ELIZABETH GETS DRUNK

ELIZABETH HAS A DRINK OR TWO

It wasn't until they were halfway back to the Lady that Booker figured out what'd been tugging at the nape of his soldier's instinct for a few minutes too long.  It was too quiet; he'd known that much; but in watching Elizabeth betray a shudder as she brushed aside a dead cop's bloody hand, gingerly prying away the pistol tucked in his coat pocket, it occurred to DeWitt that the girl hadn't let slip so much as a word or a smile since they'd shot their way out of the Hall of Heroes.

As soon as she'd found a grip on the weapon, she jolted up, spun toward Booker -- headfirst, trying not to look at the corpse a half-second more than she had to -- and held it out, eyes to the floor.  Booker didn't take the gun.  She looked up after a few seconds, meeting his eyes.

"I... found some ammo, Mr. Dewitt."  She was choking back something.  Weren't any bullet wounds; probably vomit, he reasoned.  Or tears.  Maybe both.

"Elizabeth," he began, before trailing off.  He wasn't good at this kind of thing.  He wanted to tell her he knew what she was feeling, but that'd be a lie.  He tried anyway.

"...Elizabeth, I know this is hard.  Don't try to pretend like you're pickin' flowers.  If you ever get comfortable walkin' across a dead man, that's when you know somethin's gone wrong."

She couldn't hold his gaze, and looked down.  With an unsteady sigh, she whispered, "When did it go wrong for you?"

Now he couldn't hold his own gaze, and the floorboard was graced with another set of eyeballs.  A pointed swallow, and Booker took the gun, holstered it, and plodded forward in one motion, down the staircase.  Elizabeth's empty hand was still in the air.

"We won't be gettin' to Paris if they head us off," Booker called from below.  "Every second we wait is a second closer to our airship floatin' off without us."  Her eyes shut at "Paris."  She moved her hand now, to wipe off a single tear, and followed DeWitt.

THEN THEY EXPLORE THE BAR

A dozen dead Vox didn't stop Booker from eyeing a mostly-finished bottle of whiskey, standing tall on a table just to his right, practically as soon as he'd walked in the door.  A sniff -- yeah, it's good stuff -- and a swig.  It was exactly what he needed and exactly what he couldn't afford, if he still had any hope of dropping off a live girl and a live Booker DeWitt in New York.  Another swig.  Bringing the bottle down, he spotted Elizabeth leaning on the bar counter, looking into the void.  Staring at floorboards was becoming a habit of hers, thought Booker.  A notion occurred to him.  He tried to push it back, but no luck.

If anything, it'd make her easier to manage, right?  Happier she is, likelier she is to follow behind, right?  It'd be rude of me not to offer, right?

He walked over, bottle in hand, and leaned on the counter next to Elizabeth.  He grabbed an upturned shot glass and poured her half.

"Here," he grumbled, turning his head to stare at the same empty space that'd captured her attention.  He could feel her look at him like he'd just handed her a glass of human blood, and shrugged it off by taking another swig from the bottle.  Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something, but closed it, glancing toward the glass.  Silence.  Booker was just about to give up and down it himself when she quickly grabbed it from the table and tossed every drop into her mouth.

Booker had seen more than few novices, and so he didn't do much more than lean down to lift her back up by the arm when she collapsed on her rear, coughing madly, dropping the glass and shattering it over the floor, although he couldn't quite suppress shaking his head a bit.  He should've known she was too young and too small to hold real liquor.  He was getting ready to help her outside the bar when she spat under her breath, "Another."

No, he thought, looking for another glass.  Nothing good can come out of this, he thought, as he set it upright and poured another half.  You're an idiot, a fool, and you're going to regret this real quick, he thought, starting to extend his arm before Elizabeth snatched the whiskey out of his hand and knocked it back with the kind of haste and vigor that made Booker swear he grew an extra few chin hairs, just by watching.

And she was on the floor again, and he was lifting her by the arm again, and the glass fell and shattered again, and she was again doing her best to sputter out "Another," between coughs and wheezes.  Feeling like he was a genius, Booker quickly finished off what was left of the bottle, staggered a bit -- Elizabeth yelped as he lost his grip and sent her careening back down -- and told her, "I can't, it's gone.  We- We should really be going."  The clock high up on the wall had survived, and told him he'd been in here about twenty minutes longer than he'd meant.  That bottle *was* mostly-finished, right?  Although if we're here, we might as well...

"Nono, no, it's okay," Elizabeth slurred, with a giggle or two; "I found another," she said, lots of stress on the "N," as she crawled over another dead Vox to reach a bottle that hadn't had the misfortune of exploding when it'd hit the floor.

Feeling a few shades short of genius, Booker watched her take a little sip -- cough, sputter -- and cradle the bottle like it was a goddamn teddy bear.  "Oh, Mr. DeWitt, come- come here, I've found another..."

