Archive of Our Own

“Adjourn.” Beth’s head snaps up. Staring into the eyes of her opponent. He was asking for an adjournment? In English? The whispers in the rows to their lefts and rights. Borgov breaking the eye-contact. Clearly discontent with how the game was going. She is taken aback. This throws everything of. He writes down his move quickly, decisively. Her gaze flies back to the board, scanning the pieces, feeling their nature. He still has plenty of chances to turn this around on her. What the hell is he doing? He passes over the move, frustration tinging his movement. That’s when she sees the exhaustion in his eyes. This whole time, it had felt like she was the only one who had to be on her A-game. Ever since Mexico he had seemed like such an insurmountable foe. He’d always played her like an annoying fly, if to close, batting her away, without showing much emotion. For Beth, this was simply a matter of winning or losing, for him it is the defence of the title. She only now realizes the immense pressure he must be under. He stands quickly, doesn’t wait for anybody, moves not as graceful as he might have, in his youth. Favours his left slightly. It’s these small details she notices now, the emotion, the drain, this… flaw that make him very human, now. Not at all the machine, she had once thought him to be. “Tell me if any of the Russian players tries to make contact. Especially Vasily Borgov.”, hadn’t Mr. Booth told her something might happen? Was this a sign? She stands and with her, the attendees. Quiet, nervous chatter filling the hall, swelling. Her minder ushers her out. She feels like walking through a thick fog, meeting Townes lifts the booming pressure, somewhat.

They drive back to the hotel quietly. She is very distracted, even though it fills her with warmth to only have to look to her side, to find Townes. Grateful for her friend, who is here to support her. She is hit by the frozen air immediately as the car’s door opens. People grouping together as always, here, the pushing bodies sole reason why neither Townes, nor Mr. Booth notice that she finally pulls out the crumpled up note she’d found in her coat’s pocket. Come to room no. 520 at midnight. Watch your back, Harmon. She reads, the note only visible to her own eyes, half-covered by the fabric of her pocket. Her breath stops. Was that a threat? Should she tell Mr. Booth? She stands, feels the flare of righteous anger course through her. The gall of that man, to threaten her. To try and unsettle her, mere hours before the endgame. She pushes through the crowd, not accommodating any pleas for signatures this time. The warmth of the hotel lobby envelops her just as she sees him, amidst a throng of KGB, protecting him. Her heart beats furiously in her chest. Their eyes met. Hers indignation at the slight. His blank.

She knows she shouldn’t go and does so, regardless. It’s likely treason. Townes is probably deep asleep in the room adjacent to hers. If anything happens, there will be no one, who knows where she is. No one but her opponent. She tries not to over-analyse her excitement and her dread. The latter feeling intensifies as she finds the hallway filled with three KGB. She really fucking shouldn’t do this. Curiosity killed the cat or something. She pulls her nightrobe tighter around her, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to change into something else. The man right next to the room’s entrance is smoking when she stops in front of the double doors. He eyes her up and down, sneers, and knocks on the door briskly. Doesn’t wait for an answer. She is gestured to go inside. The door remains open. The man watching through the opening quite obviously.

The room she finds is empty, save for a solitary man. Vasily Borgov is backlit, nursing a drink. The lighting makes him look more massive, somehow. She wonders whether his size is caused by the softness of age. The slope of his shoulders makes her think that this is likely not the case. “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Vodka?”, his statement is loud enough to fill the room and it makes her instantly feel childish. He is right, this is utterly foolish. He pours her one without waiting for her answer. The room is eerie in atmosphere. “This is the plan?” She asks, sounding more confident than she feels, as she takes the glass from his hand. Her hand doesn’t shake, but she really wishes she’d covered up more, now. She doesn’t think she’s imagining his look. Embarrassment floods her as she realizes what this must look like to literally anyone. Her, scantily clad, in the room of her opponent. She wants to bang her head against the wall. A deep breath, she has to push past the embarrassment. She wants to find out his intentions, after all.

“Getting me drunk. That is low, even for you.” The glass clinks as she sets it down forcefully. His eyes follow her movement closely. Defiance sparks her anger which returns with vengeance. “What is this bullshit?” His upper lip twitches, the muscle in his jaw ticks. The usually calm, middle-aged man looks suddenly very dangerous. There is a viciousness in his eyes. Holy fuck, what was she thinking ever coming here? He crowds her against the table suddenly, thick arms caging her in, brushing against the sides of her hips. Heat seeping through the thinness of her robe, where he touches her body. Her glass tips and clinks against the wood. Her heart stops at the suddenness and then proceeds beating a crescendo. “It’s a warning.” He leans far into her personal space, mouth close enough to her ear she feels the warmth of his breath cast along her ear. She can’t suppress the shiver. Over the top of his shoulder she sees the man in front of the door finally step aside. Satisfied? “Listen closely.”, he continues much lower in volume. “If you win tomorrow… The state will have a… vested interest in you, Elizabeth Harmon. You have to pay attention.”, he gives her space again, eyes no longer threatening, somehow they seem rather… imploring? Cold air rushes in between them, his eyes strange in their intensity. Beth knows her features must be a shocked mess. “What the actual fuck?”, she hisses and then there is a flash of irritation in his usually oh-so-stoic features. She steps back involuntarily. “Now, leave. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harmon.”, louder again. He steps aside and chugs his remaining drink. She flees the room, mind in shambles. How could she ever have predicted this? It’s a side of his she never gets to see again.

She doesn’t know which mad impulse makes her open that door, get out of the car, after her win. She is genuinely drunk on the feeling, true, but she also really, really wants to know what that vested interest looks like.

The hotel can’t help but organize yet another celebratory dinner with all the attendees present, when she decides to stay. It has quite obviously been prepared in a rush, but all players had faithfully followed the invitation and had turned up. Borgov wasn’t sure whether Elizabeth Harmon knows just how little agency had been granted them in that particular decision, she was clearly flattered. Foolish girl… He is still unnerved by the debriefing that had occurred mere minutes before he had been ushered into the foyer with the other players. The words still circling in his head. Of course, his mind would jump ahead three steps, incriminating himself in the process. For a world-renowned chess-player, his lack of foresight had been shameful. Borgov seats himself as far away from her as possible. A fact, he knew would not be appreciated by the agents in the dark corners of the room, but he couldn’t care less what they thought of him at this moment. He simply hopes, she assumes it was to protect his sensibilities. He feels sick. Almost unable to pretend to enjoy the food. She, contrary as always, enjoys the food, this time, and holds lovely conversations with both Luchenko and the Italian player, who are seated to her left and her right. He envies his friend for her easy companionship. He had dug this hole himself, hadn’t he? He spends as little time as possible sitting and dining, and almost immediately stands to go to the window, after the waiters had cleared their table. He sees her confused eyes follow him. Hopes the evening will be over quickly. He needs more time to think about this.

An impulse, curiosity maybe – she doesn’t fully understand it – makes her want rise and join him. A warm, slightly calloused hand holds her in place before she is able to stand fully. Luchenko suggests it better if she continues sitting, with quietly intense eyes. Bewildered, Beth draws her hand away. The other two Russian players are sending her flighty glances and she feels like she is missing something very obvious. “I’m simply… going for a smoke.”, her pitch isn’t as even as she would have liked, but she moves nonetheless to stand next to the lone figure at the large windows.

“Want a cigarette?”, she offers her packet, takes one herself when he doesn’t immediately answer. He tries not to show his conflicting emotions at finding her next to him. Now, he has no choice but to play along. Zugzwang. He grits his teeth. Her American lilt shaping the consonants differently, drawing out the vowels. Americans always sounded as if they were drawling. He follows the closing of her mouth around the cigarette and the relief that floods her face when she takes the first drag. Well, maybe that was simply her. “Yes, I’ll have one, too.”, he hears himself say, finally. Her eyes fly open, surprised, “I was beginning to think you had no vices…” the cigarette bobs with every one of her words. It was an elegant mouth, Vasily thinks privately, dramatic in its bend. Unusual. Fitting. She takes it out delicately, balancing the smouldering cigarette between two slender fingers to offer him a fire, a satisfied grin spreading over her features. “Everyone has a vice…”, he mumbles. She huffs a laugh that is, in sincerity, more a breath. Shoots him a glance from underneath her lashes, he doesn’t fully understand.

He finds they can converse well enough, as long as they switch from one language to another, if necessary. They were right, the entire Soviet Union would be at her feet if, she wished. They smoke in companionable silence, Borgov feels the weight of faceless stares on his neck. Pressuring him. “I bet you’d rather go over our game than being here and entertaining me?” she asks, mild curiosity tinging her soft lilt. He grunts noncommittally. It’s not like he would be able to tell her what he’d rather do. Not here. He takes a final, indulging drag – American cigarettes were rare luxuries – and flicks the stub out of the window. The cool Moscovian air hitting them, making her shiver. “Let’s take a walk.”, he suggests suddenly. Surprising himself. “Really? What, now?”, she asks, eyes twinkling. “Leaving the party when you’re the guest of honour. That sounds like something you would do.”, he allows the miniscule tug of his mouth to ensure she knows it wasn’t meant to insult. The result is shattering. She flushes beautifully with joy, looks up at him through her lashes almost impish with their shared mischief. “Meet me in the lobby in 5 minutes.” He turns and tries to not think of it as fleeing. “Wear something warm.”, he voices over his shoulder.

