#elizabook

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“Ten minutes, tops,” Booker grumbled under his breath as he looked at his timepiece. It had been at least fifteen. He huffed as he tucked the old, beaten up watch back into his vest pocket.

He never should have let her walk out that door. Never should have let her out out his sight.

Problem was, he didn’t have much choice.

Earlier, he had been in the middle of tending to several heavily-bleeding gashes on his leg when Elizabeth insisted that she could find some more medical supplies in the neighboring building, meaning that he was in no position to physically stop her from dashing out the front door.

He popped the top off of an unopened beer bottle he had found and took a long drink in an attempt to ease his nerves. He had been trying to convince himself that he wasn’t necessarily “worried” about her, but his growing anxiousness was seeming to tell him otherwise.

With a sigh, he set the bottle down and opted for the shotgun leaning on the table next to him instead.

“Might as well go see what’s keepin’ her,” he murmured as he got out of the chair he had been resting in. He winced slightly at the ache in his injured leg, but something soon distracted him before he could dwell on it.

A distinct, rhythmic pitter patter on the roof that he had heard many times in New York, but never in Columbia.

Rain.

Booker paused.

Rain?

He looked up.

How in the-?

He shook his head. So many things about Columbia made absolutely no sense to him, and he wasn’t going to try and hurt his brain attempting to figure out the weather on top of everything else.

Not like he had much of a chance to think much more about it, as soon Elizabeth came hurrying in through the doorway.

“Found some!” she chirped, lifting her arms to show off the spoils.

But Booker didn’t comment on the supplies; what instead had immediately caught his attention, was that she completely soaked from head to foot. Her wet bangs stuck to the sides of her equally-wet face, and he could see her blouse clinging to the outline of her corset.

Something tightened in his belly.

“Good,” was all he could choke out as he rested the gun back against the table in an attempt to avert his gaze.

“...Booker? You all right?” she asked, noticing the change in his demeanor.

“Yeah,” he responded, “just a bit sore, I guess.”

“Well, I found some extra blankets while I was over there, that should make the mattress more comfortable,” she offered.

Booker glanced back at her, giving a half-smile of gratitude. “Not sure if sleepin’ on soaking wet blankets is gonna help much - but thanks.”

Her own grin dropped a little when she realized he was right.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he tried to reassure her as she set the bundle of blankets down. “I’ll get by just fine.”

She didn’t look fully convinced, but nodded nevertheless, before watching the man hobble over towards the mattress.

“Anyway, we should probably get some sleep. Are you coming to bed?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked as he grabbed the dry blanket that was already lying on the mattress and began to situate it.

“I’m wet,” she reminded him. “I don’t have anything to sleep in that won’t soak the mattress.”

He shrugged, his gaze still focused on the bedclothes. “Sleep naked.”

The words had barely left his mouth when they both froze with the realization what he had just said.

Booker closed his eyes, internally kicking himself.

Living on his own for so long, he had gotten so accustomed to sleeping in various states of dress - including nothing at all - so the idea of doing so didn’t strike him as strange at first.

But then he remembered that he and Elizabeth had begun sharing a bed recently - for protection purposes - and neither of them had ever seen each other completely unclad.

“I’m sorry,” he then apologized. “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s alright, Mr. DeWitt. I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” she tried to reassure him, though her shy tone and the reflexive way she switched back to addressing him so formally gave away her present embarrassment.

For the few moments, the two of them stood there in an awkward silence. Elizabeth fiddled with the thimble on her pinky, and Booker started to silently count the floorboards, as they tried not to meet each other’s eyes.

He then heard the sound of what seemed to be a wet cloth being wrung out, and he glanced up to see the young woman squeezing the excess water from her dark blue necktie.

Wishing had some way to ease her discomfort, he rested his hands on his hips and sighed. His thumbs brushed against his sides, and he stopped.

He looked down at himself.

Wait... Maybe he could help.

After shirking off his vest and necktie and tossing them onto the nearby chair, Booker began to undo the top few buttons his shirt. “Here,” he said, “I have an idea.”

Elizabeth looked back at him, curious. When she saw what he was doing, however, her eyes widened.

“Mr. DeWitt? What are you-?”

“You can sleep in this,” he told her, slipping the shirt off over his head. He then tossed the piece of clothing to Elizabeth, who barely reacted in time to catch it, due to still being flustered by his earlier comment, as well as being distracted by seeing him in a state of half-dress for the very first time.

“But this is your shirt,” she said, no other coherent thoughts coming to mind. “I couldn’t possibly...”

With a shrug, he reached out with the intention of taking his offering back. “Well, if you’d rather catch your death in what you’re wearin’ now-”

“No!” She reeled backwards, holding the shirt to her chest. “No...I mean, I’ll take it. Th-thank you. If you could just...you know...turn around?”

He held up his hands in slight defense. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Turning his back to her, he limped over to the open doorway, pulling out his box of cigarettes as he did so.

