A/N: This story will ultimately acknowledge Booker and Elizabeth's canon relationship. I recognize that that makes some folks uncomfortable, so please be advised!

DECEMBER 23rd, 1912, SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC

Neither of them was at the console when it happened, and so while she knew there was a radius, she couldn't have said how wide it was. She could guess, based on their average rate of speed and the duration of their flight, but that wasn't quite the same as knowing for certain.

Although Songbird obeyed the whistle, he was ever drawn to her. They kept having to repeat the notes, reasserting control. But then, suddenly, he jerked and tumbled back. He flapped his wings, bobbing in midair; his head twitched and his eyes cycled from yellow to red, yellow to red, yellow to red, and he lurched forward and screeched, and his limbs and joints shed sparks. Beak reaching skywards, he lost altitude, spiraled, caught himself. He cocked his head toward the ship in what might have been longing, then reeled, turned, and flew off in the direction of Columbia.

She walked to the railing and watched him go, knuckles turning white.

"I feel…empty."

Booker was silent.

"Shouldn't I be happy? This is what I wanted, isn't it?"

She heard his footfalls, slow and heavy, and then felt the heat of his body, only inches from her own. "A lot's happened to you. It's gonna take time, to…"

"…what? Learn to live with it?"

"Um…yeah." His voice was soft, quiet.

She turned to face him. "How long did it take you?"

He looked at her, and his body shifted, and his eyes darkened. "Still working on it."

...

JULY 6TH, 1914, BOSTON

...oh my God.

She sat on a bench, waiting, the Daily Globe folded across her lap. It was the seventh day in a row she'd bought a copy, after over a year of getting her news for free.

In the early days, she'd been fascinated by newspapers. They were filled with conflicting opinions and contrary viewpoints and, compared to what had been available in Columbia, complete intellectual anarchy. It had been thrilling. She'd spent ungodly sums of coin scooping up every French daily she could find, and Booker had been annoyed, and she'd dared him to stop her, and there was, of course, nothing he could do. But she'd met her match in time and experience. As the months had passed, she'd come to see the wisdom in his way, in picking up information from the shops and bars and streets, in lifting "used" copies of important editions. Why waste money on news when it was so easy to get it through other means? There was no sense in it.

But then, the Austrian prince had been assassinated. In the days since, the price of a paper hadn't seemed so steep.

She skimmed through the previous day's events and marveled at them. Germany had offered to back Austria-Hungary against Russia. The Entente was bristling. The Globe was speculating, as it had been for a week, on the potential for imminent disaster. And all she could think about was Booker's nose for blood. He saw it. He actually saw it, the damnable man.

"That elan and Alsace-Lorraine talk, and that shit on the border... I got a bad feeling, is all I'm saying. Something's gonna happen, and being as it ain't our fight, I'd just assume not be here when it does." He'd been leaning against the window of their small set of rooms, slipping a cigarette past his lips and offering her the pack. She'd taken one and rolled her eyes.

"It's all just that: talk. They'll never attack Germany."

Smoke curled around his head. "Who says they're gonna be the ones doing the attacking?"

They'd left France during the second week in May and England during the third, his body vibrating with tension, his restlessness robbing her of sleep. It had burned her, agreeing to leave on a hunch. It burned her almost as badly that he was being proven right. She'd liked Paris, even if it hadn't been as romantic as she'd thought it would be, and although it certainly smelled better, Boston couldn't quite capture its charm. A part of her had hoped that they'd eventually go back, but there was no way that would happen, now. She'd been through one war, and that had been enough.

Her gaze shifted from the paper to the street, pulled by the screech and hiss of a stopping streetcar. A quarter hour ago, a man had taken a seat on the opposite end of her bench, tried to talk to her; she'd politely put him off. He caught her attention again, smiled, tipped his hat as he rose.

"Good day, miss!" She caught the faint hint of an accent. It hadn't shown through, when he'd first spoken to her.

