A/N: I'd like to thank all of you for reading this story to the end. I have every intention of introducing a sequel! This chapter was an incredible challenge, but very satisfying to finally finish. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 7
The hotel room was almost completely dark, the only source of light being a patch of moonlight from the window that fell just short of the bed. Elizabeth sat on the floor at the border of that patch, listening to the steady rhythm of Booker's breathing as he slept. Her own limbs ached fiercely, but there would be no rest for her tonight. Not after what she'd done. Booker's arm was hanging limply off the side of the mattress, and Elizabeth clung to it possessively. Under normal circumstances—or whatever counted as normal for them—he would have woken up, but she could hardly fault him for passing out so absolutely after the day they'd had.
She traced the ridges and valleys of his hand, reading the story she'd already seen through the doors. Calluses from a lifetime of rough living and rougher killing. A scar on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger from where the skin had been caught in a factory machine—a relic of his time with the Pinkertons. Dirt and blood under every nail. Elizabeth cupped the hand around her face and let a tear roll onto it.
The holsters were the first to go. Then the vest, then the suspenders. Booker tucked and extended his arms as necessary, as if he was simply a doll being changed, but all the while he peered at Elizabeth with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. She kept her gaze fastened to whatever she was removing—she might have lost her nerve otherwise. His necktie came undone and slipped away easily enough, but when she reached for the buttons of his shirt, his hands wrapped around her upper arms.
Why had she been so insistent on sleeping with him? Up until that night in Emporia, a few drawn-out glances had been the only sign that Booker saw her…that way. Yet she was willing to risk her dignity and the fragile stability in their partnership for…what? Companionship. A sense of control. Desire. Elizabeth had certainly been fascinated by him, ever since he crashed into her library. Booker fell short in every comparison she drew to the heroes in her books, whether it was in charm or tenderness or chivalry. But he cared about her, that much was obvious, even when he was trying to sell her—for the second time, you fool—and that was more than she could say of anyone else.
The pause seemed to last a lifetime to Elizabeth. He held her firmly in place, and she could almost feel his stare, which she still refused to meet. How had she already messed it up? A reprimand never came, however. Booker eventually hooked his thumbs inside of her jacket and pulled it over her shoulders; she straightened her arms to let it slip to the floor. His hands came back to her arms, but now they were running up and down the newly exposed skin, never staying in one place. They were warm and rough, and glided smoothly across her upper back and neck.
Elizabeth drew his hand to her arm, waiting to see if his touch inspired any new feelings. Her books on propriety never mentioned this situation—they never had to. It was an abomination, an unnatural attraction condemned by almost every culture. I could see to it that those cultures were never formed in the first place, she thought idly, pressing her cheek firmly into Booker's palm. What good are their judgments? What standards can be held to someone like me? She tipped her head back onto the mattress and closed her eyes, trying to relive the memory without the taste of guilt. It had been a manageable task for the last seven months, even when getting caught meant another humiliating session of penance—why should shame stop her now?
Elizabeth resumed her earlier task with relief. Heavily-censored biology textbooks had left her with a limited understanding of intercourse, but she was certain clothes weren't a part of it. As she worked her way down the buttons of his shirt, Elizabeth felt Booker's fingers tackling the laces at her back. His movements felt much more confident than her own—and he couldn't even see what he was doing, as fixed as he was on her face. This obviously was not his first time undoing a corset. The thought made her fingers tremble on the last few buttons and roughly yank Booker's shirt tails free.
The fingers beneath hers were remarkably dexterous, there was no denying that. Elizabeth ran a nail over his knuckles. The smoothness with which Booker swapped skyhook for vigor was the same he had used while undressing her. There was a self-assurance in his touch she had tried so hard to match, although there was no hiding her inexperience. Elizabeth wondered if he would ever be able to touch her like that again, considering how afraid he seemed to be of her now.
"'Lis'beth."
She swallowed hard and met his eyes. They were narrowed, his brow furrowed. Elizabeth took a deep breath—and it was actually deep. He'd finished unlacing and held the corset up from slipping down her hips.
"You sure?"
