The Black King, chaper 2
Mar. 5th, 2021 02:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiTitle: The Black King
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 2/?
Word Count: 1424
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: None so far. As this is a work in progress it may change.
Summary: In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. In December 1991 the Soviet Union was dissolved. And in March 1992 Beth Harmon went to Russia to look for her past.
This fic can be read as a standalone, but it is written as a sequel to Taking the White Queen.
The fic on AO3
The door opened, Beth met the eyes of the man who stood on the other side, and she had to fight a sudden sense of vertigo.
“He hasn’t changed at all,” she thought in surprise. Somehow Jolene’s speculations had turned into truths in Beth’s mind, and she had become certain would meet an old man she wouldn’t recognize. Now she found Borgov looked so much like she remembered him, it felt like she had gone back in time. They stared at each other, none of them saying anything. It was only for a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, then he opened the door wider, so she could step inside.
“Welcome,” he said, but to Beth’s relief, he didn’t offer his hand in greeting. She wasn’t sure how she would react if she touched him, her nervosity had reached a new high as an avalanche of thoughts and emotions crashed through her mind. The initial shock of seeing him ebbed away slightly, and now she could see he had aged, after all, but changed far less than she had. His dark hair was still thick but had turned iron grey, the lines in his face had deepened and the skin had grown softer around the chin. His eyes were the same; cool blue, which only showed emotions if he chose to. Borgov had not looked particularly youthful at forty; he could as well have been five, or even ten years older. Sometime during their years apart, this had changed; had she now known his age she would have said he was a man in his 50s.
He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, casually open at the throat, and the cuffs rolled up. Beth couldn’t resist glancing at his waistline, which was decidedly paunch-free, and she couldn’t help thinking she was going to read Jolene the riot act for putting that particular mage in her mind. She realized her eyes were lingering, taking in the flat stomach and broad shoulders, and she wrenched her eyes away. Her face felt hot, and she fumbled with the buttons of her coat. There was no reason for her to be surprised that he was still in good shape; everyone knew that when Borgov didn’t play chess, he exercised. Back then it had been unusual, especially for a man of a more intellectual bent, so unusual people had talked about it. Nowadays everyone went to the gym, or jogged, so why would Borgov have given up something he had always done?
Her inside felt oddly liquid, and heat pooled low in her belly. For all her planning Beth had not taken into account she would still find Borgov attractive. She had wanted to look good so he could see what he had let go of; she had not expected to be reminded of what she had lost. She had always been more attracted by mind over physical appearances. It had been like that with Borgov too, but she remembered the breathless excitement she had felt the first time she saw him without clothes. Unbidden memories of touching him rose in Beth’s mind; how he had moved inside her; her hands on his back, feeling the muscles move under the skin. Trailing kisses down his stomach, deliberately avoiding going lower, until his hand in her hair had pulled her mouth to where he wanted it.
“Damn,” Beth thought. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Here she was coming undone, not even five minutes after seeing him again. The buttons were finally obeying, and she shrugged off her coat, taking a deep breath to try to settle her nerves a little. When she looked up she found Borgov staring at her, but he quickly looked away.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” his voice was abrupt.
“Yes please,” she said, but he had already turned away and disappeared into the apartment before she had finished the sentence. It was rude, which was completely out of character for him, and Beth thought he must feel as unsettled as she did, and in need of some time alone to collect himself. She felt relieved, she could use a minute or two herself to calm down too.
After hanging up her coat she walked after him into a living room, looking around with interest. The only example of Borgov’s taste she had ever seen were the garish ties he favored. He had once told her it was his private rebellion. Not breaking any rules, but a little poke at the fine line to what was accepted. His home was all his, and she was intensely curious about how he chose to live.
The room had the large windows and high ceiling she expected but was smaller, and the proportions strange; it was too narrow for its depth. She realized why when she saw the intricate stucco work at the ceiling. Two corners were elaborately finished with ornamental scrolls rosettes, but at the opposite corners, the decorations were just abruptly cut off by the wall. At some point, the original large apartments have been made into smaller ones. Borgov’s apartment was small, she could see a kitchen through an open door and hear Borgov move inside, and then there was only one other door, closed to his bedroom, she supposed.
