Author's note: Hello everyone! I'm just some author trying my hand at some Bioshock fanfiction. This is AU; Booker is not related to Elizabeth, just so you know. This first chapter is rather boring, but if it takes off things will only get better. Thank you, and please review/fave!

Despite being right in the bustling afternoon of Paris, Elizabeth was practically deaf to the surrounding chaos of the metropolis around her. The mixture of the constant clacking of hooves upon the streets, the occasional sputtering of automobiles, and the ever-present voices of the dozens upon dozens of passersby failed utterly to deter the young woman's fine focus, which was directed completely upon the book she held in her hands.

In addition to the text her eyes were locked upon, more books lay at her side in a stack, which sat as firmly upon the stone of the library steps as she was. Elizabeth had taken them from their shelves mere minutes ago, and had immediately set to devouring the contents of each work. Such was her ravenous appetite for literature that the difference in language did nothing to impede her reading.

True, the writings were in French, which the scholarship she had earned from her long years in the tower had given her only a basic understanding of, but that only made it all the more rewarding when she found the fables coming to life before her, in this foreign language which she felt she had not seen enough of in her lifetime.

For from even the tiniest bit of imagery or the minutest example of characterization grew countless branches upon which her lively imagination traveled, and at the end of each branch there was a fantastic world formed from the infinite possibilities the wondrous, yet mysterious literature yielded to her; from each and every book she forged her own tales.

While the stories she conjured were completely different from the stories actually being told in the text, the young woman felt no hesitation in her practice whatsoever, an attitude she held toward most things these recent days. After all, she had already spent the better part of her two decades in imprisonment, and at last those days had gone.

Now there were no more cages; no peering eyes watched her every movement, or followed her with her every step. She felt she could go anywhere she wanted, whenever she wanted, and with Columbia and its dangers so far behind there was nothing that could stop her. It didn't matter to her that only a few months had passed since it had all ended, because it already seemed to her that several idyllic lifetimes had come and gone, and all the gilded darkness of her painful past years had long since faded into nothingness. Her fears were long gone, replaced by the seeds of a new life that she could not wait to experience, and that she already loved.

Of course, none of this would have been possible without Booker, who she awaited now at the foot of the staircase. Realizing that at any moment now he would emerge from the set of doors behind her, Elizabeth quickly returned the book to the stack beside her, and then reached for the small pile as she rose.

As if on cue, the doors opened then, and in their place was Booker, who stood holding a stack of books several times larger than the one Elizabeth gripped, alongside a bespectacled old man in a flannel suit, who Elizabeth recognized as one of the library's clerks.

The man was holding the door open for Booker, whose full arms deprived him of the ability to do so. Booker's face was somewhat reddened and dampened with sweat from the effort of holding the books, all of which were thick with both pages and knowledge that Elizabeth simply could not wait to pore over once she and Booker had returned home.

After all, all of the books were meant for her eyes, and the mixed expression of exhaustion and exasperation that Booker wore as he descended the steps towards her filled her with equal measures of amusement and sympathy. The tower of books he held was so tall that it obstructed his vision, and so Elizabeth watched him carefully, in fear he would fall.

"Merci, monsieur!" Elizabeth called to the clerk, who nodded at the young woman before casting a worried look in Booker's direction and gently shutting the door. Booker, meanwhile, took a moment to catch his breath at the foot of the stairs, panting slightly. His rolled-up sleeves showed the straining muscles of his forearms that were supporting the pillar composed of Elizabeth's books.

Elizabeth's eyes lit up at the sight of the plethora of knowledge that Booker carried, and she went to him, eager to express her gratitude for his assistance, "Oh, thank you SO much, Booker! It's not too heavy, is it?"

"Eh, it's a bit heavier, but not too bad," Booker lied, as he shifted slightly on his feet to better support the extra weight he was carrying. He silently hoped that this new bunch of books would sate Elizabeth's thirst for knowledge for longer than a week, which usually was not the case, but regardless he wished to be shut of the task as soon as possible. "Uh, let's go?"

"Indeed, let's!" agreed Elizabeth, and the pair set off down the street. Above them the Eiffel Tower loomed, ever watchful, and ever eager to stand against the slowly setting sun. It was the middle of June, and the heat of summer held sway over the romantic city, where it was wont to ignite passions, or alternately, tempers. In the case of Booker and Elizabeth, these two extremes were demonstrated perfectly between the surly-looking older man and the spirited young woman.

While Booker's mouth was set in a frown, his brow was furrowed, and an air of roguishness was very much about him, Elizabeth looked to be the very picture of grace; her light blue day dress moved fluidly with her lithe body as she walked with Booker, whose plain white shirt and pin striped trousers clashed greatly with her dainty attire.

