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“Well…” She starts, popping a hip and smirking at him. In the shadows, she could almost make out a faint smile on his face. “I did say you were my muse.”
“Not that I know what the hell a muse does,” he scoffed, scratching the back of his head absently. “But sounds like you’ve got an idea.”
“You can be there with me, Booker, but simply to watch from a distance. Monitor him.” She folded her arms, the smirk falling. This was business… The family business, as it were. “If he has an association with Ryan and Fontaine, we need to know. For the girls.”
The door opened, casting light on them both. Elizabeth lowered her arms, letting her eyes adjust to see Tenenbaum waiting with a little girl beside her.
“They’re back,” she shouted, feet slapping on the ground and her thin ponytail trailing behind as she ran further into the shelter… Presumedly to tell the other kids.
Booker walked through, nodding to Tenenbaum as he passed.
“Doctor,” he acknowledged, turning to Elizabeth as she followed after him. Tenenbaum shut the door behind them as he spoke. “Stealth isn’t my strong suit, but…” He stopped, facing her completely and drawing himself up. “Guess you could say I owe you.”
They stood beside a line of dingy beds, all being certainly too small for Booker and Jack to sleep comfortably. But it was something, and they’d both had worse… The hopeful eyes of a teddy bear stared up at them from beneath one of the frames, waiting.
She put a hand on his shoulder, a bittersweet smile never quite reaching her eyes… Even she could tell that without seeing her own face. “You do, Booker. But… I appreciate this.”
“So glad you survived,” Tenenbaum announced herself, striding beyond them to an end table and burying a set of keys into her pocket.
“But you two look like garbage, and let me guess… You’re planning to go out again, yes?” Her accent weighted every syllable, bearing down even harder on consonants. From that same pocket, she drew a cigarette and lighter.
Positioning the cigarette between two fingers on her right hand, she looked at them like specimens under a microscope. “And just when were you planning to tell me about this?”
– – –
What do you want to do, Elizabeth?
– – –
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Quillful 
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