She wasn’t dressed warm enough, of course. Her outfit might have sufficed for a daytime stroll, but the Moscovian nights were biting in their cold. Did she wonder why no one had stopped them from leaving her dinner? Maybe not, as an American, maybe she wasn’t used to someone dictating where she was and when. She doesn’t seem deterred by the cold, at all, eyes alight with wonder at the lights reflecting in the river, the sounds, the structure of everything. “Is all of Russia like Moscow?”, she asks, naively. He knew from experience just how different buildings in Russia enacted the quality “imposing” when compared to western countries. Nothing was quaint, here, everything had edges, was geometric, looming. Did she realize the danger she placed herself in? Probably not, excitement in her every step. He exhales out some of the air he was keeping in, wafting white in the air in front of him. “No.” She clasps her hands behind her back, looks up at his profile, not truly discouraged by his monosyllabic response. “Well, Kentucky is not like New York, either.”, she reasons by analogy with an unconcerned smile. Careless, untainted youth. Borgov shrugs deeper into his coat to keep the biting cold at bay. He wonders whether she will ask about his youth. Wonders whether he would tell her, if she did.

“How long will you stay here?”, he asks at last. Allowing his frustration at her foolishness to shimmer through his words. Elizabeth Harmon shrugs with the full lack of responsibility that can only be derived from youth. “Haven’t decided. Until my visa expires, I suppose. Or until there is nothing interesting holding me here anymore.” Borgov doesn’t know how to respond. They walk a few minutes further, landing on a nondescript, smaller bridge. She stops in an illuminated spot in the centre of it, leans over the balustrade to watch the water gurgling below. He feels very much like an old man following the fancies of a young woman. He wonders what kind of picture they presented. She turns, leans her body against the balustrade, back bowed to let her elbows rest on the waist-high iron structure. As if offering her body. Her coat blurring her lines to modesty, at least in sentiment. Vasily swallows. Has to look away. “You don’t seem particularly mad that I beat you?”, it is an observation and a question, both. It must seem like quite the turnaround in comparison to his behaviour yesterday. Her eyes convey excitement rather than caution. He smiles mildly. “You played beautifully. How could I argue with that?”, “I would be fuming.”, he laughs, feeling even older. “Once you’ve played as many opponents as me, you’ll learn appreciate a good one.” She seems merely mildly annoyed by his condescension. “Arrogant prick.” He allows that. It was true. She shivers, the red in her face caused by irritation rather than warmth. He found he enjoyed her presence, surprisingly. “I think…”, there is something calculating, something strikingly observant in her eyes. It makes him hope she’s caught on. “Maybe I know the value of a good opponent, already.”  The statement floats between them. If she only knew the kinds of problems, her winning had caused… But regardless, she had earned it and he feels a strange prideful joy at seeing her here, lucid and clear. At the height of her potential. For now. Who knew, the places she would go. Then she looks down, her face seeming momentarily troubled. Was she thinking about Paris? He stares out on the water. Inexplicably left wanting to understand her twisting thoughts.

Movement draws his eyes back to her. She fingers her carton of cigarettes, claps the back of the packet to shake out a singular cigarette. “Shit. Only one left…”, she looks at him sheepishly. Then, a mischievous grin spreads her painted mouth. “I guess we’ll just have to share.” Borgov finds he really wants that cigarette, now. Ignores the way a renewed warmth spreads through his body. She holds out the cigarette, redirects her dainty hand towards his mouth, before he can pull out his own hands from the depth of his warm pockets. “Feeding my addiction, Miss Harmon?”, he asks, the mist of his breath hitting her un-gloved, pink hands. Her smile spreads further as he reaches up to take the cigarette and put it between his lips himself. Coward. “Please, there are things a lot worse to be addicted to.” He nods, they both knew that truth. She lights the cigarette for him, stepping closer to do so. He takes a drag, but doesn’t close his eyes because she chooses that moment to sit herself up on the iron balustrade, which must be cold. She rubs her hands against one another and blows on them. At least, she was wearing a coat. One without pockets. He sighs.

“Here”, he offers his own gloves to her. “You must be freezing. I have pockets…”, she looks apologetic but thankful. The impulse is troubling. The gloves look ridiculous on her, way too big. “Better, thank you.” He huffs, takes another drag, buries his hands in his pockets. Ignoring his foolish thoughts. They’d lead him nowhere. She reaches up and plucks the cigarette from his mouth, an eyebrow raised in challenge. He remains silent. She breathes in a deep breath of smoke and sighs beautifully. He should look away, or have reached for the cigarette himself, but he is drawn to her, like an inevitability. The agent had said, she looked at him the most… No one had noted that he stared right back. But that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? When they suggested his task, he had been the one to imply its nature. Because of course his mind would jump to this. She reaches for the cigarette in his overly large gloves and offers it back to him. Watching him through her lashes. The cigarette is faintly wet at the tip from both of their mouths and there is a reddish-pink stain from her lipstick. He takes it from her hand by mouth. She withdraws her hand rather quickly, which amuses to him. Had she not expected him to take the bait? “So, uh.”, she claps her hands together, fidgets. The intimacy of the moment staining her cheeks an even brighter pink. “Doesn’t your wife worry where you are, now?” He waits for the guilt, the shame. Only feels a faint echo. He sucks in another deep breath feels the smoke burn in his chest. “I suppose she does…”, he says noncommittally, tilting his face towards her, so that she would take the cigarette from him. She complies, not really meeting his eyes.

She smokes the remainder of her cigarette silently. Contemplative. Stubs out the bud when she is done. He feels on the brink of reaching something almost tangible. “So, uhm. What do they want with me?”, she interrupts his quiet contemplation. He notes that she starts these questions with the same phrase. Files that away for later. She doesn’t have to specify who they are. He looks at her evenly. He was freer to talk here, not free. “Wait. Do you think we’re followed right now?”, she asks. He doesn’t know what drives him then, he has to convey the seriousness of the situation somehow. “I would assume, so.”, he says lowly, leans against the balustrade next to her. She flinches lightly. “What, where? Don’t you care?”, wide-eyed indignancy. So American. He remains quiet. At least she doesn’t turn to look for them. Smart. Her posture is tight now, as if coiled like a spring. “Is that why…”, she stops, lowers her volume. “Is that why we left the room? Are we bugged?” Ah, spy movies. James Bond and such. It was a dangerous game he played now. He turns his eyes on her, faces her directly now. She understood, if the widening of her eyes was anything to judge by. “You have nothing to worry about, of course.”, his honesty tipping into irony. Composure strained at the edges, he hopes it isn’t too obvious from a distance, in spite of their brightly illuminated spot on the bridge. She stares at him wide-eyed. He knew his face had fallen, no longer able to maintain his usual poker-face. He was too serious. Perhaps they would misconstrue the nature of his intensity.

They leave the bridge and he walks her back on his arm, even though he knew he’d already offered more than enough this evening to the people watching them.

They congratulate him on his ease of making contact. Establishing trust. Encourage him to continue. She had not yet booked a flight back. There were pictures he didn’t look at too closely.

He sends his wife and son home. She has a knowing look in her eyes. If she knew the specifics, she might not pity him.

Vasily Borgov continued to surprise her. There was a casual looseness about his actions that had certainly not been present during any of his games. She found she enjoyed his dry humour. His dead-pan statements often only revealed for what they were at the last possible instance, by a curling of his mouth or a slight tilt of his head, a slightly raised eyebrow. He possessed a gentlemanly attitude that often clashed with her brash forwardness. He was a perfect representative of his state from that night on the bridge onwards, no more thinly veiled calls for her to pay attention. Either he had blown her importance out of proportions, or she was in big shit and everyone around her was in on it. It set her on edge, made her want to find out what they wanted, exactly.

Remaining in Moscow had apparently led to unanimous the decision by the Soviet players that she had a place in their circles. When Borgov had first asks her to come with him to the national team’s room for an after-practice-practice session, she found herself bereft by the fierce determination the players showed for their sport even in what was probably their free time. It was beautiful. She was clearly the outcast initially, but they were obviously intrigued. By the fifth time she joins them, nobody stares at her less than covertly anymore, as Borgov courteously helps her out of her overcoat. She thinks back on that first evening, when Borgov, impossibly pleading ignorance of the fact that every single man’s eyes were on them. Had offered her a vodka – she had declined – which made him smile at her slightly, appreciative. It was a ritual she cherished, now. He had a nice smile. And a cigarette. “Soviet product, this time.” She grins at that. They tasted similar to the ones she knew, a little more round and full-bodied and they lacked the gold rim she found above the filter on her usual brand. Though, the thing that never failed to rattle her utterly, was his informality, here in this room. When he takes off his suit jacket and rolls up the arms of his pristinely pressed, white shirt, revealing surprisingly corded, thick forearms, she looks away. She really had no shame.

He steps up close behind her, pushes on her shoulder to make her face a board to her left. “You should play.”, a dark rumble that almost makes her shiver. Almost. She would’ve never expected him to be such a tactile person, before. It should have struck her as stranger than it did, in retrospect. “Against you?”, she twists in his hold, tries to ignore how his hand runs across her back to her waist to accommodate her movement. A warmth in his eyes that makes something in her rejoice. “Not today.” She tries not to make her disappointment obvious. God, she must look like an infatuated little girl. At least he doesn’t seem to mind, the fondness she always finds in his eyes genuine. “I have trained someone, who truly wishes for another chance to play you.” His eyes smile for his mouth, before they fall on something, no someone, behind her. The person clears his throat behind her. “Miss Harmon, pleasure to meet you again. And congratulations, of course.”, “Girev?”, she is surprised. The thirteen-year-old boy had grown significantly in the not-quite three years since they’d last met. Lost all of his pudgy youth and transformed into an almost-man, still a little gangly and not yet fully grown into his height.