And as Elizabeth walked there was an occasional skip and hop to her gait. She hummed quietly, but cheerfully, and her full lips were shaped into a smile that was more radiant than the sun in the heavens above. Elizabeth was clearly content, which Booker could not help but comment on.

"Well, you're happy today," he said, a note of amusement clear in his voice. Even with the weight upon his arms, Elizabeth's exuberance took its toll on him.

She gave a melodious laugh in response, and her smile turned into a grin. "Of course I am! How could I not be?" She spun on her heel, clutching her books tight in the crook of her right arm as she gestured to the world around her with her left.

"The sun is shining, the sky is clear, the birds are singing away…" she listed, speaking softly with stars in her blue eyes. "And most importantly, we're here! In Paris!"

"We've been here for almost two months now," Booker pointed out, but he then smirked knowingly. "But let me guess: its magic hasn't ended for you, huh?"

"Precisely!" exclaimed Elizabeth, nodding fervently at Booker. "I still can't believe that we made it here! Every corner of it is simply so breathtakingly beautiful, and there's… oh, there's so much to see!"

At this, Booker chuckled. "You said more or less the same thing the week we got here."

"But it's true! Oh, sometimes I wish I could stay awake forever, just so I could walk every corner of Paris without tiring," she said dreamily, once again glancing around to take the sights of the city in.

"Heh, hell of a wish," Booker mumbled, but Elizabeth did not reply. Her mind was abuzz with thoughts as she took in the sights around her for the umpteenth time since her life here began. Again, they were as new to her as a drink of cold water to a thirsty man, and again she took them in, eager to appreciate them, to love them. Here was the land she had fantasized for so long about, and here she was, the blackness that was Columbia now far behind her and Booker.

The two had talked very rarely about that cage in the sky since they escaped it, and indeed they seldom even thought about all that had transpired there, now that they finally had something resembling a normal life. The many mysteries that still dwelled in the sky would remain there undiscovered forever, for all Booker and Elizabeth cared.

Conversation had ceased between the two, but as Elizabeth walked she gave a sidelong glance at Booker. He stood tall, and the orange sunlight illuminated his green eyes and highlighted his rugged features.

His years certainly showed; his face bore creases and wrinkles, and Elizabeth noted how the frown that he bore so frequently fit him so well, a product of regrets and hardships in the man's life of which Elizabeth had seen phantoms, but never glimpsed the truth of. Indeed, there was much about Booker that she did not know, for even these days he refrained from telling her of his history, which she knew already to be bleak.

While Columbia now lay in the past, Elizabeth's life was not without adventure even in this peace, for there was still Booker; the man who had pulled her from her prison in the sky; the man who had braved fire and water for her sake; the man who had forsaken his debt in favor of her freedom.

She smiled warmly at him, and she was just as oblivious to her doing so as he was. Booker was a hero with painful secrets, and Elizabeth knew that as he had saved her, she would now work to save him, even if he kept his tongue under lock and key like he was always so inclined to do. It would take time, of course, but she had an abundance of that in this new life, at least for now.

Then, his green eyes met her blue ones, and reflexively Elizabeth directed her stare away from him. She turned to look across the street, where she found sudden in interest in watching a group of children frolic about in a park filled with blooming summer flowers, of all shades and hues.

"Something wrong?" Booker asked flatly.

"No," Elizabeth mumbled, and she berated herself for staring. After all, it was an impolite thing to do, and the man certainly deserved more than respect at this point.

"Suit yourself, then, but we're here," Booker said dismissively, and indeed, they had reached their destination; amidst the other handsome brick buildings that towered over the street, their place of residence stood before them. It was a modest apartment building, standing no more than three stories tall, and otherwise unremarkable.

However, it was certainly hospitable, and Elizabeth had long since regarded fact that Columbia had provided them a good deal of wealth as one of the very few benefits the city had brought to them; as it turned out, silver eagles were not worth anything in Paris, but silver and gold definitely was. Pawning all of it had been quite a challenge at first, but the result was a fortune in francs which had seen them through since their arrival to here.

"Not bad, huh? I mean, it's more than I ever had back in New York," Booker said, sighing. "And we wouldn't have it if we hadn't scrounged up all that money in Columbia."

"So, I suppose all the coins I tossed were quite a help, then?" Elizabeth piped up, remembering all the countless times she had supplied Booker with funds. He had certainly proven the efficiency of his reflexes then, as he had somehow never failed to catch a single coin.

"You could say that," Booker conceded. "Uh, open the door for me, would you?"

"Oh, of course," said Elizabeth, pushing the door open and then holding it from closing as Booker stepped through. The two found themselves in the darkened stairwell of the building, which was rather well-kept aside from the smell of aged oak that permeated the air.

