Chapter Text
The king is the tallest piece in chess.
Every other building in New York looks like a pawn, laid out on the other side of their king, ready to advance the board. If the Empire State Building is the king, then its queen is the Chrysler Building, the next tallest. At least she’s on the correct side.
Chess can be beautiful. Every bright golden light against the black sky reminds her of that. Benny shifts next to her, and if he were the king, and she, the queen, then one of them would be in the wrong place.
Beth doesn’t ask him any questions about the organization of the city, but takes it in on her own. It’s one thing to commit to learning chess, training with him. That doesn’t mean she has to ask him about everything. She’s amazed he doesn’t capitalize on the opportunity to indulge in the sound of his own voice, but then he yawns his way through another intersection, and she almost wishes he would; at least his monologuing would keep him awake.
When they do arrive, Benny leads her down, instead of up, past a wall of garbage bags, and down another set of stairs. Then he hangs up his hat — his crown, she corrects, newly sullen — and follows it with his jacket, and her feet carry her on a tour of the side passages, the bathroom, and it’s settled; no king would live like this. Still, he offers her space for her clothes.
And then, Beth stops before a pile of cushions, hands planted firmly at her waist. Turns. Lets him appear behind her, boots smacking against the bare floor, not with an explanation, but with an air pump.
“I thought I was going to get a couch.”
“Well, I said living room.” Strands of his hair cage over one eye. She wants to fix them. “Just gotta,” He does it himself, and it doesn’t help at all, “pump it up.” He treats the pump like a stair step, and each impact makes it wheeze like a dying goat.
It does not, however, appear to be having any effect.
Benny stops, and they stand side by side, critically eying the stubbornly flat mattress. His lip curls at the thing. “That’s… great.”
Her eyes slide up to his, trailing aimlessly over his chest, his necklaces, head tilting to the side. “What’s your next plan?”
He hesitates, and she watches his fingers twitch, like he’s looking for a piece to move. They dance at the back of his neck, and his arm doesn’t look so thin at that angle. The veins stand out, and she follows one of them along his forearm, then reaches out and covers it with her own hand. Not holding, just a cuff above his wrist. “Benny.”
His eyes follow the motion, and he blinks rapidly, halting and dazed like she just took his queen and that wasn’t part of his trap. His fingers come loose, arm bending at the elbow to extend out to her, lets her keep him cuffed. “Really?”
Beth huffs, releasing him with a quick one-two drum of her fingers next to his pulse, quick and sure where his had been flourishingly light. His arm drops to his side, like the energy he needs to move it is bleeding from where she touched him. “I am not sleeping on your floor.”
Damn him, somehow he almost manages to look offended, even though there’s no other idea he could possibly have. He’s entirely trapped, and they both know it. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and when he does, there’s a rougher quality to his voice. Raging inwardly, Beth thinks, knows that roll against his tongue. “Of course not.” He sees the check. She doesn’t starve for air, doesn’t seem to need to breathe for a moment. “Come on.” He flicks his head to the side, indicating for her to follow, and she knows it’s the wrong time to touch him again.
She follows.
“You remember what I told you?”
“Forget it.”
And they lay side by side in the dark; Beth on the left, Benny on the right. Automatic. She doesn’t think either of them cares to tempt fate by saying another word.