It's a small bit of comfort, knowing he's here with her. Knowing he was close to Booker, too, that he feels the pain of that loss alongside her. He's lost people, too. People close to him, over and over again. And it's not until now she's born the brunt of just how much that hurts.
Would it help, if they had any sort of answers? If they knew for sure that their loved ones had gone back to their own world, back to the home they'd known? Or would it just hurt all that much more, knowing whatever they'd built together here and in the last place had been wiped clean for them?
He'd chosen to stay. Between this place and Deerington, Booker hadn't chosen home. She should've brought him with her. Should've brought him to Starling, should've bought just a little more time with him. That's the thing about loss. The bargaining, the what-ifs, the should-haves just keep you spiraling on and on until you're not quite sure which way is up.
She doesn't realize he's crying too until she finally looks up at him, at the loss written on his own features, at the pain reflected there. She reaches up to wipe at his cheeks, a small gesture, something warm that she needs more than he might.
She wants to say no. That she's not hungry, that there's nothing much she can stomach right now. But she's all out of fight, and all she can do is give him a short nod, a tremble of a breath in her lungs as she gets to her feet.
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Would it help, if they had any sort of answers? If they knew for sure that their loved ones had gone back to their own world, back to the home they'd known? Or would it just hurt all that much more, knowing whatever they'd built together here and in the last place had been wiped clean for them?
He'd chosen to stay. Between this place and Deerington, Booker hadn't chosen home. She should've brought him with her. Should've brought him to Starling, should've bought just a little more time with him. That's the thing about loss. The bargaining, the what-ifs, the should-haves just keep you spiraling on and on until you're not quite sure which way is up.
She doesn't realize he's crying too until she finally looks up at him, at the loss written on his own features, at the pain reflected there. She reaches up to wipe at his cheeks, a small gesture, something warm that she needs more than he might.
She wants to say no. That she's not hungry, that there's nothing much she can stomach right now. But she's all out of fight, and all she can do is give him a short nod, a tremble of a breath in her lungs as she gets to her feet.