Beth walked slowly around the room. Bookshelves lined the wall, and the floor was almost covered by kilim carpet in red, black, and ochre. Two armchairs stood at an angle to each other by the windows, a small table between them, and in the middle of the room; a table with a chessboard set up. There was no television set, but a radio and a gramophone. She peered at the sleeve of a record laying on top of it; a cello suite by Bach. A German record, she saw, probably something he had purchased on a tournament. Most of the bookshelves were filled with books, the majority of them about chess in Russian, and English, and another language she didn't know. Polish perhaps. She hadn’t known he spoke more languages. And there were the books she had written, their spines broken and worn: they had been read and re-read. Several chess trophies, but not nearly as many as he had won over the years, so presumably he only displayed those which had a special meaning for him. Several boxes of chess sets. A shelf was full of photos. None of Borgov himself, but there were a few of a couple in outdated fashions, probably his parents, and several of his son. He grew up before Beth’s eyes; in the last ones, a smiling woman joined him, and then two small children. And then her heart stopped for a moment when she saw a photo of herself. Beth had never seen this particular photo of herself before, but she knew when it had been taken; in the evening she had won the Moscow Invitational. Her pictures had been taken over and over then, and Borgov must have obtained it from one of the photographers.
Nothing in the room was new, but everything was neat and clean and the dark wood of the furniture polished. Beth could tell it was a room that was kept in order at all times, she was sure Borgov had not had to frantically clean because she was coming. It was a room as far from her taste as she could imagine, but it still gave her the same feeling as her own large and airy apartment in Paris, where the windows opened out to a terrace, and you could see the rooftops of half of the city. It was completely different from Borgov's home, decorated in modern Scandinavian design, and light colors, but the atmosphere still felt the same. It was easy to imagine Borgov playing chess, reading, and listening to music here, alone most of the time, but by choice, not of loneliness, just like she did.
When Borgov reemerged carrying a tray of tea utensils, the butterflies in Beth’s stomach were only weakly fluttering. He placed it at the small table by the window and motioned for her to sit down. He hadn’t asked her how she wanted her tea, but he prepared her just the way she liked, and she felt touched he remembered such a trivial detail. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Borgov spoke.
“I’ve often wondered what I would say to you if I ever saw you again, and if I could make you understand what happened.”
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 2/?
Word Count: 1424
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: None so far. As this is a work in progress it may change.
Summary: In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. In December 1991 the Soviet Union was dissolved. And in March 1992 Beth Harmon went to Russia to look for her past.
This fic can be read as a standalone, but it is written as a sequel to Taking the White Queen.
The fic on AO3
The door opened, Beth met the eyes of the man who stood on the other side, and she had to fight a sudden sense of vertigo.
“He hasn’t changed at all,” she thought in surprise. Somehow Jolene’s speculations had turned into truths in Beth’s mind, and she had become certain would meet an old man she wouldn’t recognize. Now she found Borgov looked so much like she remembered him, it felt like she had gone back in time. They stared at each other, none of them saying anything. It was only for a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, then he opened the door wider, so she could step inside.
“Welcome,” he said, but to Beth’s relief, he didn’t offer his hand in greeting. She wasn’t sure how she would react if she touched him, her nervosity had reached a new high as an avalanche of thoughts and emotions crashed through her mind. The initial shock of seeing him ebbed away slightly, and now she could see he had aged, after all, but changed far less than she had. His dark hair was still thick but had turned iron grey, the lines in his face had deepened and the skin had grown softer around the chin. His eyes were the same; cool blue, which only showed emotions if he chose to. Borgov had not looked particularly youthful at forty; he could as well have been five, or even ten years older. Sometime during their years apart, this had changed; had she now known his age she would have said he was a man in his 50s.
He was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, casually open at the throat, and the cuffs rolled up. Beth couldn’t resist glancing at his waistline, which was decidedly paunch-free, and she couldn’t help thinking she was going to read Jolene the riot act for putting that particular mage in her mind. She realized her eyes were lingering, taking in the flat stomach and broad shoulders, and she wrenched her eyes away. Her face felt hot, and she fumbled with the buttons of her coat. There was no reason for her to be surprised that he was still in good shape; everyone knew that when Borgov didn’t play chess, he exercised. Back then it had been unusual, especially for a man of a more intellectual bent, so unusual people had talked about it. Nowadays everyone went to the gym, or jogged, so why would Borgov have given up something he had always done?