Elizabeth didn’t start changing immediately, but instead watched as he lit the cigarette with a snap of his fingers and took a long drag. Taking in enough until he was satisfied, he let the hand holding the cigarette drop down by his hip, as he slowly released the smoke into the air of the approaching evening. A few more times he did this motion, the relaxed, repetitive movement almost hypnotic in a way. She couldn’t see his face, but he appeared to be deep in thought.

Still feeling a bit awkward about his state of half-dress, yet unable to tear her eyes away, Elizabeth began to subconsciously study him.

Back in her tower, she had seen paintings and classical artwork that depicted the male form to an extent in several of her books. But seeing it on a page was one thing, witnessing it in real life was another.

Not to mention, much of the artwork she had seen was idealized, perfection personified...but Booker was not like those depictions. Not one bit. His hard brow was encrusted with frown and worry lines...sinewy and marked with visible, uneven tan lines were his arms...his chest, sporadically striped with faint scars from his youth was accompanied by a belly slightly softened from years of drinking and being out of the service...and his hand...

Though covered now with the makeshift bandage she had made from her own skirt at one point, she couldn’t forget the strange brand upon it.

Yes, Booker DeWitt’s body was flawed... imperfect...but that only made it all the more fascinating to Elizabeth.

For the next few moments, she couldn’t help imagining running her fingers over every part of his body, asking about the stories that was tied to each and every mark upon him. The blush under her skin bloomed hotter at the notion, and she wondered why she didn’t stop herself from thinking about such things with a man she barely knew.

Finally sensing her gaze upon him, Booker turned his head, not quite looking over his shoulder at her.

“Somethin’ the matter?” he asked, his tone neutral.

“No, no,” Elizabeth responded, shaking her head as if snapping out of a trance.

“You best get changed and get to bed, then. We’ve got another long day ahead of us tomorrow,” he informed her. He turned his face back to the outside, where it was still pouring, and again brought his cigarette to his lips.

Trying to ignore the butterflies in her tummy, the young woman obeyed.

As she pulled his shirt over her head, she caught the faint sent of alcohol and cigarette smoke that seemed to be permanently seeped into the worn fabric, but feeling the warmth - his warmth - from it caused her to not care.

She then paused as another scent tickled her nose.

With a hint of hesitation, she brought the collar of the shirt up to her nose and inhaled. She blinked in surprise. Was that...lavender and cedar...?

A corner of her mouth quirked up in amusement.

No doubt a poor attempt to hide the other smells.

She didn’t know why, but she found the idea of Booker hopelessly trying to cover the clear evidence of his substance abuse or the fact that his shirt hadn’t been freshly-laundered in who knows how long oddly endearing.

She shook her head to clear it as she slipped her arms through the proper holes.

Feeling the fabric hit her bare thighs, she glanced down. His shirt was enormous on her small frame, but it still left more of her legs exposed than she would’ve liked. Suddenly feeling quite self-conscious for reasons she couldn’t explain, Elizabeth quickly made her way over to the mattress and sat down on it, before pulling the blankets over her lap and doing up a few of the shirt buttons.

“It’s okay, Mr. Dewitt, you can turn around now,” she told him.

Booker tentatively glanced over his shoulder to make sure, before taking one last drag of his cigarette and putting it out beneath his boot.

After closing and locking the door, he grabbed his shotgun and a nearby oil lamp and brought them over with him as he approached Elizabeth. She gave him a small smile, and a corner of his mouth quirked up a bit in return.

The young woman watched as he sat down on the mattress and placed the firearm and the lamp on the floor next to it, before dosing the flame. The action plunged the already dim room into near-complete darkness, the only light now being from the other buildings and street lamps that came in through the slivers of a few boarded up windows. Booker then laid back with a sigh, and pulled the other half of the blanket up over him.

The mattress was just barely big enough for the two of them, so it kept them in closer proximity than he would’ve liked. Yet, the warmth he could feel radiating off her Elizabeth’s body was strangely comforting somehow...and for the first time in a long time, that small, most vulnerable part of him began to crave the closeness of another human being.

He closed his eyes momentarily and with a deep breath, quickly shook off the notion. He was already hating himself for the rogue thought that had crossed his mind of how he actually liked the sight of the lovely young woman in his shirt when he first saw her in it only minutes earlier. The last thing he needed was to be kept awake with other thoughts about her body.

Mumbling a brief ‘good night’, he turned onto his side, keeping his back to her and his eyes on the window, hoping he would fall asleep quickly. The sooner morning came, the sooner they could be on their way.

“Good night...Booker,” came her soft whisper in return.

After lying down herself, she pulled up the blanket to her chin and stared up at the ceiling. All the while, thoughts and questions and foreign notions swirled around in her head as she tried not to look at the man lying half-naked next to her; the one who seemed so secretive and distant, yet had given his own shirt off of his back to prevent her from catching cold, while also preserving her modesty - something that clearly wasn’t in the job description.

Surely, that meant there was a soft spot in his hardened heart somewhere...right?

The temptation overtaking her, Elizabeth finally gave in to it and turned onto her side as well, wanting to gaze upon his nearly-silhouetted form once more before trying to nod off.

Except...she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to sleep that night, no matter how hard she tried.

