Chapter Text
Here’s the thing about Benny Watts: he doesn’t try halfway. He either succeeds on the first go – gloriously – or he tries again and gets it right the second time around.
Here’s the thing about Beth Harmon: she’s fucked that all up.
By the fourth or fifth time she beat Arthur, Hilton and himself within the span of a few minutes, it dawned on Benny that perhaps he’s just a little of out of his depth. Unlike the other men that Beth has defeated on the professional chess circuit, Benny doesn’t feel emasculated when she wallops him – honestly, it’s kinda hot - but he does feel like he’s being left behind, like he loses a few more inches of ground in their game of tug-of-war. She’s making it damn near impossible for him to regain his footing.
With every passing week, Benny has become increasingly hyperaware of the fact that their days together are numbered. He’s equally as aware of the fact that once she leaves…
Well. He would rather not think about that.
Their last week together feels like a dream. Not in the sense that it’s overwhelmingly good (though it is) - just that it doesn’t feel entirely real. There’s a lack of authenticity that marks the most poignant moments: when she wakes up in his bed, when she touches his shoulder casually to get his attention – anything that indicates how domiciliary their situation has become. It’s just too surreal to be anything but fiction, but it’s become so... ordinary, having Beth here.
As usual, it’s mostly chess – playing, reading, studying, recreating, dissecting. They’ve gone through every one of Borgov’s games: single matches, tournaments, exhibitions, whatever is publicly available. Not to mention the fact that he’s made Beth run through every mistake in her Mexico City match so many times that she could probably recite them in her sleep.
While the entirety of their combined intellect is dedicated to preparing for Paris, there have been moments – though few and far between – where Benny catches glimpses of her story, her personality, her most immutable qualities. Before they lived together, Benny knew only the information that was already public: she was orphaned, then adopted at fifteen; she’s from Lexington; she was crowned the Kentucky State Champion at her first-ever competition; she has red hair and brown eyes; she usually prefers to open with the Sicilian.
Little by little, Benny has begun to see into her past: little tidbits of information given mostly by accident or offered casually, while Beth remains entirely unaware how enormously odd or sad or otherwise unusual they portray her. For example, he learned within a twenty-second conversation that Beth prefers to smoke Chesterfields and also that her adoptive mother died less than six months ago. Benny had nearly spat out his coffee in surprise and Beth had only looked at him curiously, like she hadn’t expected a response to either of those things.
(It was immediately clear that Beth had avoided mentioning her mother’s death because she was fundamentally unable to receive any kind of sympathy, or pity, or treatment that would otherwise mark her as vulnerable. Benny can relate. He doesn’t bring up her parentage – or lack thereof - again.)
With every passing day, Benny realizes with increasing urgency that he has to say something, do something, make some kind of move so that she knows – if not the depth of his affection for her, at least that she’ll always have a place in his life, his apartment, at his kitchen table chess board. He doesn’t think it would do to come right out with the I love you’s, but he does have a question he wants to ask. And frankly, he’s equal parts terrified and thrilled to do it.
So Benny does what he does best: he makes a plan, aided by several calculations to ensure the most desired outcome, and padded with several contingencies and exit strategies in case of unexpected or overlooked factors.
On the third-to-last day – after almost five weeks of near-constant togetherness – Benny decides that it’s time. Enter: reservations at a trendy new restaurant in Midtown that Beth is currently appraising with her enormous eyes. Like everything new that she encounters, she has approached the situation with an air of poise and self-assurance that has taken Benny nearly five weeks to realize is not an act, but more of a coping mechanism. There isn’t a single person or condition that Beth doesn’t recognize as a threat, so they all get treated with equal finesse - under which lurks her unparalleled skills as a strategist and analyst, just waiting for the opportunity to take the upper hand.
“Why did you choose this place?” she asks, her fingers tapping over the blanched tablecloth, her gaze sweeping over the naked light fixtures above the tables. The restaurant is modern and features décor that falls somewhere between chic and minimalist with a color palette that’s just this side of garish, at least in Benny’s opinion. But what does he know about interior design, honestly?
“It was recommended by a friend,” he tells her, neglecting to mention that said “friend” is actually a review piece in the Times showcasing the best restaurants for a first date. Yeah, Benny has never done this before.
It’s not like he hasn’t had his fair share of intimate encounters, but they have all been predicated on a mutual understanding of utility and impermanence. For Benny, dating has always been more of a means to an end – said encounters were mostly comprised of mutual physical attraction, a desire for companionship, and, most importantly, the basic human requisite of having the occasional orgasm that is more fulfilling with others than it is alone. They’re never lasted more than a few weeks, at the outside.
