Bioshock Series oneshots

Unbelievably Stubborn Booker DeWitt/ reader

[A/N: I'm back from the dead lmao]

If you're being honest with yourself (and you swear you always are). You would openly admit that Booker DeWitt is the most stubborn and contrary man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

If you offered to bandage him up after a particularly rough fight he would only respond with something similar to, "I can take care of myself."

And then proceed to patch up his wounds in the most unorganized way that, had the situation not be dire, you might have laughed.

However, the situations concerning Mr. Dewitt are always dire. Never a dull moment.

And never an instance where he lets you help him.

You aren't sure why; perhaps it has something to do with his past, a thing he absolutely refuses to open up about. Or, perhaps he is simply wired that way.

Again, you weren't sure, but you knew better then to pry him, in fear of him yelling at you or muttering something unsavory under his breath.

Surprisingly, the instances when he's at death's door, are when he is the most stubborn, and your half convinced that, at this point, the stubbornness would be endearing if he picked different things to be stubborn about.

"Mr. Dewitt," you breathed out, watching as he tried desperately to get the white wraps of bandage to stick around his bicep.

He granted you a small groan followed by, "I can do this myself."

"Certainly Mr. Dewitt," you started, not wanting to poke at him, but want to push just a little, "but I can guarantee I can do it better."

He stopped.

The bandages slowly slipping off his bicep to reveal a deep red gash, the blood dripping out and painting the clean material in a nice shade of maroon.

"Excuse me," he spat, the tone in his voice made your confidence waver for a moment, but you knew you needed to stand your ground.

You knew that if you let him push you around, then the guilt that followed you would only deepen.

Truly, you just wanted to help him, and everytime he refused your aid it brought a tremendous weight upon your chest.

"You heard me," you continued, "it's my job, it's the whole reason I'm here I-"

"Drop it."

"No I don't-"

"I said, drop it."

The silence that followed was suffocating, and the weight on your chest didn't help.

The finality in his voice broke your spirit, and the way his hand shook as he tried to bandage his arm made your heart break.

You slumped onto the floor, letting out a quiet sigh.

To your right you heard a sigh mimic your own.

"Look," Booker let out, holding onto the bandage so it wouldn't slip again, "I know it's your job, and I'm sure you're great at it . . . but I don't want my burdens to become yours. You're too good for that, and . . . I don't want to drag you down with me."

You looked up at him, a look of sorrow and pain painted across his face.

"Booker," you sighed, and stood next to him, "isn't that the whole point of being partners? I want to help, I want you to share your struggles with me the way you insist I share mine. I know you won't believe me, but I think you're good too."

He was silent, the expression on his face going to a neutral state, one that you couldn't quite read.

Yet, he shifted his arm towards you, and allowed you to patch him up.

"Thank you," he sighed out, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly from your gentle touch.

"I care for you Mr. Dewitt, please let me,"

"I . . . care for you too."