Stained [Booker DeWitt one-shot?]

I sit in silence, hands folded in my lap, biting my lip to keep from crying out.  The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.  Did I bite my lip too hard?  No.  No, that's my nose.  I think it's broken.  Who knows?  But still, I don't make a sound, as tears, burning and blinding, pool in my eyes.  My gaze remains straight ahead of me, even as the huge man once again bends down to eye-level, spitting, "Don't cry, you worthless bitch.  Talk!  Tell us what you know!"  His fist connects with my lip.  Now it's bleeding.

He pulls his arm back again, about to strike, when a loud bang reverberates through the room.  He turns his head just in time to see a fist connect with his face.  I might laugh, if the situation weren't so dire.  This new man, larger than the last, kneels down on one knee and unties the rope that binds my hands together, then the one for my feet.  He doesn't speak a word.  I, for one, need answers though.

"I am assuming you are a friend?"  He glances up as he finishes untying my feet.  He then stands, offering me a hand up.  I take it, and he says, "You could say that.  I am Booker DeWitt.  I'm going to get you out of here."

"Where is here, exactly, Mr. DeWitt?"

"Not sure.  I was sent to get you and this is where I ended up.  It appears I'm a bit late, though."  He eyes me up and down - tattered dress, hair falling out of a loose braid, split lip and bruised, bleeding nose.  

His eyes soften, and he tells me, "Once we find a safer place, I can clean you up.  This particular area isn't exactly secu--"  Before he can even finish his sentence, two men burst in with guns in their hands.

Booker holds his hands up slightly, saying, "Don't be hasty.  Just let me take the girl, and nobody gets hurt."

Practically ignoring him, they shout, "Don't attempt to run, DeWitt!"  Their voices hold a tinge of nervousness.  Booker rolls his blue eyes and calmly says, "Now why would I try to run… When I could just as easily walk?"  And with that, he pulls a pistol out of his waistband and shoots them both in the head as if it's nothing.  They fall, blood trickling out of the bullet-holes, but when their bodies hit the floor, Mr. DeWitt winces.

"I really didn't want to do that," he mutters, before searching their pockets for money and other such things.  Once they're clean of all things deemed valuable by the brunette man, he motions for me to follow.  

"Why ever not, Mr. DeWitt?  This is your job, is it not?"  I ask as he leads me down a long hallway.  Nearly at the end of it, he pushes open a set of double doors, and shoves a large gun that was laying on the floor through the handles, effectively locking them.

"To answer your question:  It's very, very complicated.  I'm not going to try to explain it to you - at least not now.  Basically, I've screwed up in my lifetimes, and I wanted to set it all right.  It seems as though I've no luck with being the good guy, unfortunately.  This is my job, but I'd rather not kill.  Will you sit down now?"  I sink to the dirt floor, splaying my skirts around me.

As he pulls a small pouch out of his breast pocket, I wonder aloud, "How do you figure?"  He pauses for a moment.

"Huh?"  Kneeling down before me, eyes trained on mine, he pulls a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the pouch and uncaps it.  Then, a fairly clean handkerchief is pulled out of a pocket, and the alcohol is poured onto it.  He reaches towards me and I flinch, but he pats my hand awkwardly and says, "This'll only sting a bit."

"I'm well aware how bad it will sting, Mr. DeWitt.  Please, just do it."

"You can call me Booker, you know."  And without further ado, he dabs at my split lip.  It burns, but quite honestly could be worse.  He then makes for my nose.  I do nothing to stop him, but clench my fists and screw my eyes shut.  Oh, how it burns.  Hurts like hell, really.  Yet again I find myself tearing up, and frustrated, I wipe my eyes dry with the backs of my hands.  Then, it's back to this man who sits back on his heels, keeping me under a watchful gaze.

"I don't know about you, Booker DeWitt," I finally respond," but I figure that a man who endangers his life to save some contained girl - despite the odds and apparently luck set against him - and takes the time to dress her wounds with his own medicine that will most likely be wasted on her anyhow, can't be all that bad of a man."  Booker grins and stands, bows slightly, and holds out his hand as a sincere, "Thank you kindly, miss," escapes his lips.  My eyes glance at his rough hand - surely stained with blood and sin - then back at his face - lost and confused, but confident.  I take it.