“It’s…nice.” She said it in a classic Beth tone that means she’s leaving all of her thoughts un-vocalized; she’s waiting for the most advantageous moment to lay all her cards on the table and reveal a royal flush. Benny is almost excited, anticipating the game they’re about to play because no one has ever posed a threat quite like her.
“I figured we would do something a bit different before you leave. I won’t have as many occasions to get out, when you’re gone.” He takes a moment to sip from his lager, all the while maintaining eye contact with Beth. The majority of their dynamic boils down to observation; taciturn information-gathering based on body language and minute changes in expression. Her face doesn’t change, but her eyes are clear. Benny waits, knowing that eventually one of them will break and advance the conversation.
It’s a full minute before Benny clears his throat and decides to fall on the sword. “So, do you feel ready to go to Paris?”
She sweeps her gaze slightly up and to the right to respond, followed by a delicate arch in her eyebrow – another classic Beth gesture. “I mean, yeah. My visa was approved by the French embassy and my passport’s all ready to go, I just need to pack and find something to read on the plane.”
“I meant more… how do you feel about it? Do you feel ready?”
She takes a little longer to respond this time. “We’ve done everything we can, right? I’ve been through the Benny Watts Chess Bootcamp; I think I’m as ready as I can be.”
Benny nods slowly, considering. “That’s true. But I’m not a shrink, Beth, I can’t get inside your head. I can’t stop you from reacting when your opponent catches you off guard. Like I did in Vegas.”
She recoils, ever so slightly, and there’s a delicate edge to her gaze.
“I’m a different player now, Benny.” Her tone is cautionary – she’s daring him to question her skill, and given that she’s probably better than him now, that conversation would not be pleasurable to his ego.
“I know.” His instinct is to mollify, pacify. He refrains from acting on that particular reflex, but he doesn’t back down. “I just… want you to do well.”
Beth acknowledges this in the most Beth way possible, which is to say that she doesn’t really acknowledge it. Or, at least, Benny thinks that she won’t, but is prevented from finding out by the arrival of their server to drop off hors d’oeuvres.
There are several key differences to this meal from the others they’ve shared: for one, they don’t usually share meals – they eat at the same time and in the same place, but they’re always too distracted by chess pamphlets or phone calls or something on the radio to consider their meals shared in the traditional sense. For another thing, they rarely sit across from each other at an actual table, instead adopting different seating positions around the apartment based on convenience, and when they actually go out to eat - which, so far, has been exclusively at the all-night diner a few blocks away - they just sit side-by-side at the counter.
But, as usual, Beth is unfazed and takes the whole situation in stride with an air of serenity; it’s clear that she’s used to upscale dining. Benny wonders - almost wildly - if she’s used to being taken on upscale dates by upscale men; if she’s used to being treated in an upscale way, and he knows he can’t compete with that. Even if he had the money to do this all the time, it just… isn’t right. It’s not them.
Beth is a fucking mind reader, unsurprisingly, because she’s laying down her salad fork and looking at him openly. “Okay. You're being weird.”
There’s an unfamiliar sensation, just underneath his skin – a buzzing; a loud noise that itches. Benny has the urge to do something impulse and reckless to exorcise it from his body. He wants to get drunk, he wants to get unbelievably high just to stop the noise from droning on and on because it’s nearly unbearable and he has the sudden impulse to pull Beth onto the table and bite his signature into her skin -
He plays dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s not very convincing, and they both know it. She gives him a look – one eyebrow arches while the other falls ever so slightly.
There’s an entire swarm of hornets underneath Benny’s ribs; he is but a primal animal with primal needs and he wants to claim her – he wants to put a stop to their inane games and tell this divine creature, point-blank, that she belongs here, belongs to him. He thinks he might be sweating.
Benny exhales, thinking of how to best proceed given how fucking weird he feels, and then speaks slowly.
“I, uh, wanted to do something to mark the occasion. It’s not every day that your star pupil leaves to compete against the best chess players in the world, you know.” There’s just a hint of cynicism in his tone, designed to mask his now-frantic nerves, but Beth – of course – picks up on it immediately.
Beth half-smirks, half-smiles (how she manages to do both at the same time, Benny will never know), and leans forward, un-crossing and re-crossing her legs on the opposite side. She rests her elbows on the table. “Is this a date, Watts?”
Son of a bitch. Benny prepared for this, though.
“Yes,” he tells her truthfully, and Beth looks taken aback by his honesty, if only for a moment. He proceeds with his plan of attack.