She nodded and straightened her arms, shivering when the cold air hit her torso. Booker inhaled sharply; he must have been expecting a chemise underneath. He reached out for her, but she pushed his hands back to his shirt. The black cloth landed right next to her jacket. Only his undershirt remained, stained by sweat and blood.
Booker had been the only one to ever show her the realities of life. He brained men mere feet from her without hesitation. He demonstrated the flimsiness of a promise by breaking the first one he ever made her, and he never so much as apologized. Booker had pulled back the curtain between good and evil, Fitzroy and Comstock, so she could see how the world really worked. He helped her get a taste of the blood he was so fond of. Booker protected Elizabeth to the best of his ability—but he never gave a damn about her innocence.
Elizabeth had seen this much of him before, but only when tending to grievous wounds; there was never any time to admire his physique. Booker DeWitt was a hard man, inside and out. There seemed to be more angles than curves. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin, worn material, and delighted in the rapid movement of his chest as his breath quickened. Elizabeth ran her fingers all the way up to his neck, having to stand on her toes and step up against him to accomplish it. Something firm pressed into her abdomen.
Comstock's priorities were on the opposite end of the spectrum. He had her skin lashed into ribbons, all for the sin of being deflowered. I suppose his disgust makes more sense, now, she realized darkly. The thought of the prophet made Elizabeth squeeze Booker's hand painfully hard, yet he didn't so much as stir. Her purity was all that ever mattered to Comstock—she was his seed, not his daughter. Columbia was expected to worship and obey her out of fear.
Booker claimed to fear her—he did fear her, Elizabeth could see it in his eyes. Somehow that didn't stop him from disobeying her on the Hand of the Prophet, when he reneged on yet another promise and drowned Comstock. She should be angrier than she was—men with less power dealt worse punishments for smaller offenses. Men like Comstock and Fink. But in truth, Booker's actions were something of a comfort. In the heat of the moment, he had only done what came naturally by indulging in his bloodlust. Obedience would never be an instinct for a man like him—and Elizabeth didn't want his obedience, no more than she wanted Columbia's.
Booker didn't respond at first to the kiss, feeding her worries about her own inexperience. This was the only thing any of her books went into detail about, and she was still utterly unprepared. Once he began returning the embrace, Booker kissed as if he wanted to devour Elizabeth. He tasted like cigarettes and something harsher—she guessed at some type of alcohol. Perhaps he'd found a bottle of something or other while searching this house, or in a trash can—God, don't think about that now, she berated herself. His stubble scraped against her jaw and his hips abruptly bucked against hers. Elizabeth didn't expect the sudden force and stumbled back, hitting the side of the bed and falling onto the sheets.
Booker seemed to enjoy the view. There was a hunger in his eyes as he planted his knees on the mattress, both on either side of her hips. If he was drunk, he was amazingly coordinated despite it. He leaned in to meet her mouth but paused when she grabbed a handful of his undershirt. Nodding, he pulled it over his head, stretching all the way up. Elizabeth gasped at the scars—straight, long, thin, short, thick, crooked, some pale and others dark, covering more of him than she ever imagined. Small wonder he avoided conversations of his past. Booker was expressionless, whether by accident or through practice, and let her stare as she liked.
She now knew the origin of each one of those scars, as well as every scar Booker had ever given another man—and those were the lucky ones, the few allowed to live. Elizabeth turned her head, straining her eyes to make out the details of Booker's face in the dark. All she could see was blood. By sparing his life, wasn't she condoning all his violent tendencies? Elizabeth had run screaming from him at Battleship Bay, valuing the sanctity of life above her own freedom. Now she was practically Booker's sponsor, and unlike the Pinkertons, she didn't much care how brutal he was in their crusade against the prophet. The vengeful side of her looked forward to seeing how creative Booker could be when it came to dispatching countless versions of the same man.
Elizabeth reached up to trace one of the larger discolorations, a healed-over gash that stretched from his rib cage to his hip. "H-How are you still alive, Mr. DeWitt?"
His poker face broke as he laughed. Elizabeth had never heard that sound before, not from him. It vibrated in his belly against her fingertips. "Beats me." Elizabeth frowned at the inadequate answer—Booker seemed to thwart her every attempt at better understanding him. He smirked at her reaction and bent down to kiss the pout away. "And just call me Booker," he growled against her lips.