"It's Booker," he said, blinking twice rapidly, "and you really... really should go easy, Elizabeth; we've still got near a mile of boardwalk to go and somethin' tells me-"

"Oh, stop being so- so SERIOUS, all the time," she screeched, sending Booker's eyes up on the nearby rooftops to make sure she hadn't accidentally signaled another police squad.  "'Look at me, I'm Mr. Booker DeWitt, bang bang; look at me-'" -- cough -- "'-All I do is frown and clench my big old bottom and-'"

"My what?"

"'-All day and all night-'" She cut herself off as her mad arm-waving sent her thimble flying off into a corner, and she froze completely.  The contrast was such that Booker was afraid to even twitch, much less speak.  Only the clock kept moving.  Booker hadn't felt this tense since that Carnegie strike, and at least then he'd been able to shoot without asking questions.

The clock kept going.

Silence.

Elizabeth looked at Booker.

Silence.

Her lip quavered.

Silence.

Booker started to open his-

"I'M A FREAK, AREN'T I," she shouted.  She jumped to her feet, and promptly fell down again; trying once more, she managed to put together enough forward momentum to thrust herself into Booker's chest. "THAT'S WHY YOU'RE TAKING ME, THAT'S WHY *THEY* TOOK ME, THAT'S WHY THEY-" -- now punctuating her ranting by beating her fist on Booker's shoulder, every other word -- "-LOCKED ME UP AND LOCKED ME AWAY AND LOCKED ME UP!"

Booker had to keep pushing her other hand away, as she insisted on shoving her stub of a pinky into his nose, over and over.  "They watch me like a circus FREAK and study me like some kind of animal FREAK and now here you are looking at me like I'm a FREAK and... and..."

He'd hoped she'd move on to just sobbing soon, but now that he was faced with a girl, who he'd hardly met three hours ago, addled on whiskey -- and, of course, able to tear open the thin air itself and pull God-knows-what out -- bawling into his chest, he almost wished there *had* been a cop or two coming around the corner to keep her focused.  He put his free arm around her -- the other one was still clenching the empty bottle, although Booker didn't realize it then -- and tried his best.

"Elizabeth, if- if a good-natured, pretty young lady like you makes up a freak, then just about every woman I've met may as well've been servin' the devil himself.  Just because-"

"You really think I'm pretty?"  She stopped crying, abruptly, and looked up at Booker, who just about actively tried to reach out and shove the words back into his mouth.  She giggled. "Mr. DeWitt's a softie after all, isn't he?"  Another giggle.

Booker opened and closed his mouth, over and over, but the most he could mutter was "It's Booker..." before she placed both hands on his chest and pushed herself off, twirling as she took a few steps backwards and stumbled over an upturned chair, laughing the whole way.

"Booker thinks I'm pretty!  Booker thinks I'm pretty," she sang, putting a hand on the nearby wall to steady herself as she stood back up.  "Is that why you chose this pretty necklace, Mr. DeWitt?  Because you thought it'd be pretty?"

"Elizabeth, don't be gettin' excited, we really need to-"

"Will you dance with me *now*, Mr. DeWitt?"  She ran toward him again, tripping twice but not falling -- the small bit of Booker's brain that wasn't frozen in horror noted this as impressive -- and threw her arms around his neck.  He still could hardly put together a coherent syllable, although he was graduating to audible stuttering.

"You really do have a wonderful backside," she whispered, lowly, placing her cheek against his chest.  Booker dropped the empty whiskey bottle.

She started to tug him around the room -- "Booker thinks I'm pretty!" -- her laughter growing louder, and louder, and louder, until finally, Booker grabbed both her wrists and clapped them to her waist, holding her still.  He knew stern, so he went stern.

"ELIZABETH."

Silence, again.  Elizabeth still wore a foot-wide grin, but she was listening, if only out of drunken curiosity.

"You need to focus.  Any minute now, Columbia's finest are gonna charge in here lookin' for us -- for US -- and I don't want to know what they might have in store for you, or me," he said, slowly, carefully.  "Christ, you're young enough to be my-"

"Okay."  The grin was gone.  Her eyes were still glazed and jittery, but the giddy halfway-to-madness in her voice had evaporated.  Booker almost felt like he'd said the wrong thing -- like that'd be a change.  "I- I'm sorry, Mr. DeW... I'm sorry, Booker.  I didn't- I didn't mean-"

"It's... okay, Elizabeth.  We're both a little worn, and God knows we've got reason to be; let's just- let's just keep moving, alright?"

But Elizabeth's left leg was beginning to give out, and she collapsed to the floor for -- well, Booker had lost count by now.  He helped her move over to one of the empty booths and sat her down next to him.  She wavered back and forth a bit before settling her head on Booker's shoulder, her eyelids slowly closing.

"...You will take me to Paris, right?"

"Yeah... we'll be on that airship in no time."

She moved her hand on top of his.

"And we'll get to see the tower?"

"The tower."

"Hmm..."

Booker spotted her thimble, lying just under the table.  He picked it up and gently placed it on her pinky stub.

"...I meant it about your backside, you know."

"Elizabeth," began Booker, worried he'd have to talk her down again, but she was already asleep.  One hand around Elizabeth, one on his pistol, he kept an eye on the door.  The man in New York could wait a few.