[ she lays one of her hands on the arm he has raised to cradle the back of her head, her grip curling gently not to pry him off but just— wanting to hold onto this. feeling like she has to, for it to be real, because it would be so easy for her to trick herself with fake visions and if she holds on then it has to be the real Booker, it has to be. one good thing. just one good thing after they've been through in Columbia, after the things she did in Rapture, what she did to poor Sally just to see Comstock get a fitting end. (poetic justice, she could have done things so quickly but she wanted revenge and she did terrible things to make that happen so is she really any better than him, in the end—)
her eyes are stinging with tears, but she doesn't want to close them, doesn't want to take her eyes off Booker. she just blinks quickly, trying to even her breathing to keep herself from actually crying. ]
I missed you.
[ it's sincerity and it's grief, a tangled knot of love and despair caught in her throat. after a pause, though, her gaze shifts off to the side, to their surroundings, and she cringes. ]
... I wish you hadn't had to see this, though.
[ this being Paris. she feels like a silly little girl all of a sudden, uncomfortably aware of this ridiculous fantasy she's constructed for herself; this fake city where everyone knows her name, where her hair is long and she has no scar from a needle in her spine. where even now they stand in some home of extravagant architecture, with Elizabeth's favourite songs playing on a record player off to the side.
and here Booker is in the middle of it all. she isn't sure whether it makes her fantasy feel more or less believable. ]
no subject
her eyes are stinging with tears, but she doesn't want to close them, doesn't want to take her eyes off Booker. she just blinks quickly, trying to even her breathing to keep herself from actually crying. ]
I missed you.
[ it's sincerity and it's grief, a tangled knot of love and despair caught in her throat. after a pause, though, her gaze shifts off to the side, to their surroundings, and she cringes. ]
... I wish you hadn't had to see this, though.
[ this being Paris. she feels like a silly little girl all of a sudden, uncomfortably aware of this ridiculous fantasy she's constructed for herself; this fake city where everyone knows her name, where her hair is long and she has no scar from a needle in her spine. where even now they stand in some home of extravagant architecture, with Elizabeth's favourite songs playing on a record player off to the side.
and here Booker is in the middle of it all. she isn't sure whether it makes her fantasy feel more or less believable. ]