She dragged her thumb lightly over his mouth, marveling at the slow warmth of his breath. The doors were clear enough inside her head, but he was tangible proof of the choice she had made, a regret she should have. How could Elizabeth ever justify sparing one bad man—because he was, wasn't he?—when it meant sparing every worse version of him? Even this version of him wasn't the best of Booker DeWitt, and he'd certainly brought out the worst in her. Yet he was here, sleeping, breathing, because she demanded it to be so.
She felt so small underneath him, even as she wormed her arms around his middle. Booker undermined her efforts at ensnaring him by slipping out of her embrace and onto the floor, where he busied himself with her boots. Oh, right. I can't wear shoes to bed. But she could let a man she hardly knew, and certainly wasn't married to, strip her down? Elizabeth burst into a fit of nervous giggling at the misguided application of etiquette to the situation.
Booker scowled over her knees, one of her feet captive in his hands. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing, I just…I'm not sure how to do this…properly."
His thumb moved over her stocking-covered calf in tiny circles. "Don't worry about that," Booker murmured softly, but the green in his eyes sparked intensely, as if they were in the middle of a heated battle. His hands slid purposefully up her legs to peel back the layers of fabric, leaving her skirt to shroud his movements, but his gaze remained fixed on the way her bare chest swelled up and down. Elizabeth suddenly felt very much like a lamb caught in the wolf's grasp.
Now he was caught in hers. Booker didn't want to live with himself, that much was obvious by the way he eyed his pistol earlier. He might even grow to resent her for refusing to take him back to the baptism. I don't care, Elizabeth thought harshly. He doesn't get to leave me, not after everything that's happened. If she had let him drown, let the paradox form and turn her into something near-immortal like the Luteces, she would have been…alone. Booker owed her a debt, and the only payment she was willing to accept was his life. He had to stay with her.
When the skirt was pulled off and left her completely bare, Elizabeth's first reaction was to reach for the nearby sheet and cover up. She knew people had been looking at her naked her entire life through the mirrors in her tower, but seeing Booker's ravenous gaze was something different all together. He pinned her wrist to the bed before she even got close. "You said you were sure," he muttered, and she felt it more than heard it, as close as his mouth was to her shoulder. Elizabeth couldn't tell if the tone was accusing or accepting, but she was certain she wanted to feel more words on her skin.
"I am…about you."
At least some things didn't change. His every sin stood out in her mind, and she clung desperately to his better deeds—the couple at the raffle, the child in the bar basement, and those were in the last few days alone—but felt crushed under the weight of his wrongdoings. His mother died when he was just a boy, he never even met his father, the men in the 7th tormented him for his heritage…but every excuse, in the end, was just another detail—and the details wouldn't change a goddamn thing. The sea of doors had robbed Elizabeth of any comforting uncertainty of whether Booker DeWitt was, is, or would be a good man—or even simply good enough to merit Comstock's continued existence. She knew he wasn't, isn't, and never would be, just as surely as she knew she wanted him. Elizabeth now shouldered those sins, if not in his stead then certainly alongside him, and not for any noble reason. The only mystery left to contend with was whether or not it mattered.
"You don't even know me." He mumbled the words into her collarbone, sealing them with a broad and greedy lick.
"I know enough." Booker had flattened himself over her, giving Elizabeth the modesty she missed and turning her attention to his body instead of her own. She dragged her palms down his back and marveled at the way he shuddered under her touch. "I know I want you to keep doing that."
His fingers twitched in her hand as he stirred, and Elizabeth froze. She doubted Booker would appreciate waking up to this. He had enjoyed her embrace eagerly enough just this morning, why did that have to change? Would I care more about sharing his blood if I hadn't grown up in a tower? If he had raised me instead of Comstock? The doors to those realities said yes, but they were no substitute for her own. Booker was unburdened by infinite truths in infinite worlds, yet apparently succumbed to guilt all the same. He had stared at her like a prey would at their predator when she suggested helping him undress, and he quickly developed a habit of recoiling from her touch. It only made her crave his all the more. Maybe she was sick, or crazy, or truly as morally bankrupt as Comstock had accused her of being for the last half year—but whatever the cause, the effect remained that DeWitt had raised in her a hardy desire, not a daughter.
