Warning: This fic contains use of language, drug and alcohol abuse, and mentions of trauma.

Benny Watts sat in the back of the cab he'd hired from the Lexington airport, fingers tapping rapid-fire against his knees.

He didn't want to go in.

He didn't want to know what he'd find.

Would she be drunk, high on her pills, unable to so much as recognize him? Or would she be sitting at her chessboard, the pieces all she could see, their moves the only thing in her mind?

The cabbie met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Sir?" he prompted, ever discontent to let someone wallow in doubt when there was money to be made elsewhere.

Benny stopped his tapping. Instead, he got out his wallet, riffling through the pathetic pile of bills. He handed the money over, cash folded between his fingers.

"Keep the change," he said. There was only a dollar in it, either way.

Benny may have been a tight-ass, but he wasn't that tight.

He got out if the car, plucking his back from the left seat, hat now back on his head.

Benny took a breath; the kind you take when you're about to do something stupid that you're likely to regret later, the kind he took when he was about to make a risky chess move and didn't know if it would blow up in his face or not.

He walked up the path, noting the grass that needed a cut and the Tash bags, full to near-bursting with what he knew in his heart was likely bottles f wine.

The former US Champion knocked, and the sound seemed wrong, even to his own ears. Too hollow and empty and lifeless.

"Beth?" he called.

Nothing, just more of that droning silence.

He knocked again.

"Beth, it's Benny," he said, somewhat pointlessly. "Look, I wanted to make sure that you're alright, since, you know, you practically dropped off the face of the earth."

A bee buzzed, and somewhere, someone was mowing their lawn.

And he couldn't tell why, but that silence ate at him, gnawed on something in his gut. Benny knew she was in there, he just knew it. And he knew that she needed him.

Benny crouched down, bag forgotten at his feet, fingers combing through the dirt in the flowerpot.

She'd told him where the spare key was, back when they were still talking to each other. It had felt like an outstretched hand, like an invitation.

Or maybe it was just Beth being practical.

He found it, cold metal biting into the skin of his palm. Wiping off the dirt onto his coat, he unfolded himself, hand poised by the lock.

Benny stopped.

Was it right, to barge in like this? To go into her house and start airing his grievances about how she lived her life? He wasn't her brother, hell, he didn't even know if they were even really friends, so it wasn't even his problem, was it? But it was Beth. And, God damn him, he cared. He cared whether she was okay or not, whether she was passed out, whether she was hurt. He cared enough to have come all this way, to have blown nearly all his money on a plane ticket here, even though it was foolish. And because, in some small, forgotten recess in the back of his brain, Benny hoped, that if their roles were reversed, that she would do the same, and open the door.

So he did.

The smell was what hit him first, like an alcoholic fist thrown at his face. As if someone had poured out a whole liquor store.

Benny took off his hat, leaving it on the newal post of the staircase, not even bothering to pick up his bag from the porch.

"Beth?" he murmured, like a kid, a kid going out into a dark hallway, expecting to find a monster.

All he found was the queen of chess, passed out on the floor amid a sea of bottles and smoked cigarettes and knocked over chess pieces.

"Jesus, Harmon," he said with a broken sigh.

What had she done to herself? She'd been doing so well, she'd been better, better in New York. She'd thoroughly whopped his ass at speed chess, and her game had been sharper than ever. So what had set her off? What made her do this, poison that brilliant mind of hers until her body couldn't take anymore.

But that wasn't important now. What was important was sorting her out, and then he'd unpack her psychological baggage.

Taking off his coat and draping it over the arm of her couch, Benny rolled up the sleeves of his black turtleneck, kneeling down and lifting up her head. He stroked the hair away from her forehead, rings ghosting across her flushed cheeks. She had barely any clothes on, but they had lived together for weeks, and modesty wasn't high on his list of important things at this present moment. Her head lolled against his arm, breathing quietly.

At least she was breathing.

Benny picked her up, grunting as he adjusted to her weight. And she was heavy, all long limbs and grace, like a swan, or a ballerina. A ballerina who'd been on a massive bender.

Steps tentative on the stairs so as not to wake her, Benny eventually found her bedroom, smiling at the pink wallpaper. With utmost care, he laid her on the bed, throwing the comforter over her as gently as he could. As if she could sense him in the room, Beth turned over, gripping his wrist without even being aware of it. And his heart broke, just a little. It broke for the girl who'd had no one to look after her, for such a long time, who had such talent yet couldn't help squandering it, and herself.

Benny shook of her grip, not unkindly, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against it, not caring as the doorknob jabbed into his lower back. His head hung forward, hair in his eyes no matter how much he pushed it back. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd brushed it. The last few days had been a blurr of missed calls and growing frustration, then panic. And then he was on a plane, wondering what the hell he was doing.

He was looking after her, that was what he was doing. Benny made his way down the stairs, assessing the damage. First, the alcohol. After scrounging around in the kitchen cupboards, Benny eventually found some trash bags, bottles clinking together as he chucked them in. He swept up all the spent cigarettes, putting them in with the bottles. Then, with utmost care and respect, he picked up all the discarded chess pieces, putting them back in their rightful places on the board. He could do it blindfolded, knew their shapes and weights like he knew his own name.

Not even bothering to put the bags out the front, he discreetly chucked them out the back window into the garden, reckoning he could sort them out later. Next, he moved onto the dishes, stacked precariously on almost every surface. A sponge still sat in the sink, as if she'd started washing up and simply given up mid-scrub. So Benny cleared the sink, got out a clean sponge and rinsed the stuck-on crud from the dishes, washing them thoroughly, an well as all the glasses she'd left lying about. Once he'd done, wiping soap suds onto his shirt, Benny braced his arms on the sink, staring intently into space.