He smiles at her excitedly, though. “Ready for a rematch?”, she asks, his excitement infectious. He’d improved, significantly. But she beats him regardless, he seems a little too eager to press an apparent advantage. “That was really good, Girev!” she congratulates him, meaning it. He seems disappointed but gains a little perspective at Borgov’s quiet approval. They had garnered quite the attention, several players smoking or drinking, surround them. Beth stands, a little exhausted from the match, the boy truly had become quite good, wishes for a moment of quiet. She feels she hasn’t had that lately, between the ballet and the chess club and their evening strolls. Girev is occupied by studying the game with a few of Borgov’s stern but well-meaning comments to aid and so, she allows herself to drift away from the crowd, which parts easily enough for her, to find some coffee. Luchenko finds her not long thereafter. “If this is how you always train, it’s really no wonder the Soviets are a chess-superpower.”, she tells him, her favour honest. He nods and pours himself a drink, she didn’t know what it was, curious enough to want to ask him, but afraid of a potential relapse. “How about your chess community back home, have your friends not contacted you, lately?” Something strikes her as strange at that question. She ignores that, in favour of the warmth that floods her as she thinks about her friends. “We’re not that tightly knit. Though some of them came together to help me for my last game at the invitational.” There was something knowing about his eyes, a quiet certainty.

Maybe this was the last straw that made the itching in the back of her brain unbearable. She goes to the concierge that night, with Mr. Borgov, of course. He had courteously offered to walk her to the lobby, unaccepting of her refusal. It was truly unlike her friends to not have tried to contact her after her game, or Mr. Booth, with whom she had been supposed to fly home. The concierge is a young male, barely a man. She eats him like she would gum. There had been several calls, all unable to have been put through to her, he explains apologetically, frowning, yet clearly charmed by her attention. A nervous side glance at the dark and silent man beside her. A cold thrill overtakes her. This was very strange indeed. What had Borgov said? They had a vested interest in her. She looks over. His face is stony. Though there was something dark in his eyes, his gaze focused on the poor concierge, who has started shifting. The atmosphere is shifting. She remembers Luchenko’s kind eyes, his gentle prodding. She had to return to the US, should do so immediately. She asks the concierge to arrange a flight back home and bids him goodbye. Smiles beatifically.

Borgov stands next to her, a stillness about him that makes him seem dangerous. She feels faintly reminded of the night during the game. Remembers he can be dangerous. Even though the past few days did their best to make her forget that fact. He looks guilty. Very much that. Beth should have known right away that his attitude was not as candid as she was made to believe. She just had to play her cards right to figure out what the reason for all this was. She stepps closer to the man, aware of the two men trailing them, not quite inconspicuous. “Do you want to come to my room?” It was probably too direct, she knew she was ruining the effect of the question’s innate sultriness by the flare of heat on her face. The men behind him share a glance. “It’s my last night here. We should make it memorable. Play some chess.” Borgov swallows. She doesn’t feel like embarrassing herself any further and takes the lead. Trusting, hoping that he’d follow. He does. The tension in the elevator was palpable. Finally, finally they reach her floor. She feels the weight of his gaze on her neck like a physical presence as she fumbles with the keys to her room.

She finally manages to open it, he follows. She goes for the tray with the drinks immediately. If he is surprised at her breaking her sobriety, he doesn’t say. Takes the drink she offers without comment. “Is this room bugged?”, she asks bluntly. Was that relief in his eyes? “I don’t know.” Evasive. He clears his throat at her unimpressed raise of an eyebrow. “I don’t believe so.” More honest. She takes a sip. “Tell me what’s going on.”, she demands, then. He is silent. Takes a sip himself. Then, a deep sigh. “What do you think is happening?” Beth feels very certain, then. “I’m not stupid, Borgov. It took me a while, but I get it now, you are supposed to, I don’t know, turn me.” The statement sounds more ridiculous spoken than in her head, but Borgov’s eyes seem to fill with something appreciative. “Right.”, she draws that word out. Well that wasn’t too bad, right, now that she knows. She tries not to feel too crestfallen for hoping that there were no ulterior motives. Or at least she tries not to let it show. Of course, a man like him had to have a reason for showing such a sudden, vested interest in her. “You show me all that Russia has to offer me, if I stayed. Luxury, this community, a different brand of sexism.” His lips twitch at that and that makes her almost want to forgive him for playing a part. “Why did you agree to it?”, he grimaces at that. “Everybody has a weakness.” It wasn’t an apology, but she understands, at least. His wife and son. He had people he needed to protect. It stings, nonetheless, she’d actually liked the person she had gotten to know. And obviously, the blow to her ego still remains.

She empties the glass and takes his, too – he’d only sipped at it – feels childishly justified in taking something of his, in return. He does raise a brow at that. She is glad that it is all out in the open, then, time for her to leave before she makes a bigger fool of herself, before she gets in too deep. A beat, then, he takes both their glass back and goes to the tray himself, pours a different brand of alcohol. “Even you.”, as he pushes her glass into her hand. That sounds a little too pointed not to be about her addictive behaviour. It rankles. She knows she proves him right, when she sets the glass down on the table behind her. Decisive, defensive. Crosses her arms. “I suggest you play along.”, he says then, quietly. A little sad, maybe. Definitely tired. “As long as you can. They will inevitable catch on, when it becomes clear that I have no chance of making you… ours.”, ‘Your chance wasn’t half-bad.’ She thinks privately, a little sick when that empty feeling won’t wane. Will this always be how she’ll remember her time here? He looks pensive, his eyes run down her form, but he quickly pulls his attention away again. “With a little luck, you are in a different country when this implodes.”

She swallows convulsively. It’s a lot to digest. But suddenly, she’s grateful she went to that secret meeting during the adjournment. She doesn’t think she would have been able to fathom the extent of this messiness without his help. She takes the drink, then. It’s good. He has better taste than her. “What I don’t understand though”, she says into the silence between them, finally, a burning question, but she manages to make it sound casual. “Is, why they thought that it was necessary to have you… court me, to get me to play for your team.” She settles on finally, for lack of better phrasing. Embarrassed at even mentioning it. His gaze is piercing. He never really seems shaken, all even dignity. “Just showing me the rest would have surely sufficed… It was a little heavy-handed for me to fall for it, old man.”, she laughs, but it falls flat. Shuffles her weight on her feet. He raises an eyebrow again, and goddamnit could he stop with that, please. “My superiors were under the impression that you might have a thing for me.”, he says finally. No inflection in his voice, he seems cautious about the things he is revealing. His accent sharpens the word, but that’s surely not the reason why it pierces through her, leaves her feeling winded. Blood rushes up to her hairline, she knows. God, she was a fool and obvious. But he doesn’t allow for much time for her to wish the ground would swallow her up, before he continues, “And well, they found out that I have a thing for you.”

“Oh.” Is all she responds with, her mouth shaping a perfect oval. If she knew what she looked like, her eyes bright, cheeks flaring, she’d surely try and make herself less irresistible to him. The colour distinct even in the warm light of her room. Alas, she is not in his head. She drains the rest of her glass with slightly jerky movements. “Right”, sets down the glass, twists it. Looks anywhere but him. Her nervous, fluttery energy would be adorable if he weren’t about to snap. Her stay will end tomorrow, and there will be several months before they’ll meet again. He isn’t exclusively relieved. “So, uhm -.”, he can’t help but smile. “What do they think we’re doing in here right now?”, He finishes his glass. Finds himself simultaneously wishing for more time and needing this conversation to end, now. “Right, stupid question. Fucking, probably.” He suppresses his response to her bluntness, tries to quench the images that rise unbidden. She looks at her watch, stares him squarely in his face, head tilt a little sheepish perhaps. “Guess it’s too soon to part ways then.” The grin overcomes him unbidden. She bites her lips, crosses her arms before her body, uncrosses them again. There is a determined set to her brows when she steps up to him. “Let’s make sure you look the part, then.” Her hands card in his hair, surprising him, he can’t help but close his eyes for a second at the feeling. When he opens them again, Elizabeth Harmon stands close enough for him to feel her heat. Looks up at him through long lashes, maybe not quite innocent in her coyness. Her thumb finds her plump bottom lip and rubs it before dabbing some of the colour on the inside of his collar. Maybe the state department weren’t wrong in either assessment. Regardless, he finds himself grateful for her help in this. It had been selfish, of course, but maybe his risk had paid off.

“So, what to do now?”, she asks while stepping back and he has to fight the urge to bring her back close. He forces his mind to consider something else. “Let’s play.”, he looks at the sofa. It was a tiny loveseat, with a board on a bedside table set up in front. She’d clearly played herself aimlessly previously but left an intriguing combination behind. “Yes.”, she seems relieved. He sits and gestures at the small space to his left “What are you waiting for, Miss Harmon?” his amusement at her hesitancy evident. She rolls her eyes in wordless rebuke and sets up the game quickly, grabbing the two kings and shuffling them behind her back. He doesn’t wait for her to present the choices in front of her body, but simply taps her left upper arm with the hand resting on the backrest behind her, casually. Her look should have made him want to draw back, were he a better man. Instead it draws him in. He’s stopped waiting for the guilt that just won’t come. Accepted it maybe. “White.”, she breathes. She places the pawn on the board, not bothering to turn it, preferring instead to lean into his space to move her pawns. She relaxes into the couch after a few moves, revealing her previous bravado for what it had been, folding a stockinged leg underneath her. There is something indulgent about the way she lounges. Lazily moving pieces on the board. Eyes bright and enticing, though, she’s certainly not missing any of his moves. She is smoking. Reaching up to allow him to take a sporadic drag, casual in the way she is intimate. He finds he can distract her, when he plays with her hair, her mouth falling open a little when he tugs it. God, how he wanted her. They were no longer toeing the line as much as barraging it down.