Her inside felt oddly liquid, and heat pooled low in her belly. For all her planning Beth had not taken into account she would still find Borgov attractive. She had wanted to look good so he could see what he had let go of; she had not expected to be reminded of what she had lost. She had always been more attracted by mind over physical appearances. It had been like that with Borgov too, but she remembered the breathless excitement she had felt the first time she saw him without clothes. Unbidden memories of touching him rose in Beth’s mind; how he had moved inside her; her hands on his back, feeling the muscles move under the skin. Trailing kisses down his stomach, deliberately avoiding going lower, until his hand in her hair had pulled her mouth to where he wanted it.
“Damn,” Beth thought. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Here she was coming undone, not even five minutes after seeing him again. The buttons were finally obeying, and she shrugged off her coat, taking a deep breath to try to settle her nerves a little. When she looked up she found Borgov staring at her, but he quickly looked away.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” his voice was abrupt.
“Yes please,” she said, but he had already turned away and disappeared into the apartment before she had finished the sentence. It was rude, which was completely out of character for him, and Beth thought he must feel as unsettled as she did, and in need of some time alone to collect himself. She felt relieved, she could use a minute or two herself to calm down too.
After hanging up her coat she walked after him into a living room, looking around with interest. The only example of Borgov’s taste she had ever seen were the garish ties he favored. He had once told her it was his private rebellion. Not breaking any rules, but a little poke at the fine line to what was accepted. His home was all his, and she was intensely curious about how he chose to live.
The room had the large windows and high ceiling she expected but was smaller, and the proportions strange; it was too narrow for its depth. She realized why when she saw the intricate stucco work at the ceiling. Two corners were elaborately finished with ornamental scrolls rosettes, but at the opposite corners, the decorations were just abruptly cut off by the wall. At some point, the original large apartments have been made into smaller ones. Borgov’s apartment was small, she could see a kitchen through an open door and hear Borgov move inside, and then there was only one other door, closed to his bedroom, she supposed.
Beth walked slowly around the room. Bookshelves lined the wall, and the floor was almost covered by kilim carpet in red, black, and ochre. Two armchairs stood at an angle to each other by the windows, a small table between them, and in the middle of the room; a table with a chessboard set up. There was no television set, but a radio and a gramophone. She peered at the sleeve of a record laying on top of it; a cello suite by Bach. A German record, she saw, probably something he had purchased on a tournament. Most of the bookshelves were filled with books, the majority of them about chess in Russian, and English, and another language she didn't know. Polish perhaps. She hadn’t known he spoke more languages. And there were the books she had written, their spines broken and worn: they had been read and re-read. Several chess trophies, but not nearly as many as he had won over the years, so presumably he only displayed those which had a special meaning for him. Several boxes of chess sets. A shelf was full of photos. None of Borgov himself, but there were a few of a couple in outdated fashions, probably his parents, and several of his son. He grew up before Beth’s eyes; in the last ones, a smiling woman joined him, and then two small children. And then her heart stopped for a moment when she saw a photo of herself. Beth had never seen this particular photo of herself before, but she knew when it had been taken; in the evening she had won the Moscow Invitational. Her pictures had been taken over and over then, and Borgov must have obtained it from one of the photographers.
Nothing in the room was new, but everything was neat and clean and the dark wood of the furniture polished. Beth could tell it was a room that was kept in order at all times, she was sure Borgov had not had to frantically clean because she was coming. It was a room as far from her taste as she could imagine, but it still gave her the same feeling as her own large and airy apartment in Paris, where the windows opened out to a terrace, and you could see the rooftops of half of the city. It was completely different from Borgov's home, decorated in modern Scandinavian design, and light colors, but the atmosphere still felt the same. It was easy to imagine Borgov playing chess, reading, and listening to music here, alone most of the time, but by choice, not of loneliness, just like she did.
When Borgov reemerged carrying a tray of tea utensils, the butterflies in Beth’s stomach were only weakly fluttering. He placed it at the small table by the window and motioned for her to sit down. He hadn’t asked her how she wanted her tea, but he prepared her just the way she liked, and she felt touched he remembered such a trivial detail. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Borgov spoke.
“I’ve often wondered what I would say to you if I ever saw you again, and if I could make you understand what happened.”
