. She was Elizabeth, to call her anything else would be unfair after the upbringing she'd endured in Columbia, but she was still…Booker used the last of his salts on a steady, controlled burst of Devil's Kiss, wincing at the pain that came with regaining a sense of touch. Elizabeth got to her feet and turned her back to give him some privacy as he changed. She busied herself with cleaning up his mess from earlier, which would leave a nasty stain on the rug no matter what. When she finished she returned to the window, letting him come to her when he was ready. Booker's footsteps were clumsy and uncertain as he approached Elizabeth, and despite the dryness he felt no warmer.

"It's Paris," she muttered, gazing down at the alley beneath them. The odd sign and banner in French proved her point. "Not a great view, but this room was unoccupied for the night." Booker disagreed. He couldn't see the Eiffel Tower or smell any wine, but the moonlight poured through the window unobstructed and illuminated Elizabeth with a gentle glow. "I thought I might as well see it, at least once."

Booker's brow furrowed. "You're not staying?" Shit, this was her dream. She couldn't give him up but she was abandoning a life-long fantasy?

Elizabeth stared at him pensively before making her offer. "In this world, Comstock was never born. But he still exists in others, and…and I'm going to put him down, Booker, as many times as I can. And I'd like you to come with me."

Booker peered at her in bewilderment. "But you wouldn't have to if you just—"

"I'm not. Killing you." Her eyes grew glassy as she spat the words out. "Stop asking me to."

Booker wondered if omniscience came with its own special brand of logic—it would explain the whimsical air the Luteces brought into every dire situation. Elizabeth could put an end to everything in minutes, yet she wanted to drag it out—and ultimately leave the job unfinished—with him. Because it was the only way she could keep him. There was nothing Booker had ever done that warranted her mercy—he wasn't convinced drowning him wouldn't be mercy—so why was Elizabeth so adamant that he live? Why did she insist on having his company?

"I'm not a good man," Booker muttered weakly—not that she needed reminding.

"And I'm not asking you to be," she replied in desperation. "But you're a good killer, and I need that. It'll be dangerous…will you help me?"

There was a pleading in her eyes that Booker couldn't comprehend. Did she think he could refuse her anything? If he couldn't undo his past, if he had to keep living with it, then the only bearable way to spend his existence would be in her service, whatever that required of him. And if Elizabeth was bent on throwing herself in harm's way—and God knew he wouldn't be able to stop her—then hell, he belonged right next to her in the thick of it. "Of course, I just don't understand why—"

"Booker, do you really need to?" Elizabeth cut him off, almost beseechingly. "I want you with me in this." She took a step closer so that her skirt brushed against his legs, and it took all his self-control not to back away. Elizabeth could sense his discomfort, but held her ground and took one of Booker's hands in hers. "I know this is…complicated, everything we've been through. But you and I make a good team, isn't that clear enough?"

"Is that what you want to be, then?" Booker felt his throat close at the idea of putting a label on their relationship. He was even more hesitant to ponder how they fit together than he had been at Comstock House—Christ, was that only last night? I still want her. The thought repulsed him…didn't it? No, I don't, I don't want to touch her…I don't want to want to, but…Was this side of the circle really better than the other?

"You called me your partner at the mansion," Elizabeth reminded him. Her hands felt so tiny around Booker's, he shouldn't feel so trapped. There's no getting away from her…and I don't want to. "We're still partners, aren't we?"

It was such a detached way of looking at it, but at least the word didn't make him dizzy. Father…seller…kidnapper…betrayer…lover…rescuer…friend? All of those terms had habit of making the room spin at varying speeds. Partner…that could work for now. "Yeah, partners."

Elizabeth beamed at him with a sincerity that almost made his knees buckle. "Then get some rest, Booker. We've got a lot of work to do."