She resigns by sighing and nestling into his side. “That was unfair.”, she blinks up at him drowsily. He’s not sure whether he is surprised by her affinity for touch, but he lives for it. “Don’t pout.”, he chides mildly. “It’s your youth that makes you easily susceptible to distractions.”, unable to fully banish the teasing from his voice. “Is that so, old man?” she asks daringly and, in retaliation, placed a feather-light hand on his upper thigh. He laughs into her hair, easily admitting defeat. By god, he liked her. Something very stupid was on the tip of his tongue.

But she gives him no time, of course, everything is fast paced with her. No backwards-gear, Beth Harmon, he’d thought in Mexcio. In life, as in her plays. He has little time to process what is happening, before she turns her face to meet his.

She kisses him, this first time. A surprised sound. She smiles to herself at that, happy to have caught him off guard. When she pulls away to move closer, his eyes are liquid. Her hand finds his hair again. The action to throw the agents off their course clearly unnecessary, now. His calloused hand is on her arm. A light pressure. It’s not enough. She wants to be ravaged with the intensity his pulse, underneath her wrist, promises. With the need in his blown-out eyes. She bridges the gap again, the kiss stoking the molten heat in her belly, then shifts her weight onto her hand on his thigh a little more tangibly, now. The groan, he offers her this time is clearer to decipher, but his hand stopping her way up his leg contradicts this. “Beth.” It’s a warning, a plea, a rebuke, leaving her both confused and hurt. He pulls away this time and he looks devastated, but certain.

She finds no words. The hurt seeps through the haze of her pleasure and burns it away, leaving nothing but mortification. “Wha -.” His usually stoic face looks faintly pained now. Did she misunderstand something? A ball of lead is heavy in her stomach, the sickening feeling from before, back, intensifying, when he takes out his pocket square and methodically removes the carmine traces her lipstick has left on him. “I’m sorry. Let’s not do that, now.” He says finally, evenly. Though something in his eyes changes when he takes in her face. He reaches out to touch the set of her brows, but she intercepts him half-way. “What the hell was that?”, indignation colours her disbelief at his slight.

“It’s different with you.”, he says, tries to put into words what he’s thinking. But her face only darkens in response. Hurt and uncertainty clear in her eyes. “What is? Playing?”, the anger he’d seen in Mexico burns through her again. The double meaning echoing in the space between them. He would look away in situations like this, usually, maintain his immovable façade by claiming nonchalance. It felt like she was forcing his hand, her vulnerability the self-imposed rules within which he had to play. “Everything.”, he admitted. Check mate. A sound defeat. How can he tell her that this is a confession of love to him? She had no idea what this meant to him. Just how different it was with her. And how the only thing left to cling onto, is an old-fashioned sense of honour.

A disbelieving, cruel laughter. “You know, in the US, we usually reserve to declare our feelings for the people we allow ourselves to touch.” She’s proved herself smarter than he gave her credit again and again. Saw right through his feeble defence. She is beautiful even in anger. He’d seen it back then, too, when he had first played a match against her. The glinting eyes, narrowed dangerously, mouth tight, cheeks ablaze. Irresistible. Back then, he’d forced his gaze down. To concentrate on the more important issue. Now, there was no other issue left. “I don’t need to… make love to you to know that I do.”, he rises. Trying to sort through his thoughts. Her wide-eyed shock momentarily detracting from her beautiful anger. The honesty catching her off-guard transforming her into something even more vulnerable. It was devastating how she would be able to wield his weakness once she’d know of its extent. “I feel like I touch you all the time. How could I not know?”, his hand finds a strand of hair that had fallen into her face and pushes it back. Her eyes are fluttering close. “This is not the sort of touch I meant.” pitch uneven, weak. “Prove it to me.” She pulls on his shirt, needy in her vulnerability. “Do something you can’t undo with words later.” He wants to, oh he wants to. But it’s not right. He thinks back to that stuffy room and the agents. He wanted her to understand. It nearly breaks him to see her hurt.

He needed to leave, before he stayed too long in her presence to defy them. Grabs his jacket and coat, puts them on, her eyes on his back. “Then you lack the understanding of these nuances yet, Elizabeth Harmon.” He wishes he could take back the words immediately, this was too harsh, he thinks as he glances back a final time and leaves.

“This is not a problem.”, he disagrees. Stoic. “She left the country, how is this not a problem?!”, the agent bursts into a ridiculous fit of rage. Borgov sighs, felt the pounding of his pulse against his temple. “We showed her everything we had to offer – she was appropriately entranced.”, “And then, she left…” He can barely supress the sigh. This conversation was getting otiose. “She would have left either way during this visit, it was simply a matter of when. And when she returns, she will stay.”, he cuts off his opposite. Too impolite. He knew he should keep himself better in check felt his composure fraying ever since seeing her wanting eyes. “See to it being a when, not if.”, his superior grinds out. He nods, curtly and turns to leave. “Oh, and, Borgov. Make sure to follow your initial strategy – make sure to show her everything you have to offer.”

They meet again, not four months later in Boston. The time in between had felt like a small eternity. The government insisting on sending him to international matches more frequently, now, a prospect both he and his wife relished – for very different reasons.

He finds her in the lobby, checking in, surrounded by people taller than her, which does little to obscure her. She sticks out like a sore thumb due to her hair colour. A few over-eager young men with stars in their eyes offer to take her not inconsiderable number of bags. He moves closer, unwilling to reveal himself immediately, drinking in her mannerisms while she still thinks herself unobserved. Her flirtatiously grateful thanks ruffles a few feathers. It pleases him to see her so admired and simultaneously leaves him vexed. He smooths out his irrational impulses. Tries to feel pity for the round-faced man with his naïve eyes trying to lift all her bags, lightly red from both exertion and her toying. Decides to absolve the poor man. “Miss Harmon, good to see you changed your mind and decided to come!”, he speaks, aware of the two men trailing him. “Oh!” she turns, pushing her waves to rest behind her shoulder. The move seems almost self-conscious. “Borgov -.”, the way her lilt smooths his name makes him realize just how much he’d missed it. She is cautious enough, calling him by his family name but failing to address him with full politeness to imply closeness. He finds he likes it. She knows his given name, of course.

“I didn’t know we’d meet so soon.” She pats out some imaginary creases in her dress. She seems unsure of herself, eyes glancing to the men behind him, back to himself, then sweeping the hall. “Oh right, the travel must have taken you much longer than it did me.” He agrees, mildly. Not really caring about the content of this conversation but more about her fidgeting, her shy looks, the way she bites her lip, subconsciously it seems. “Yes, and I still have plane all over me, so…” “You look beautiful. No need to waste any time.” The impulse isn’t particularly smart, but he doesn’t care, when his hand finds her waist and he allows himself to pull her a little closer. “I wanted to see you… I missed you.”, he murmurs. She flushes brightly, seems slightly stunned, which he enjoys immensely. “I, uh -.” It is so unlike her to stutter, makes affection spread warmly through him. “Beth!”, a loud drawling voice tinged with surprise interrupts him. He looks up in irritation to find someone he faintly remembers – from the ridiculous way he dressed – a few paces away.

She sees him blink, find Benny and his mouth twitch in irritation. Beth extricates herself carefully and snickers taking in his artfully blank expression, the hesitancy in which he lets her step back belying his lack of portrayed emotion. Delighted. “Benny!”, she waves him over. “Hi Beth, good to see you, I already looked for you in your room, but you hadn’t checked in yet and…” Benny Watt’s eyes widen in exaggeration. “I see you were busy, clearly. Grandmaster Borgov, what an honour to see you here.” Borgov promptly ignores the hand extended to shake, eyes unerringly focussed on Beth. “Why are you doing this to me, love?”, he grinds out in Russian, neither expression nor inflection giving away his annoyance to a non-speaker. Beth sucks her lips in between her teeth to avoid smiling too widely at his ridiculous behaviour. “No need for elitism.”, she replies cheekily in his language and then turns to Benny, who takes back his hand with hyperbolic flair. “Right, so this is a thing, now. Apparently.”, he turns to Beth, a questioning brow raised. “Borgov remembers you, Benny. No worries.” She places an airy hand on her friend’s shoulder and giggles when his face darkens considerably.

“And he’s hard to forget.”, Benny turns towards her. “I never actually spoke to him. Does he even understand English?”, the last question is hushed and clearly directed at Beth, but not quiet enough for him to over-hear. “I do, Mr. Watts.”, the muscle in his jaw feathers, which delights Beth to no end. Who would’ve known it was that easy to rile him up. Beth grins widely. “I can already tell, this will be a delightful tournament.” She says, squashing the impulse to clap in effect, not missing the way he rolls his eyes at her. Such an undignified move for a person such as him. Benny stands next to her with his mouth hanging open in astonishment. She looks at the pitiful man still carrying her bags, “Room 118, please. Thank you.”, “We’ll see each other at the dinner, later, okay?” she smiles at her friend beatifically and turns to Borgov directly. He sighs at her little game but offers her his arm, nonetheless. She takes it. He draws her closer than she had positioned herself. “How come this boy knows where your room is before I do?”, he growls in her ear once they are a few paces away.