“I wanted to give us an opportunity to… get to know each other, outside of chess.” He spreads both hands wide, palms up, fingers flared. “I realized, I don’t actually know that much about you. Beyond chess.” He puts emphasis on the last word to indicate that, when it comes to chess, he does actually know a lot about her. Almost everything, Benny would wager.
Beth has her hands clasped now, both pointer fingers resting on her lips as she studies him. He is as familiar with this pose as he is with the feel of his own leather jacket.
Eventually, she speaks: “You already know everything there is to know.”
Benny tries not to hesitate, because, ouch – that sounds kind of like a rejection – but he isn’t deterred, not yet. So, he tries again: “What do you want to do with your life, Beth?”
Beth scoffs. “I want the same thing you want, the same thing Borgov and every other master and grandmaster wants. I want to play chess until I die. You of all people should be able to relate.”
Beth was probably going for nonchalant, but it hasn’t worked: her statement reeks of sadness, of fear, of bitterness. With any other opponent, Benny would attack at the smell of blood in the water, but his goal tonight is not exactly to triumph over her. He’s seeking a different, more… long-term type of victory. So, he tries something smaller, more manageable: “What do you want to do, after Paris?”
Beth still redirects; trying to get a straight answer from her is like trying to trap a goldfish with one’s bare hands. “I haven't thought that far ahead. Why are you asking? Are you trying to be my shrink after all?”
Benny refrains from rolling his eyes – who taught her to be this goddamn stubborn? - and decides to try an even bolder move. He holds his breath as he reaches over the table with his right hand to grasp her left in a frighteningly-vulnerable display of public affection, all the while waiting for her to retreat like a spooked horse. The humming in his ears is nearing its crescendo. (Hopefully.)
Shockingly, miraculously, Beth doesn’t withdraw – but she does stare at him as though he’s announced he’s moving to the moon. Her incredulous expression might be laughable, in any other situation.
“Why are you still pushing me away, Beth?” Benny says this as quietly as he possibly can, trying to convey that he wants only her to hear this; he’s not trying to shame her or otherwise cause a scene. “After all the time we’ve spent together. Don’t you know that you can be honest with me?”
Her eyes snap shut, her hand curls into a tight fist inside his. “I can’t be that person, Benny.”
It’s not a dismissal, it’s a confession, and Beth looks like she’s engaged in a furious battle behind her closed eyes. I can work with this, thinks Benny, and tries again: “You can’t be honest with me? I know that’s not the case. Just this morning you told me I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life, and I’m pretty sure you were telling the truth.”
Benny is aiming for a hint of levity; Beth doesn’t react.
“It’s not that simple.”
“What’s not that simple, Beth?”
“I’m not – fuck. I’m not ready for this conversation.”
“What if I told you that you didn’t need to change?”
Beth breathes out, slowly, and opens her eyes – though she isn’t looking at him, but through him. “You can’t know that.”
It’s true, Benny knows, but it’s not the point. “I’m not proposing marriage. I’m just… Will you come back to New York, after Paris? I can’t – I’m not ready to stop being your coach.”
She look at him now, eyes full of suspicion, and Benny wants to scream because she is the smartest, most observant person he’s ever met so how can she not see it? How can she possibly not realize that Benny will do absolutely anything to hold onto her, for as long as she’ll let him? Benny knows that this is the culmination of their time together: she’s either going to break his heart, here and now, or…
“Why?” Her voice is small and impossibly sad. Benny wants to – wants to pretzel himself around her, show her the love and affection that she deserves, even if he’s never done that before and doesn’t really know how. Because I’m not ready to let go of you, Beth Harmon, he thinks but doesn’t say; what he actually says isn’t much better.
“Please, Beth. Just…come back, when you’re done.”
He knows that his eyes are so full of longing that it burns, but he’s not going to look away; he’s not going to let her disappear like a magician behind a smoke bomb without an answer or an acknowledgement or, fuck it, even a flat-out rejection and her drink thrown in his face. He needs her to know the truth; for her to see it, stare it directly in the face, and even if this is the last conversation they ever have Benny can be assured that he tried.
It’s the most delicate sound in the world: the sound of Beth breathing lightly, shallowly, while she looks him in the eyes, not moving a muscle beyond the rising and falling of her chest. He knows that she’s visualizing every possible outcome to this situation in front of her, like she would the after white makes the first move. She’s as still as a statue and Benny is fucked because why won’t she talk and is she thinking of the best way to let him down gently or –
“Okay.”
Benny is fucked.