While they only had two flights of stairs to ascend, the sight of the steps suddenly reminded Booker of how exhausted he was from his burdening task. His shirt was stained with sweat, and his breathing was labored. Still, without complain he braved the stairs, without a word to Elizabeth.

At the top of the final flight the two finally reached the door of their home, which stood locked securely. Elizabeth turned to Booker as she produced the key from a pocket on her breast, and fit it into the steel lock.

"Well, we're home," she said cheerfully, hoping Booker had not pushed himself too far to do her this favor. "Are you alright?"

Booker's arms were trembling, and his face was rather flushed. He replied with shortened breath. "Well, it's getting heavy right about now..."

Nodding, Elizabeth turned the key and pulled open the door. Booker stumbled past her and into their apartment's living room, the tower of books beginning to quake as the strength of the man holding them began to fail. Booker went to the dining table that sat in the middle of the room, where he set the books down with a great thud.

"Finally! Agh, that bites…" Booker groaned, the repercussions of his struggle now hitting him in full. He winced slightly as he flexed his arms, which Elizabeth guessed felt rather sore at this point.

Frowning in concern, she made a note to herself to refrain from troubling him to assist her with such a task in the near future. She smiled apologetically as she went to him, hoping he wasn't too affronted by the experience. She pulled a chair out from beneath the table, upon which Booker wearily sat.

"I'm sorry Booker. It's rather painful, isn't it?"

In response he chuckled, which somewhat surprised her. "Not really. C'mon, this is nothing compared to what I've dealt with before. I think we both know that."

Elizabeth gave him a knowing look and nodded. He was certainly right; for countless times she had witnessed him take injury in Columbia, from all manners of harm. In fact, she clearly remembered bludgeoning him with a wrench once, but that was a memory she didn't much like recollecting. It had been one of the more unpleasant ones of their chaotic time in that city.

"So, you're alright?" Elizabeth asked, though she knew the answer before he replied; Booker DeWitt was a tough man after all, one who overcame the most difficult of challenges without hesitation.

"I'll be fine. Just let me sit here for a spell," he said, obviously in need of a good rest.

"Absolutely! You've certainly earned that!" Elizabeth said, and she grinned as she looked at the stack of knowledge that lay before her, on the tabletop. "Oh, all these books! It's been such a while since I last read through Les Misérables! I've half a mind to just dig into it right this minute. You also brought Notre-Dame de Paris out, right? My, I've not read it yet but I've heard it's an outstandingly compelling tragedy! Oh, thank you so much, Booker!"

"Hey, don't mention it. What are friends for, right?" he said, giving Elizabeth a tired smile, and then he stood and walked off towards the door that led to his room, rubbing his shoulder as he went, and completely unaware that he had just struck a chord. "I'm real snuffed… I'm taking a nap. Have fun reading."

"I-I will," she answered, as Booker entered his room, and then shut the door behind him. Elizabeth gazed at the closed door, and then looked around the room. It was brightly lit; a large window was set into the wall opposite the entryway of the apartment, which was not very spacious, but certainly very homely. The window was open to the world of Paris, which was descending into late afternoon.

A heater sat in the corner of the room, untouched on account of it being summer, and a breeze pushed open the flimsy cover of one of the books that sat atop the dining table. Elizabeth was too deep in thought to read, however, and paid it no mind.

Instead, she looked to the corner opposite of the heater, where a simple couch sat beside an end table that bore a jar containing a single red rose. Sighing, Elizabeth walked over to it, and took the rose from its glass home.

She sat down on the couch, absentmindedly twirling the rose between her fingertips. It was somewhat wilted, but its lovely scent still remained, and Elizabeth breathed it in deeply, indulging in it as the thorns on the rose's stem pricked gently at her.

This was the first time since she and Booker had met that he had ever referred to her as a friend. Elizabeth felt honored that a man who had endured so many hardships as him would see her as a friend. When did he begin to see her as a friend, she wondered? Was it after she had saved him from death at the hands of a Handyman at the Finkton Docks? Was it after all those countless bits of money and ammunition had been tossed to him? Was it during Columbia, or after, once the two escaped on The First Lady to Paris?

But then why would he not confide in her? The ghost of guilt haunted him, and it was more obvious to Elizabeth than ever now that he no longer had anyone to fight. There was pain in Booker's emerald eyes; regrets and loneliness that he would speak nothing of to her besides all she already knew, which was the name "Anna".

A light breeze blew in from the open window, and the curtains rose about the room like the wings of angels. Elizabeth blushed as she continued to twirl the rose about, and she thought about the fine man that slept away within the confines of his room, and she wondered if she would ever manage to muster enough courage to tell him her feelings.

"Booker," she whispered to the empty room, though part of her really wished he could hear her. "Do you think we can be more than friends?"