The prophet's words rang coldly in her ears. I am your father, child, and no one will ever care for you as I do. For months on end he had told her of his love, of the Lord's forgiveness, of her unruly wickedness, and despite the clarity of the doors in her head, Elizabeth couldn't help but believe Comstock. She didn't hate him for taking her as a baby, as some cruel kidnapper; she resented him with the sort of fury tinged with betrayal one could only have for their father. The man whose arm she clung to might fear her wrath—and probably deserved it—but Elizabeth was uninterested in divvying up her rage for two targets—and they were two different targets.
Booker was already between her legs before she realized he was still fully dressed from the waist down. Everything seemed to happen so fast, and Elizabeth felt more than a little lost. Her toes brushed down the leg of his pants to the leather of his boot, and another flood of decorum overwhelmed her. "Booker, your shoes!"
He chuckled again, his stomach vibrating against hers and the spasms of his breath tickling her neck, and Elizabeth decided she quite liked the sound of his laughter, even if it was at her expense. Booker toed off his boots without even lifting himself off her. It gave her a chance to catch her breath between all the kissing—which she also quite liked. His elbows dug into the mattress around her, and the bicep of his left arm bulged next to her cheek. She felt the strangest urge to sink her teeth into the muscle, to see how the rest of Booker tasted compared to his mouth—that certainly wasn't proper. The self-admonishment withered when his lips wrapped around Elizabeth's earlobe.
"You're thinking about this too hard."
And I still am, she thought wryly. What's done is done, and will be done. What was the point in regretting sparing him? The moment they left the sea of doors, every door before the baptism shut tightly, and she hadn't the faintest idea how to open them, even if she wanted to. Elizabeth had made her choice and there was no taking him back, no matter how much he begged. She didn't understand why the sudden limitation had been put in place, or if others would follow. She stared at the lines that crossed Booker's palm intently, as if she would find the secrets of the universe in his skin.
"You're thinking about this too hard."
Elizabeth shushed Rosalind rudely out of instinct, more afraid of Booker waking up than the physicists' sudden arrival.
"He'll be out for quite a while, I can promise you that," Robert quipped from behind the bed. Elizabeth twisted around to look at him, and briefly wondered if there was any such thing as privacy with beings such as them in existence.
"Why did the doors shut?" she asked softly, cradling Booker's hand with more confidence than before. It was quite a comfort to hold onto him, when he wasn't pulling away.
"Do you wish to take back your decision?" Rosalind queried in surprise.
Elizabeth smiled sadly. "No. Shouldn't I?"
"Well that's good, as we certainly can't undo what you've done," Robert remarked, leaning against the dresser with more ease than Booker ever had. "The universe doesn't much care for direct tampering between worlds, you see. It sets things…out of balance."
"You sent one hundred and twenty-two Booker DeWitts to their deaths," Elizabeth reminded him sourly. "Forty-seven versions of me, as well."
"Ah, but those versions were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things," assured Rosalind carelessly, always more interested in the larger experiment than anything else. "We merely helped the two of you survive. You have put yourself on a path to upset that scheme quite irrevocably."
"You'd rather Comstock remained alive? I find that hard to believe."
"The prophet plays a role far larger than Mr. DeWitt ever could," Rosalind chided her gently. "Of course we have no love for him, but if we wanted him dead we could have achieved that ourselves. Killing him outright is quite the interference, and has repercussions, even for one such as you."
"We only hoped to see you reunited with your father," Robert continued, gesturing to the man on the bed.
"Mission accomplished," Elizabeth scoffed bitterly, curling around Booker's forearm defensively. "He locked me away for two decades and had me tortured for months, what girl could ask for more?"
Rosalind scowled down at her like a displeased schoolteacher. "Zachary Comstock is not your true father, Elizabeth—"
"Yes, he is!" she snarled, too angry to be surprised that Booker didn't stir. "He had my mother killed when she wouldn't keep my origin a secret, he kept me in the tower to protect me from the false shepherd, and he spent seven months trying to cure me of my sins!" She almost choked on the words, as furious as they made her, but they poured out all the same.