“You do know where it is, now.”, she amends then looks up at him, eyes mischievous, “It’s the hair that gets to you, right? He has good hair.” He curses lightly in Russian before saying that nothing about this boy got to him. She laughs simply when he finishes by calling her a minx. He finds he likes that sound enough to forgive her teasing. He had enjoyed towering over him, though. What a childish impulse. “Fine, show me the way.”

She leads him to her room, opens the door and slips inside, tries to ignore the two men, dressed in black, just a few paces behind him leering at her. He doesn’t wait much, only just long enough that her being pressed against the door closes it completely. He captures her mouth roughly, biting her lower lip, consuming her thoroughly. She finds herself starved for it. Even though she had told herself that it was unwise. Fortified her resolve, really. The haze of pleasure is washing over her fast, making her eager and quick, but somewhere between his trousers and her bra she finds the mental capacity to break away, panting. “Wait.” She breathes heavily in between words, placing a hand against his chest to stop his onslaught. It was a very nice chest, she thinks distractedly. He does so obligingly, if a little reluctant, his thumb never stopping to rub circles underneath the top of her skirt.

“I thought you didn’t -. I thought we wouldn’t -.”, her eyes are vulnerable again, even though her face screams her attraction. “I had almost four months to think about my concept of honour and curse my own stupidity, love.”, he grumbles in Russian hopes she’ll accept. He tries capturing her mouth, but she turns her head away, earning a displeased growl and a nib on the column of her throat just below her ear. He pulls her close again so that their bodies were flush. “I’m sorry. It was what they wanted. Would have felt cheap.”, he expands, trying to think through the haze. Even if he knows he is more certain know than ever in his life, she doesn’t. He turns his attention back onto her throat and then her clavicles. “Good to see you’re not bothered by the same, persistent objections, now.” He nibs at her skin in retaliation. He knows nothing obvious has changed in the meantime, it’s a profound change only he can feel after all. “You were pretty condescending. A real dick!” The statements are slightly undermined by her breathiness. He pushes away the lace of her bra and hefts her up by the backs of her thighs, so that he gains access to her nipple. Which earns him a breathy “Fuck!”, “I’m trying.” He growls against the skin into the valley between her breasts, impatient. She laughs and entwines her legs around his torso, finally bowing down to kiss him again.

He grunts when he enters her and stills, his face – usually so controlled and stoic – pinched as if in pain. She can’t have that, the stretch almost uncomfortable, no matter how wet she may be, he needs to move. So, she bites him, which merely elicits a full-bodied shiver, pleasing in its own right. But not what she wants, now. Shifts her hips allowing him to slip a little deeper. She has her answer now, his body’s contours had definitely softened from age, but that was not what gave him mass – his arms and chest were big in a way only someone who took care of his body could be. She found quite liked the dark hair on his chest, groin and legs, interspersed with some grey. If feels much softer than it looked. The thought that this was not considered safe, per se, comes and goes just as quickly, when he finally gets the message. His thrusts are drawn-out and deep, not at all hectic, jostling her with their strength. He isn’t quiet, though she finds that she likes that too, surprisingly. Doesn’t rub her clit the way she prefers, and she comes far too quickly – a consequence of his pacing – left over-sensitive and squirming as he chases his orgasm. But he had been right, she realizes, this was not fucking. His gaze is on her almost the whole time and it is fucking missionary and it was definitely, definitely love-making. He pulls out, which leaves her both thankful and slightly disappointed.

She grabs her cigarettes, after, lights one and offers it to him after filling her lungs with smoke. Her thoughts were clearing now, and she finds that nagging voice, she cultivated in the months in between, in her head again that makes her ask, “When are you expected back?” He shoots her a look. The scathing in her tone betraying the nature of her question. “Beth.”, the tone of his voice making tears prick in the corner of her eyes. He has given her a reason fewer to doubt him and simultaneously made her need more in the process. He draws her close and she lays a leg over his, nestles her front against him, having to see his face for some probably masochistic reason.

“Do you really want to talk about this now? I’m not sure whether you feel… whether you’re ready for this.”, he asks carefully, holding the cigarette up to her mouth for her to take another drag. “Well I guess it’s already kind of too late, no?”, she asks, hating how her voice wobbled. He takes a deep drag, she feels his chest rise underneath her chin. “I meant it, when I said it’s different with you…” He touches his mouth then his eyes fall on her again, I didn’t know that it could feel like this.” he pushes a strand of hair away, gentle in his carefulness. “I never thought I’d ever kiss another woman again, Beth.” Now, she feels like she has to look away, moved by the enormity of his statement. She kisses his chest and moves to sit. “You were right. I wasn’t ready.”, she says. “But I’m glad I asked, nonetheless.” She walks around the bed, reaches for her robe, when he grabs her arm. “I swore an oath to the state, to my wife, my friends and family to protect my family, Beth. I won’t… I can’t do anything that puts them in danger.”, his voice is laced with pain. She kisses him chastely after a second of deliberation. “Come shower with me.” Pulls him towards the bath. Standing underneath the spray of hot water she thinks that although it was painful, she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Benny tries to offer Borgov a draw by perpetual checks, the Russian declines. She attempts consoling her friend later that same evening but finds it impossible. Benny is fuming. “You should have seen his fucking face, Beth. He wasn’t smirking, per se, but there was this fucking air of superiority about him. What an arrogant prick!”, she sighs. “I know, I saw it. I was there.”, she tries again. She’d been surprised, too, by the lack of Vasya's well-practiced reserve. “You should be glad you didn’t encounter him earlier in the tournament, that way you at least got third place.”, she reasons. “Yeah, shared with that idiot Kutuzov.” He looks at her as if it were her fault, he had had to play Borgov in a knock-out-style tournament. “It wasn’t my decision to play against Kutuzov, and to put you up against Vasily… Borgov.”, she covers her misstep with a delicate cough.

His eyebrows make her feel very transpicuous. “Yeah… That’s another thing that doesn’t want to stick in my brain – Vasily.” He pronounces his name in an exaggeratedly feminine voice. A beat. “You’re fucking, aren’t you?” Beth feels the heat creep up her cheeks. Oh, how she hated being a red-head, sometimes. She doesn’t know what to say to defend herself, so she stirs her tea, adds some more sugar, stirs it again before sipping the still too hot liquid. Burns her lip in consequence. “Ow, fuck.” She sets the cup down. “Stop staring at me, you stupid pirate.”, “I can not believe it!”, he exclaims, throwing up his hands. She feels her hackles raise. “How the literal fuck did that happen? I mean if it’s just the sex, I am always willing to offer my services.” She shushes him and tries to swat away his suggestive eyebrow waggling. Several guests are turning inside the restaurant, searching for the cause of the excessive cussing.

“Oh my god, I was a trophy, wasn’t I?!” he exclaims. How is this about him? She voices her confusion, still trying to restrain his wildly gesturing hands. “What are you talking about?” He wrestles a hand free and points it at her face. Rude. “This is what you do, Beth Harmon. You collect trophies. You win against someone and then you fuck them, because you can.”, “It’s not like that.”, she contradicts curtly, feeling her patience with this conversation come to an end. “Yes, you do. First Harry, then Townes, then me. Now, him. This is exactly what you do!” his voice is all incredulous excitement. It won’t help her, to point out that she didn’t fuck Townes. “No, it’s not.” She silences him more sharply than intended, irritation clear in her tone. It shuts him up, but it doesn’t have the effect she had wanted. Doesn’t dissuade his interest in the least.

The silence that follows makes her want to eat her words. “Fuck me sideways… Beth. What the hell are you doing?!”, he whispers harshly. All laughter gone from his features. He turns around, eyes scanning the room and finds Borgov and his family, as well as the two obligatory KGB agents. As if she didn’t already know their precise position. Her eye having been drawn to him immediately upon entering the hotel’s restaurant. “You do know that the woman across him is his wife, right, Beth? And the boy next to her, his son.”, “Yes.”, guilt gnaws at her like hunger. Insistent. “Then let me ask you this again.” His face is very serious, “What the hell are you doing?”

Beth feels her eye drawn to the little group, the picture-perfect family. He looks up at the same time, maybe he felt her gaze, maybe he’d been watching them the whole time. His eyes are dark, intense. The thing in her chest flutters weakly. “Oh, god!”, she hears the clonk that Benny’s head makes when it comes into contact with the table. “You’re delusional.”, “Benny!”, she interrupts him, angry now. “You know that this is extremely stupid, right?” Her friend is ruffling his hair, eyes a little worried. “Do the men in black, shadowing him, know?” Her fiddling with the serviette is clearly answer enough for him. “He’s a Soviet. Don’t you think it’s, I don’t know, a plot? To make you a commie, perhaps?” her friend seems genuinely concerned, now. And worried. She snorts. “It’s most certainly their intention, yes.” Her friend’s facial features derail and stop at some pretty undignified gaping. “You can’t be serious. Beth.” He says, finally, “How do you think this is gonna end?”