She watched as the car disgorged its previous load of passengers, as the man entered the stream of waiting fares, as they all climbed aboard, one by one, patient and orderly. Her mind sang a familiar litany: where was he from? Had he been trying to hide his accent? How much money did he have? His suit wasn't cut from the finest cloth, but it was well-tailored. He was getting on the line to Charlestown; what business did he have there? Had that been ink on his fingers? A clerk, perhaps. Had he come from the state or court house? Had he sat next to her because...

She closed her eyes. Stop it, Elizabeth. It was an attempt at distraction, she knew, but...God, working with Booker had warped her. Everyone was either suspicious or pitiable, a series of points, boxes on a checklist - a mark or a victim, a thief or a killer. He'd tried to turn down her help, when he'd first fallen back into investigative work, tried to "protect" her in the way he was always failing to do. Sometimes, she wished she had just let him.

Then again, given what she'd done and been through, there might not have been any help for her, anyway.

He appeared when the streetcar had driven off, on the opposite side of the street, weaving through traffic and the midday crowd. Frowning, shoulders set, body coiled. He wasn't taking it well, the move. She'd seen him eyeing the gaming parlors and wondered how much longer she'd be able to keep him out of them, how much longer she'd be able to keep him from looking for more...brutal work.

"Any luck?" she asked when he reached her. She stood, smoothed her skirts.

He pulled a handful of papers, neatly folded, from his vest pocket. "Got a few that need serving." He sighed. "Jesus, I hate subpoenas. Don't even know where half these streets are."

"Well, they pay, and it's all we're getting right now." She tucked the Globe under her arm and took the summonses from him, glanced over each one, lingered on the third. "I think I know where this is."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Past the garden."

"Lead the way, then." He clicked his tongue. "Starting to think it oughtta be your name on the door."

"Just starting?" She arched an eyebrow at him. He let out a low chuckle, slid his hand over her lower back, squeezed her side and, for just a moment, pulled her against him. Then, they bounced apart, stepping outward, falling back into socially acceptable orbit. Another man might hold out his arm to her, but that wasn't his style, and in any case, they were supposed to be playing the part of partners.

They turned down Beacon Street, and this close to the Hill, it was impossible not to notice the clusters of well-to-do and "important" people. Private automobiles shared space with waiting carriages. Women wearing the height of fashion, boasting feathered hats and Gibson waists, chatted with men in custom suits and shining loafers. A few of them cast disapproving glances in her and Booker's direction.

Yes, yes, we don't "belong" here. God forbid we sully your day with our presence.

"So," he said as they passed the state house, "what's with the newspaper?"

Oh God. She adjusted the paper, clutched it more tightly. "I don't know if you've noticed, Booker, but Europe is on the verge of going up in flames."

"Course it is. Wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

She pressed her fingers to her temple. He was infuriating. "If there was ever a time to make sure we're informed..."

"...it ain't when this is the only work we can get."

"We haven't been here that long. We'll get something soon enough."

"I dunno. Pinkerton and Burns ain't giving me too much hope." They'd had luck, in Paris, offering asset and loss protection to a shop or three; here, every shop they'd called upon already had a sign in its window, and every sign bore the name of either Booker's former employer or William J. Burns. They'd had to contend with Burns' agency in Paris, too, but it hadn't had quite the reach.

Boston Common sprawled out to their left, all manicured lawn and history. "We just have to give it some time. We've got that advertisement out, and..."

The air, already chillier than it should have been, went even colder. She caught a flash of light and smelled something raw and acidic; smoke, harsh, rancid. The tips of her fingers burned. There were sparks on them. There were sparks all over her body.

She turned her head. She had done less with her power, as time had gone on. She had gotten what she'd wanted, and even though it hadn't always been easy, it had been rare that she'd longed for escape the way she'd longed while in Columbia. There was a use for tears. She'd shred the fabric of reality, and gladly, if the situation called for it. But she wasn't constantly wishing, constantly searching, constantly at the ready the way she once had been, and so she had started seeing and feeling only what was already there rather than what she wanted.