She didn’t respond immediately. She just kept her eyes turned downward as she began to pack up the medical supplies.

“Elizabeth-?” he tried again.

“-This is my first night out of my tower,” she blurted softly.

He didn’t quite follow. “I thought you were happy to finally get out of there-”

“-I was! I mean, I am!” she insisted, her head jerking back up. “I just...I mean, sure, I was locked up, but...I was also, well...“ Her eyes dropped back down to her lap. “...safe. Before today, I didn’t have to worry about...anything, and now...” She trailed off.

Booker was surprised to hear her open up like that, given how short of a time they had known each other. What surprised him even more, though, was the protective twinge in his chest at her uncertain tone.

He tilted his head a bit, trying to catch her gaze.

“Elizabeth, look at me.”

It took a few seconds, but she eventually obeyed.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he affirmed. “Alright?”

She simply nodded.

She then watched curiously as Booker proceeded to shrug off his worn vest, wincing slightly at his surface wounds, before rolling it up and setting it down next to him, trying his best to keep the cleanest side turned up.

“Here,” he offered. “How about you try and get some sleep, okay? We’ll go find that airship in the morning.”

After a hint of hesitation, Elizabeth nodded once more and stretched out on her side, still facing him, and rested her head upon the bundle of clothing.

Assuming she would soon start to drift off, Booker leaned back against the wall in an attempt to get comfortable as well, though he was still too anxious and alert to even think about attempting to get any sleep himself.

“Mr. DeWitt...”

He soon heard Elizabeth’s voice once more, gently breaking through the silence.

Looking back down, he saw her eyes were open and looking up at him.

“I know I should sleep, but...I don’t know if I can,” she confessed softly.

That foreign, yet strangely familiar feeling twitched in his chest again.

“Just go to sleep...” he said, his tone softening. “I’m right here.” He quirked up a corner of his mouth in an attempt to give her some semblance of a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and briefly touched her arm as a sign of reassurance.

Feeling the comforting warmth of his fingers, even through her sleeve, she finally smiled a tiny bit, before closing her eyes once more.

“Good night...Mr. DeWitt,” she murmured with a yawn.

The young woman now finally slipping into a deep sleep, Booker’s poor attempt at a smile faded. For an extended period after that, he was left awake and alone with his thoughts, reflecting on everything that had happened since he had first come to Columbia.

He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh.

Had he bitten off more than even he could chew when he took up this deal?

He didn’t know.

Feeling sleep threatening to take him, he glanced down once more at the reason he was there in the first place; the young woman with strange abilities who exasperated, yet fascinated him. As he continue to look at her, he couldn’t help but wonder if all of this was even real.

Without thinking about it, his fingers reached back out and brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, the subtle touch satisfying his need to reassure himself that she was indeed, real.

“G’night, Elizabeth,” he whispered.

He doused the lamp.

--------

The next morning, Booker awoke to the feeling of a weight upon his belly.

Immediately tensing up, he blindly fumbled for his holstered pistol. However, once he blinked open his eyes and looked down, he found that the source of the weight was none other than Elizabeth, still asleep, but now curled up against his side with her head resting upon his stomach.

Confused, Booker looked down next to him, where he swore he last saw her laying the night before, using his rolled-up vest as a makeshift pillow.

His attention was soon drawn back to his middle when he felt Elizabeth stirring. After slowly opening her eyes, she caught his gaze with hers and gave him an oddly dreamy smile, her eyes still hooded with sleepiness.

“Good morning,” she whispered sweetly, seeming oblivious to the position they were both in.

“Uh...good morning?” he greeted awkwardly as he raised an eyebrow. “You were using me as a pillow.”

“Hmm?” It took a moment for the half-awake young woman to register what he said. But once she did, she gave him an almost sheepish look. “I’m sorry. Just fell asleep there, I guess.”

She said no more on the matter and Booker didn’t try to inquire further. Thinking back to her confession the night before, he merely figured that perhaps she had moved closer to him to feel safer.

He supposed he couldn’t really blame her.

After pushing herself off of him, she sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, before stretching her arms skyward. “By the way, Mr. DeWitt, you’ve got a loud stomach, you know that?” she asked offhandedly as she continued to stretch. “Woke me up earlier.”

She didn’t seem to think anything of her remark, but heat flooded Booker’s cheeks at the rather blunt statement, as he was again reminded of just how thin her social filters were. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah...well...let’s just get moving already, alright?” he mumbled, avoiding the subject and averting his eyes. He then grabbed his vest and stood up. “If we stay here too long, someone’s bound to find us.”

“What about breakfast? Best keep your energy up and all-”

“-We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he grumbled back a bit testily as he slipped on his vest and began checking if any of his firearms were in need of reloading.

But just as he was getting started, a low growl rumbled from his stomach, making him pause.

“Sounds to me like we’re crossing that bridge now,” Elizabeth pointed out with a cocked eyebrow. “I’m sure I could find something, if I looked around in here.”

With a huff of frustration, Booker rubbed the spot between his eyes. He was eager to get going, but he knew full well the stubborn young woman would likely keep prodding him about his growing hunger until it was at least somewhat sated.