She doesn’t have an answer to that but can’t stand her friends pity and thus, simply starts eating. He seems to take the hint and follows her example. It is a little while later that he asks her, mouth full of steak, which is disgusting, frankly. “Wait so are you gonna, like, make moon-eyes at the board over him tomorrow?” She doesn’t even have time to dignify this with an answer, before he swallows, ducks his head, “Oh, shit.” She turns around to follow his gaze. Speaking of the devil. “Miss Harmon… Mr. Watts.” The latter name is spoken in a tone bordering on snotty. She gulps her mouth-full down but isn’t fast enough to talk instead of Benny. “Yeah, good game, Borgov.” A flare of irritation at him using the name she feels immaturely entitled to. She sees the KGB next to him stiffening at the insult but he simply lets it slide with a tilt of his head. Unassailable in his cockiness. It’s a new side of his. She likes it. “I agree, you played well. Ruthless.”, she assents. His eyes turn two shades less frosty. She has to bend her head to hide her fond smile in a curtain of red. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to playing against you tomorrow.” He says with an almost imperceptible amount of warmth, before a smile tugs on the left corner his mouth. ‘Oh, you’ll get it.’, she thinks. “Though you should better go to bed soon, if you wish to… have a chance.” His hand lands on her exposed shoulder and lingers maybe a second. Before he moves onwards. His wife berating him for something. “Was that -, what the hell? Did he -?”, “Shut up, Benny.” She stares at his retreating back.

She wins by playing mercilessly and concise, is a little smug. But, he joins the clapping crowd, smiling affectionately, afterwards. Unfortunately, that means that the tournament is drawing to an end. There is only enough time for a quick and unfortunately utterly chaste ‘will I see you in Paris?’ in the elevator, to ensure that they’d meet again soon.

“Walk with me dear.” The sentence is less question more order, but it's not this sentiment that leaves her dumbfounded. Mrs. Borgov. Beautifully coiffed hair, pristine, never a strand out of order. Her dark red lipstick is artfully painted onto her elegant lips. She breathes the French spirit in a way that Beth envies. They’ve never talked before, yet Mrs. Borgov stands next to her small breakfast table, demanding. Shrouded in a thin veil of politeness. Beth almost chokes on the coffee she is sipping, tries frantically to think of an escape as she sets down the porcelain cup. In the end, she comes up with unfavourably few excuses. He opens her mouth to voice a pathetically feeble example, when she takes in Mrs. Borgov’s expression. It’s that of a woman who won’t be dissuaded. Beth breathes deeply, the woman might not know much, she should not incriminate herself before she knows what the shape of her accusation will be. Gathers her purse and coat.

Beth notices the lack of suspiciously suit-clad followers and voices her surprise. Mrs. Borgov breathes in deeply, the nippy air leaving her complexion untouched, Beth notes. She laughs gracefully, “It’s not really me, they are concerned about defecting…”, Beth’s glance at her expression confirms the woman’s undisturbed air of benignancy. “I love Parisian fashion, as it seems you do, too.” The woman takes in her form, rendering Beth hot, uncomfortable. Mrs. Borgov sighs, some of the placidness melting away from her features. “They see it as a frivolous entertainment, a little dishonouring, perhaps, for a Soviet wife. But ultimately beneath them.” They pass a few stores in the lazy street, elegant women passing them in short skirts, unbothered by the cold.

“Let’s go inside this one.”, Mrs. Borgov incorporates Beth into her impromptu shopping trip. And while Beth would commonly do few things with less inhibition than shopping, she finds herself hesitant. She still has not been able to suss out Mrs. Borgov’s intention behind dragging her here. They look at the mannequins, comment on pieces idly. A sense of security envelops Beth eventually. The woman seems perfectly benign in her intentions. Maybe she’d been desperate to break free from the tournament environment, surely stifling to her after having attended numerous. “It must be nice to have this small amount of freedom”, Beth remarks idly. Inconsistent with her previous easy assents, the woman next to her remains quiet.

“Freedom is an illusion.”, she says with an air of finality. Rendering Beth’s pulse elevated with surprise. Beth is aware she is staring at the older woman, knows it to be impolite, forces her mind to contemplate the said. The statement was incorrect, she thinks. She knows many liberties, takes them freely. Though, from a Soviet perspective, this may be different. She feels no small amount of pride in her Americanness as she voices her thoughts. Mrs. Borgov’s answering glance borders derisive. “Oh yes, I am sure you are right. Just as your government did not care about the things you did while in Moscow.”, irony soaking through the fabric of her voice. A beat, Beth rarely feels as if she’d choked on her tongue. A pitying glance from the woman besides her. “They allow you small liberties, no doubt. But within a fortified framework, dear. Once you stray, if only a step, you will be punished.” Beth huffs unable to accept that statement at present, yet her mind is cast back unwillingly to her minder.

“Surely there are inalienable freedoms, personal freedoms. Freedom of choice.” The woman looks at her sharply. “Can choice be truly free, if the options are limited by what is considered decorous?” Beth remains silent after. She hadn’t prepared for this ideological debate, that is feeling more and more as if they are dancing around a different issue altogether. She must be careful of her steps, regardless of her thoughts. The woman must be able to read Beth’s features, though. Uncannily like her husband in this. Maybe that’s where she had to learn, Beth thinks, something clenching within her painfully at this. Vasily Borgov’s emotions as obvious as the sea is blue. Differing, only in shades. “You, Americans all foolishly believe in concepts like freedom of choice. Freedom to choose whom to love, for example.”, Beth’s pulse rushes through her, she feels like they are hurtling towards something, now, and it’s too late to stop. “You are obviously not free to choose whom you love…” She feigns incomprehension. Knows she’s stalling. “At least not when you’re important, dear. How can you, by example, claim to be free to choose whom you love, when you’ve ended up here, anyway.” Beth tries to prepare for it. “In love with my husband.”

Mortification. The woman looks at her squarely, assessing. “I'm not -. I would never.”, “No?” Mrs. Borgov questions with the voice of someone who knows she is right. “Tell me, dear, is he not your whole world?” Her silence is condemning. “I may like fashion and frivolous things, but you should know, not to underestimate me for it.” She intones, piercing. All sense of her previous amicability gone. The woman crumples the dress on the rack in front of her that she had been fingering. “You truly have no shame.” Beth can’t help but feel the guilt wrecking her. The woman is right. Although she is not the adulterer, she had not been unknowing. A willing participant even. Mrs. Borgov smooths out the creases she’d created, almost apologetically. “You love him because our government told him to make you a comrade… And because he chose this way to secure your... loyality.”, Finally, she moves her piercing gaze away from Beth. “And it seems like he’s been quite successful… Or did you not mean for me to find your lipstick on his clothes or your perfume on his body?” All the blood in her head rushes into her stomach, Beth feels faint. There is nothing left to say. An apology would be dishonest. She can’t promise she won’t continue. She isn’t certain what Mrs. Borgov expected from this. The silence between them feels like a small eternity. It feels like the woman is waiting for something, something Beth is not delivering.

Her face changes suddenly, a realization setting in, leaving the woman stunned-looking. “You know?” Beth considers lying. “Yes.”, “And yet, you went along with it?!” She sounds a little winded. Beth looks up at the woman, fast enough, to catch the surprise giving way to pain, before the woman’s shutters fall. Now it’s Beth who feels sorry for the woman. It can’t have been easy to be a wife to Borgov. Unable to share his propensity to love the game they both obsess over. Beth takes in the woman’s straight-backed, dignified beauty. She feels like she should apologize, this time. “If it helps. I don’t know why he’d ever go for me…” She falls silent. It doesn’t, clearly. Beth wishes she were better at human interactions. Mrs. Borgov chastising her with a frosty glance. “Please, it’s such a cliché…”, Beth winces. Mrs. Borgov doesn’t know, of course, that Beth catches Vasily sometimes, deigning himself to be too old for her. She may be atrocious at social interactions, but she is positive this sentiment would not be appreciated.

The woman is pensive, silent yet they continue wandering through the racks. Beth isn’t sure whether there is more to be said. Doesn’t know why they still punish one another by continuing with this farce of a shopping trip. In spite of that, she doesn’t feel it her place to suggest they split. In the end it’s the woman who sighs, breaking the oppressive silence. “Although, it pains me to say, I guess he is happier now…” Beth, attuned to the woman like she is rarely to another person’s every move, recognizes a slight loosening in the woman’s shoulders. A deep breath and she looks freer now, maybe. Beth doesn’t respond. “Let me tell you something, child.” Beth is anxious, doesn’t want to miss a word. “It’s always a little lonely as a chess player’s wife. His obsession with anything, or anyone else paling in comparison to playing.” She sounds a little wistful. “And, now you…” The woman's mouth sharpens. “He started following your plays even before Mexico, you’d not played as well then as you do, now. But after Paris he started being invested in you, not just your games.” Her intonation changes to determined, almost imploring, Beth thinks. She shakes her head. “I don’t understand this type of obsession, and maybe, I’m even glad that I don’t share the burden the both of you do…” Beth understands that. Hears the echo of Mr. Shaibel’s ‘Two sides of the same coin.’, even if she wouldn’t trade her passion for the world.

“Come.”, Mrs. Borgov directs them out of the store. “I’ve become weary of this, here.” They find themselves walking along the promenade of the Seine on their way back to the hotel. Beth wonders what Vasily is doing, now. Whether he might be wondering the same about her. “I’m certain I’d lose against you either way.”, Mrs. Borgov says, suddenly. Looking old in a way she hadn’t, previously. “All this time, I was trying to devise a plan to get him back. And, I’m certain it would work. He is more honourable than selfish… But, I wouldn’t win.”, Mrs. Borgov states with certainty, and Beth can see them clearly: One future where she turns Soviet, a happy little wife, inside a microcosmos because everyone else would shun them. But content together. Another one, where he leaves everything behind. Maybe they could live here, in Paris. They’d both feel guilty certainly. And one final future, where they give up on one another. She sees them turning around one another, at matches, their worlds revolving around an axis that is off-kilter. She can almost taste the devastation wrecking her, but what would it do to him?