This was something different.

It was a tear, but it was... There was a man, on a corner, at the intersection of Beacon and some other street, and he was...everything. All things. He had choices before him, as all people did, and somehow she could see every single choice, and every single consequence, and every single end. There was a woman in his life. He married her, they had three children, and each one of those children made them so proud, and they were happy. But she died young. And then she outlived him. And then one of their children died, stillborn, but then he didn't take that job, and she didn't agree to marry him, but he took it and she still refused, and he gave up and died syphilitic, but he found someone else, and he loved her more than he would have loved the first, and they only had one child but what a woman she became, and...

"...Elizabeth?"

The web shattered, and the sensation of her vision narrowing, her mind closing back around the present, made her lose her footing. Booker grabbed at her, held her upright. She looked up at him and wondered why the light hurt her eyes.

"You okay?"

She sucked in a breath. What the hell was that? "Yes, I..." She placed a palm on his chest and used him to steady herself. "I just saw a tear."

"A tear?" he asked, tone flat, disbelieving.

"It was strange. It was...as if one tear were many, and I was seeing them all at once." She pulled away from him. "I'm fine, though."

He stared at her, his jaw working. She knew what he wanted to say. He'd tried it and failed enough in the time they'd known each other that she also knew he wasn't going to bother. "Ah, um...okay."

They started walking again, and she tried not to worry about the fact that her spine was tingling, and that she didn't want to talk to him.

...

She'd developed a taste for whisky, despite the preference of the French for other types of alcohol, and tonight, she'd needed it. Booker was a terrible influence.

They'd managed to serve half the subpoenas he'd picked up, and they'd gotten paid for them. It wasn't the fattest wage, but it was enough to carry them through the next few days and have enough left over to spare for a bottle. So, they drank and flirted, the way they always did.

Who might she have been, if it hadn't been for him or Comstock? What might she be doing? She knew that she was smart, but as far as she could tell, intelligence could only take a person so far. It was mitigated by so many other factors, and the fact that she was a woman just happened to be one of them.

The world wasn't very clean. She'd picked up on the wrong things, when she'd first read 'Les Miserables.'

"I'm gonna go to bed. You coming, or what?"

She felt off. Since that moment, when what should have been a simple tear had shattered into a kaleidoscope, everything had felt slightly askew. It was why she had a drink in her hand. It was why she hesitated.

She tipped back the glass. Stop being ridiculous. "Sure."

She followed him into the bedroom. His kiss was familiar, comforting. She ran her hands over his shoulders and back, through hair that was growing ever more grey, over muscles that were changing in shape. She still wanted him, with the same fervor that had gripped her a year and a half ago, no matter what changes had taken place, no matter what had passed between them. When he touched her, her body still ached with need.

She'd stripped him of his outer shirts and he was hooking his fingers under the straps of her soutien gorge when the knock came. They froze, stricken. There was a long pause.

"Nothin'," he muttered, bending his head to kiss her neck.

It came again.

"Goddammit."

He put his clothes back on like they were hateful things. He was through the door and out into the main room before she could secure her blouse and step back into her skirt, and she listened, frustrated, as he greeted their late night guest.

A man's voice. "Hello, uh...saw your advertisement, and..."

"...and?"

Her mind was all a fog, so much so that she had trouble doing up her buttons. Drunk and aroused. Perfect time for them to get their first potential client.

"Sorry for calling so late."

"It's fine. Just state your business."

When she entered the main room, the man's eyes slid off of Booker and swept over her, brows drawing close. He was stocky and short for a man, about her height, and he gripped a derby between his hands, worrying the brim.

"Evening, ma'am."

She looked at Booker, then back at him. "As he said, please state your business."

The man's gaze drifted downward. His chest rose, slowly, then fell. "There's someone I need you to follow."

"Yes? Who?"

He closed his eyes. "My wife."

She sighed and covered her face with her palm. Oh, great.