Robert kneeled down next to her cautiously. "You know he isn't, you've seen the doors, you and Booker. He accepts it, and you need to as well."
Elizabeth shook her head violently, wincing under the pressure of various truths vying for domination in her mind. Of course she was the seed of the prophet. Of course her name was Anna. Of course she was born in New York City—no, Columbia. Of course her father was dead. Of course her father was sleeping next to her. It seemed even the sea of doors couldn't compete with months of electroshock therapy and flagellation. For every truth found within a lighthouse, there was a counter from Comstock, or Ruth, or Dr. Powell sounding off within her mind.
"In any case, Comstock is dead," Rosalind stated matter-of-factly. "You two are in Paris and free to live out your lives together, and with your combined skills I doubt you'll want for anything."
"One Comstock is dead," snapped Elizabeth. Ribbons of silver gleamed in her peripherals, and it took all her willpower not to let the tears rip open. "Once will never be enough."
"And just how many dead prophets would it take to satisfy you?" Rosalind asked exasperatedly.
Elizabeth glowered at the woman resentfully. "How about one hundred and twenty-two, for starters?"
Robert sighed as he rubbed his hands against his face. "You don't understand the consequences of that sort of interference, Elizabeth."
"But she did, in the sea," Rosalind reminded him curtly. "She saw every possibility, every horrendous outcome of her actions, and still chose this path."
Elizabeth fidgeted uncomfortably. She had remembered a stark sense of dread before pulling Booker through a tear and out of the baptism, but she couldn't recall why it had made her so afraid. She knew there had been a point where everything that would ever happen to them was as clear as glass—and now their future was behind yet another closed door. Just as the Luteces had no idea if this trial would be successful, she was completely unaware of the aftermath that a trans-dimensional murderous rampage would have. "What do you expect us to do, then? Just sit here and eat croissants?"
"Whatever you like, as long as it makes you happy," Robert answered furtively. "You have every right to be livid with us, after everything we've done to put you in this position—but now that you have a chance at a real life, it would be such a waste to throw it away."
"He thinks you're dedicated to this plan out of guilt," Rosalind noted, waving a hand at Booker. "That you're so overcome by love for him that you simply had to spare him, and devoting your lives to chipping away at the various Comstocks will help balance the karmic scales. Do you think he would still approve if he knew you were after revenge?"
There was validity to both sides of it, but much like the other warring "facts" inside her head, she wasn't sure which was the truest. Elizabeth doubted Booker approved at all. He had killed the prophet in her stead, against her will, to prevent her from turning into even more of a murderer—but that hadn't spared her from adopting his bloodlust. It didn't matter if Comstock didn't die at her hand, seeing it was enough. Seeing it only once wasn't. "He's in no place to judge me." Would she even care if he did?
"No, I don't suppose any of us are," Robert remarked flatly. There was a sadness in his eyes that made her shudder. "I am…truly sorry, Elizabeth. For everything I've done, and haven't done, to get you to this point."
"As am I, dear." Rosalind's voice held a rare shred of warmth until she pursed her lips tensely—was she trying not to cry?
Elizabeth wanted to be outraged with them—if they had never interfered she wouldn't have to bear the burden of such choices in the first place. And yet, the twins had done all they could to make things right, and their guilt was quite genuine. Being angry with them would accomplish nothing—save it for Father, she thought bitterly. She wormed her fingers through Bookers' and drew the back of his hand against her cheek, grounding herself in his touch.
"Apology accepted," she finally muttered. If not for them, she wouldn't have Booker—or at least, not the way she had him now. Whatever way that was. "Thank you…for the warning."
They nodded in unison, taking her thanks as their cue to bow out. Elizabeth felt overwhelmed by the silence that followed their departure, and the looming uncertainty as to what she was turning into. A career assassin, acting only through another? A selfish villain who allowed evil to persist in countless worlds, all because she wouldn't drown Booker? At the very least, Elizabeth was a terrible daughter. She focused on the regular, but barely audible snoring coming from the man beside her, and breathed in time with it. For now, she was content being the lamb with the wolf caught in her grasp.