The Lost Love Above | Elizabeth x (m) Reader!

Into Heaven.

The sky above is a color of slate gray. This form of overcast wasn't anything particularly new for this time of year, nor was the rain that came with it. However, the mood was changing, it was once bright and optimistic, but now it was gloomy and realistic.

A figure stands behind an open window, over watching the city below as it becomes rain covered. Small pellets of rain sky drop in, occasionally hitting the figure as it blows clouds of smoke out from a cigarette; the nicotine fix settles the mind and hits in smooth waves over the nerves. Eventually, however, the cigarette between the figure's mouth is burnt all the way to the filter, and all that is left to do is to smudge the stem and move away from the window. And it just does that.

With the cigarette burned to a stump and the nicotine in the nerve system, the figure pushes and goes over to a suitcase. The suitcase's contents are sprawled out without order; the chaos spread through the bed is relatable to the figure's situation. Everything needed was there, but it was all in dismay. Unfortunately, the fix for the real-world issues couldn't be fixed with simple folds, and it would take much more time.

...

....

"Alright, Booker..." I mumble to myself. "Where'd you go off now?"

As if in response to my question, the door to the motel room opens and Booker DeWitt comes in. His coat and hat are wet with rain, but a dry man is discovered beneath when they are discarded.

Booker DeWitt regards me after hanging his coat and hat. "How's the unpacking, [Y/N]?"

I am a son of a veteran of the Boxer Rebellion. My dad often scrutinized me if my room wasn't organized and clean. My father often made it seem like his original quartermaster from his regiment was visiting to ensure every aspect of the house was "army proper." Despite that, however, after eyeing the mess below me, I sighed and wondered if any of that early military training stayed behind when I departed my parents to live on my own. "It's going great, boss." I lied.

"Well," Booker advances and cranes his neck. "Forget that for now. We're going to the docks now, right now. For the contract, we came to Maine for."

"We're PI's, DeWitt. These contracts are cases."

Ignoring the remark, Booker lights a cigarette and blows out the smoke. "We're leaving soon as soon as you can."

Hearing this causes me to sigh. I had packed my pistol somewhere in the mess of undershirts and underwear. My fingers danced around the suitcase, flinging out pieces of clothes. "You finally going to tell me why we went all the out here?"

"I'll explain more on the way. These walls have ears, and I'd like to keep the finer details to ourselves."

"Jeez, should I be worried? What've you got us roped into?" I threw some clothes aside and found my pistol. Working in DeWitt Investigations, weapons were often needed. The C96 or "broom handle" was a popular choice by this time, but it still had its limitations nonetheless. This particular pistol had seen a lot of action in the last two years, working as Booker's partner.

Booker DeWitt was deep in debt but deeper in depression. Using my own detective skills, I deduced this was the reason behind the acceptance of questionable "contracts" that often didn't require true investigating, just hired help as extra muscle, couriers, or other shady deals that were questionably legal.

Once packed, we hit the streets side by side.

"So," I begin. "What's this about? Explain it to me."

"Before that," Booker says. "You have my back, don't you?"

"Of course. We're partners." I reply.

"You're aware of the debt I owe people?"

"Aware of it. I don't know how much, but–"