Borgov would suffer for failing his task and his family depended on him. None of the futures seem acceptable and she feels like something is suffocating within her, that fragile thing that flutters when she sees him, when he loves her. Yet, she forces herself to see beyond that crushing pain. It’s shocking to her, just how little she concerns herself with the fates of the people around her. Yes, she’d felt a little uncomfortable about the affair here and there, there had been a nagging voice in the back of her mind. But in the end, she’d only really worried about her own heart, hadn’t she? Protected herself. Cared, maybe, about his. Mrs. Borgov was right, maybe chess players were inherently obsessed. With winning. With themselves. It made them terribly egoistic people. She chances a humbled glance at a pensive Mrs. Borgov “There is nothing I can do for you now, can’t I?”, What would she even do? She feels her selfishness keenly. Mrs. Borgov stops and Beth too, when she notices. “Maybe not for me…” the surrounding traffic noise parallel to them almost swallows her voice, the wind pulling at the garments surrounding the woman’s willowy figure. Strength in her stoic as she says this. “But it’s a mother’s burden to always love her children more than herself.”

He prepares for his game against her, in her room. He is pensive, yet calm, sharp in his considerations. He is seated on her couch, dressed in black slacks, a crisp white shirt, his jacket discarded. Head placed in his hand. Utterly distracting in his handsomeness. “You should prepare, too.”, he tells her sternly. Doesn’t look at Beth, who is lounging beside him. Her bare feet are pushed underneath his warm thigh, her upper back reclined against the couches side rest. She is supposed to read a book on endgames, but it’s dreadfully boring. She shifts, the wood digs in her back. He looks over evenly, “You’re undisciplined.”, turns back to the game, eyes lingering disappointingly shortly on her bare legs. Beth tries, she really does, but watching him play is more entertaining by far. Naturally, she climbs into his lap and starts kissing his throat.

“Bishop to E5”, she says before he is able to sigh in reprove. He sits upright, so that she has the necessary space. Mollified by her studying by playing, it seems. “No, that’s too risky. Rook is guarding the knight on G7”, he disagrees. She fingers his cravat, “Try it.” He huffs. “Fine. Knight to C6, guarding, putting pressure on B5.” She humms, enjoying his style, his accent. He has gotten so strong at English, but she likes him speaking Russian the best. Opens the first few buttons, “White queen to D3”, he is silent. Leans back slightly. Sees it, now? She claims the space he’s giving her by arching her back. “Pinning my, ah -, queen?” Rocks herself against his clothed erection languidly. Sighs at the feeling. His hands are full of her waist, now, but he is still looking at the board. “Queen’s knight to F6 to prevent the capture of D5.” Starts peppering kisses all over his face. “Knight to G5.” A defeated sigh.

She hums happily, breathes against his mouth between kisses, sharing air. Few things in life are sweeter. She waits for his move, asks him about it breathily. “Did you really expect me to be able to continue” he grumbles. She smiles, pleased, before she guides his hand inside her panties. He mumbles something in Russian about finding her so wet. His heated eyes. She bows forward, whispers, “Please, don’t make me beg.”, into his ear. Eager. She needs his love, like air. His hand cards in her hair, a little rough. She lets her head tip back slightly with his pull, watching him. He chuckles at her carefree display of want, kisses her once more thoroughly, motions her to scoot back far enough for him to push his slacks and boxers down. She doesn’t want to wait for long, climbs him again quickly. He pushes her panties to the side, and she sinks down on him with a drawn-out sigh. The stretch familiar by now, welcome. She sets the pace this time, rides him. His eyes liquid for her, she feels high on it. Certain suddenly, that this is it for her. The sentiment must show on her face and she feels too raw for that, unable to retreat, so she does her best to distract him from her eyes. His large hand splayed against her lower back, helping her grind down against him beautifully on the down-stroke. Her nipples are stiff, breasts uncovered lewdly, rubbing against his crisp white shirt deliciously. It can’t be enough for him, but she feels her orgasm approaching fast, now, cresting over her inexorably.

Body bowed as if offering herself, he feels reminded of that moment on the bridge – a lifetime away. She sets the pace this time, long limbs straining with the movement. He helps her maintain her movement when she is too wrought out to do so, hands gripping her panty-clad ass, she is left panting into his throat. She comes twice, so beautifully, surprised when it happens, as she always seems to be. The lace is obscenely stretched to the side and he has to close his eyes, now. Pushing away his approaching climax. Or maybe he doesn’t, he thinks before pulling her of – she mewls at the loss – and flips her, pushes her lace panties to her knees, lewd, heart-shaped behind. Fucks her into the backrest. She is incoherent, mouth open, eyes unfocused. He hauls her up for a messy kiss, but she is too pliable, now, and he is getting frantic, so he allows her to brace against the backrest, limply. Follows her. Paints her ass and thighs in white quickly.

He shivers full-bodied behind her, groans, kisses her left shoulder, when he pulls out carefully. She feels him wipe of the semen with a discarded item of clothing, before he pulls her panties up, gently. His caring makes tears prick at her eyes suddenly. She turns, glad he doesn’t notice. His attention is drawn by the stained fabric in his hand, before he put it to the side face unreadable. She needs him close then, still not certain she won’t burst into tears any second. His arms receive her, as they always do. They shuffle the three paces to the bed together and she simply lets herself drop, pulling him along. There they lie, limbs sprawling together in a little bubble of their own. It’s a little undignified she thinks, laughing at herself quietly. He looks over, shares her mirth and she knows, knows he feels the same. Feels full, bursting at the seams, content. “I love you, Vasya.” It bursts out. Shocking her. The mirth in his face is eradicated, replaced a silent fervour. She hadn’t meant to say that. There is no turning back from these words. Which is likely the reason she’s never spoken them. To anyone. She wants to burrow into his side to hide herself from his gaze, but that’s silly. He seems to realize her discomfort and reaches for her hand, silent.

She casts around for words, eyes finally finding the game they had abandoned. “Do you see it, now? It’s a lot faster than the line you were playing.”, a long beat in which he still looks at her as if memorizing her face, then he lifts his head and turns towards the board. A sigh, “It’s a lot riskier.” She smiles in assent.

Regrettably, they have a dinner to attend. Beth is stood in front of her room’s full-length mirror in skirt and a bra, fumbles with the closure of her necklace. Her figure graceful, the light of dying sun shining through the French windows tinging her red, long shadows in all her crevices. He wants to bottle this moment to keep. Moves to help her before she’s had time to voice her plea. His hand smooths away her drying hair, closes the clasp, hands lingering on her nape. This need to touch, to reassure himself of her physical presence is not rational, he thinks. She’s looking at his face through the mirror. “You, ah, should probably change your shirt. It’s a little rumpled.”, he doesn’t understand her embarrassment until he finds the smudge of lipstick – undeniably her shade. Ah. He drops a kiss on the crown of her head. It would turn quite a few heads, he agrees. Returns to running his hand through the fuzz at the nape of her neck.

She clears her throat then, a big breath that expands her rib-cage, she seems nervous. “Did you have a chance to…” she fidgets, “talk to your wife?” His movement stills, the question catching him off-guard. It is a topic, Beth usually avoided for dear life. “Maria?”, He resumes his movement, waiting for her to continue. “She came to talk to me.” Ah, that. He doesn’t know what to expect – a pulling feeling in his chest. He loves his wife in his own way, years of friendship tend to do that, but he’d be loath to have her be the cause of the sadness in Beth’s eyes, before. Another deep breath, lifting her frame underneath his hands, squares her shoulders, chin up. “There might be a way.”, she says.

He wins the last game against Beth – she is fuming, but he’d been playing white. It had been a feather to tip the balance in his favour, this time. He knows this. And she is good, ever getting better. Beth Harmon has not touched the ceiling yet. That doesn’t stop his satisfied amusement at her anger. “Ugh, it was so goddammned close this time, but who would’ve thought you would take the slightly longer way, rather than the straight win.”, he tries to remain unmoved, but her emotion at something so small, so dependent on luck, is stripping his self-control. “I was so certain I could surprise you with that move and then you didn’t even want to push that route.”, “You’ll learn.”, he replies evenly. Delighted at the dark look she gifts him with. “Fuck, and now you’re gloating!” she does a little half-turn, throwing up her hands in exasperation. He wants to reach out and kiss the annoyance-induced crinkle in her forehead away. But he is aware the two agents are not far away. She must see it in his face, though and they themselves smoothen out. “It was a good game.”, she admits, then, seemingly despite herself. He leans against the railing they are stood next to, shifts his body forward, slightly, just enough to be a little in her space. “Don’t be a sore loser, love. You played wonderfully, as well.” He says then, quietly, just for her. Her answering smile leaves him exuberant.

“Papa!”, the call from behind him surprises him and startles her. He barely has enough time to turn before his boy is in his arms. “You won, congratulations, Papa.”, Mikhail says happily, before he spots the woman next to him and hides in his neck. “Misha”, his wife calls out, exasperated, not far behind, “You’re getting a little too old to jump your father like this.” He feels Beth stiffen next to him; her eyes widen. He wishes now that they had had time to talk before the game, that he could have told her. Maria’s reached them, a casual touch to his upper arm. “Vasya… And, Miss Harmon. Of course.”, she adds in English, a little frost seeping into her tone, while her face betrays none of her emotions. He sighs internally, that was unnecessary, she had likely seen the pair of them from meters away. Maria glances at him fleetingly, faintly apologetic. He was right.

“Mrs. Borgov.”, Beth’s tone is a little stilted. His wife’s eyes stray to the KGB, who are closer, now. “Good to make your acquaintance, finally.”, Beth’s face displays confusion only for a few seconds, before she masters herself. “How wonderful you played.” A benevolent smile on his wife’s face that Borgov can tell is genuine by virtue of knowing her almost his whole life. “Nothing in comparison to… your husband, of course.”, Beth tilts her head down as if this is a humble admission, but everyone noticed her stumble. One of the men behind them has the gall to chuckle, which makes Maria’s hand clench, but they move out of hearing range at last. Misha fidgets in his hold, the boy really is getting to heavy to jump him like that. He looks down to find him staring at the red-headed woman beside him curiously. The urge to laugh overcomes him – yes, she tends to do that to Borgov men. Beth seems utterly uncomfortable in her skin, eyes flighty, searching for an exit, perhaps? And he can’t have that.

“Misha, don’t be impolite, greet Beth.”, he chides gently but sternly. “Hello, Beth.”, the boy greets and hides in his collar, again. To his joy, she seems delighted. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mikhail.”, she says in flawless Russian, offers his son a hand in greeting. He is quick to shake it, not far away from his torso and consequently not far from himself and pulls the hand back to sling around his father’s neck. He is distracted by his son for a little while, who whispers his awe at Beth’s shade of hair into his ear. Vasily agrees easily and places a kiss on his boy’s temple.

Vasily holding his son is disconcerting to her for several reasons – it puts the reality of what she’s doing inarguably to the forefront, the boy has gotten a little taller compared to what she remembered in Mexico or Paris, he looks like neither parent, really, he is a dark blonde, though maybe his eyes remind her of his father’s and lastly, Vasily is such a father. He is clearly affectionate, indulgent even, utterly distracted by what his son is whispering into his ear. It makes her strangely warm inside, which – she doesn’t even know how to parse that. She notices Mrs. Borgov observing her observing them. Suddenly that uncomfortable feeling is back. What the hell is she doing here, she should retreat ASAP. But strangely, his wife doesn’t appear as hostile anymore. There is a definite warmth in her gaze when she takes in how father and son interact and somehow Beth feels like she’s garnered a new respect in the woman’s eyes. Fuck, she doesn’t know the protocol for this. Way too far away from the shore of anything known.

“I should probably go, give you some time alone…”, she offers then, unwilling to overstep even more boundaries today. Borgov’s gaze snaps to her and she feels comforted at his obvious look of reluctance. Of course, Mrs. Borgov sees that, too. Gosh, this is so uncomfortable. Her, “No.”, therefore comes absolutely from left-field. “We should meet again for dinner this evening, Miss Harmon.”, Mrs. Borgov says, before she quickly turns back towards her family. “Come, Misha.”, it’s said lightly, almost airily. The boy allows himself to be taken from his father willingly. “Let’s go. It was good meeting you, Miss Harmon.”, her tone ringing authentic. Beth’s eyes snap to Borgov, although she knows she really, really shouldn’t. He’ll be able to read her like he always does, see her disappointment at him leaving her and feel guilty. She feels childish, infantile for hoping he won’t leave, because of course he will. “Will you come upstairs with us, Papa?”, the boy voices the question that is in the room, palpable. Mrs. Borgov faces to her husband in question. Borgov bends down, not quite to a height with his son, but closer. “Follow your Mama, Misha, I still have to go over a few more games, before we can have dinner together, okay?” Beth is sure her face blends into her hair now. The blatancy of the statement almost indecent. She can not face at the Mrs. now, who offers a long sigh. The boy pouts a little, but then turns to Beth, his phrasing clearly trained “It was nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Beth… See you later, okay?” The addendum a lot more age-appropriate. Beth manages a weak nod. “Don’t come back too late.”, Mrs. Borgov reminds her husband evenly, before she leaves.

All the air leaves Beth at once, when he straightens, puts his hands in his pockets. “I’d say that went well.”, he says a private little tug on the left corner of his mouth, looking very sophisticated and a lot less frazzled than she feels. She doesn’t care about the agents looking on, she hits him on the chest little and points at his face, “Never do that to me again, you hear that!” And then, as the realization dawns, “God, I’ll have to sit through a whole dinner of this, now, right? Fuck!” his eyes are sparkling mirthfully, and the tug has widened into an almost grin. And he is so frustratingly, irritatingly him that moment, she simply can’t help herself. “Come, Borgov, I need to go over a few games with you, immediately.” Pulls him along towards the elevator, pointedly ignoring his low chuckle.

She is glorious and he worries distractedly, that he’ll never get enough of this, the long lines of her body, what she is like to touch, her taste. Her unfocused eyes and her mouth opened lightly and, all the little sighs as well as the more reckless abandon. They calm down together side by side, basking in the afterglow. The room is darkening rapidly. She moves to rest her front against his side, their skin still a little clammy. There is a vulnerability in her eyes that he had hoped he would be able to fuck away. He waits for her to speak, “Isn’t it over now? You reclaimed the title of being able to beat me and that’s that.”

He wonders at the paths her thoughts take, sometimes. They speak of deeply ingrained loneliness, a fear of being left behind. He sighs remembering the file an agent gave him years ago now, before he’d ever met her in person. A yellow file with names and dates and wins. He remembers the almost innocuous statement about her life in an orphanage until the age of thirteen or fourteen, the file hadn’t been clear on that. He remembers the second walk they’d ever taken together, back in Moscow, when both of them still had not known anything, only suspected. She’d told him about her mother, how she’d never told anyone about her last words. She’d surprised herself back then, with her frankness towards him.

He pulls her, equal parts woman and girl, closer, the desire to destroy everyone who’d ever hurt her singing in his blood. Vows to never do the same to her. “No, never.”, he responds quietly, then, not letting his turmoil show. But Beth slings her arm around his middle, sensing the paths of his thoughts, too, perhaps. “You are a thorn in their eye.”, he elaborates. The blow she’s inflicted on his country’s pride was far too great for a meagre win to eradicate. He thinks back on the conversations with his superiors after the US tournament in Boston. Congratulating him on establishing a sexual relationship, it turns his stomach a little. No, she would have to be defeated thoroughly for them to be contented. Either left permanently unable to play at all, if not for them. She reaches for her packet of cigarettes, a French brand this time, and they share one. Borgov finds himself disappointed that it doesn’t show her lipstick, something he come to realize truly makes or breaks a cigarette’s flavour. It’s probably on him, though, on his face, or his cock, maybe. Which makes the cigarette smokable. “There has been pressure on me to divorce her, get a child on you”, he says finally. She is wide-eyed, then her eyebrows scrunch and she looks at the stains they’ve left on the bedding. “I can’t.”, he says, “Not now.”, hoping she understands, willing it. “It wouldn’t be right.” She holds his gaze and he thinks that maybe she does, this time. Doesn’t turn it onto herself, as she is so fond of doing, heating and cooling it repeatedly until it’s forged into something sharp as steel and painful.

The next tournament – the Berlin Interzonal – has both of their attendances as the main highlight. It’s not the only tournament deciding who of the grandmasters will challenge his world champion title, but it is an important one. It thus causes a great ruckus in the chess community, when she doesn’t come, even though she had confirmed her presence. He is asked about her repeatedly in interviews, since it’s become well-known that the two of them are close, though the press remains quizzical at what the exact nature of their relationship is. His wife translates their many pointed, insinuating questions with an air of indifference, interprets his responses wisely and with the patience of an angel.

His two agents are even more extreme in their control of him, because of it, shadowing his every step. Allowing his wife a little more freedom. The only fact able to stop them from asking for more personnel to shadow his family more closely, is his insistence that she promised she’d attend the Interzonal in Moscow 43 days later. She’s gotten sick, he suggests. He walks through Berlin alone attempting to look appropriately disappointed and finds it not to be particularly difficult.

The evening before they are to return to Russia, his wife comes to their shared room victorious, almost giddy. She has the papers in her pocket. She looks years younger now, and that lifts a heavy burden from his heart, maybe this can be a new beginning for the both of them, maybe one day she’ll be able to forgive him for putting her through this. They leave at four in the morning, their boy draped over his shoulder, fast asleep. Benny Watts’ face is stoic as he hands him the keys. He feels like he should thank him, but they are quickly running out of time. It’s only enough for a quick shake of the hands before they drive towards the embassy. There is still an opportunity to return he thinks, undo the damage before it’s uncovered. He tries not to think about what they’re leaving behind. What might await them. They could ban him from ever playing at international championships again. His heart is beating wildly in his throat. Maria must recognize his distress, takes his hand calmly. Smiles reassuringly. But the anxiety won’t leave his bones until the plane is in the air.

Many US chess officials, as well as some politicians, who can’t stand a second without exploiting his defection, await them immediately after the plane stops moving on the landing airstrip. She is somewhere in the back, looks like she hasn’t slept, dark smudges underneath her anxious eyes. There is a rushing in his ears blotting out all other sound as she starts pushing through the crowd. Then, she is in his arms, laughing and crying and he can breathe again.