He knew what he had to do; he just didn't know if he wanted to.

But there was no other choice.

He pushed off of the sink.

Then he started going through the fridge. He took out every bottle and can of beer, one by one, and poured them down the sink, watching as it stained the metal, dripping down into the drain. Benny moved back into the living room, picking up all the bottles that still had liquid in.

He poured those, too.

Then he moved into the kitchen cabinets, even the ones hidden in with the cleaning supplies. As if she'd tried to stop herself.

Or as if she'd run out of places to put them.

When he was sure that there wasn't a drop of alcohol left in the entire house, Benny collapsed not the couch, limbs leaden and head heavy.

He couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that she'd gotten this bad.

Maybe he'd pushed her too far, built up Borgov into some unbeatable machine, and she just hadn't been able to cope.

Maybe he should have gone with her to Paris.

But could he have really stopped her? Did he have that kind of willpower in him?

He liked to think he did. That she'd listen to him, that they respected each other enough to heed his advice.

Benny didn't want her to be a drunk, to ruin that remarkable mind of hers before she was even thirty.

But more importantly, Benny Watts didn't want to lose Beth Harmon.

But he just might end up doing so.

Beth awoke to a splitting headache and the feel of her comforter wrapped around her.

She didn't remember the last few hours.

It was late, if the little light coming through her tiny slanted window was any indication.

Her mouth was dry and her stomach hurt and the whole world seemed to be spinning.

So, she was drunk.

Beth's mind was cloudy, but it wasn't the kind of cloudy that she liked, the kind that helped her play. It was like looking through a fog, only to find more fog.

She stared up at the ceiling, finding it odd to be doing so without seeing any chess pieces.

The plaster was coming away; she'd never noticed before.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if she could will away the pain with brute force.

When that naturally didn't work, Beth sat up gingerly, body groaning in avid protest. Swinging her legs off the bed, Beth made her way to the bathroom, hoping to find some aspirin.

What she found was Benny Watts, her bottle of pills in his hand, flushing them away.

Beth blinked, reckoning this was a delusion.

But when she opened her eyes, he was still there, looking at her with a million questions and remarks swirling in his eyes.

It was like a stab to the heart, seeing him look at her like that, with such judgement. As if they were no longer equals.

Beth put two and two together.

Waking up in her bed, when she could have sworn that she'd been in the living room. The missed calls, one after another after another.

"Benny?" she said, because it was all she could say.

"Where's the rest of them?" was all he asked.

"The rest of what?"

"The pills! The God damn pills you've been swigging like candies, if this bottle is any indication!" he threw it into the trash, glass breaking at the force.

Beth jumped, then chided herself.

She didn't want to do this.

So she turned on her heel, as if she could outrun it, outrun him and the shame of what she'd done to him, what he'd given her and then she'd thrown away.

But Benny was having none of it.

He didn't grab her; no, he wasn't violent like that. But he did stand in the doorway, a king protecting his queen on the board, arms folded in clear challenge.

He wasn't going to make this easy for her.

So she wouldn't make it easy for him.

Beth moved past him as if he wasn't even there, heading down the stairs, trying to look as dignified as possible as she wobbled on unsteady legs.

"Beth!" he called. "Beth, you can't walk away from this."

"Watch me," she hissed, going to the coffee table, looking for the bottle of wine she remembered opening. It wasn't there.

None of them were.

He'd found every single one, even the one behind her trophies that she'd completely forgotten about.

He'd cleared the place.

Beth didn't know what to make of it, the fact that he was here. That he'd put her to bed, gotten rid of the alcohol, that he'd cleared the plates in the sink and picked up after her, like she was some child.

He'd come all this way from New York, and for what? Her?

No, it couldn't be.

Benny Watts wasn't sentimental like that, he wasn't wired that way.

Maybe he'd only come just to yell at her for losing against Borgov and not returning his calls.

Maybe he wanted his ninety dollars from speed chess back.

She'd likely spent it on booze, but she wasn't going to tell him that.

Beth wrapped her cardigan more tightly around herself, as if the fabric could protect her from his disapproval, the heat of his disappoinment, boring into her.

"What do you want, Benny?" she asked, suddenly so very weary. "Money? An apology? Another round of speed chess?" Beth asked with a broken laugh.

Good.

She was broken, and somehow, he'd been the only one to truly see it.

Benny came down the steps, footfalls thundering to match his voice as he cried, "Jesus fucking Christ, Beth, I'm here for you. You. Because you didn't return my calls, because I haven't talked to you in weeks. Because you lost in Paris when you could have won, could have beat Borgov's ass like you've been dreaming about. Because Harry Beltik, Beltik, of all people, said he'd been calling you, too, and that you wouldn't talk to him. Because I've been worried about you, and clearly, I was right. You're a mess, Harmon. A mess."

Beth whirled on him, finger digging into his chest. "So. What. You think just because we had sex, because I lived with you for a couple of weeks and we played a few games, you're entitled to just waltz in here like you own the place and start going through my stuff, getting rid of my pills. I need those pills, Benny! I need them!"

"Why? Tell me why you need them Beth," Benny whispered.

Beth exploded.

"Because I need them to beat Borgov! Because without them, I'm just an orphan who's above average at chess. Because without them, I'm a sad nobody who's parents didn't love her and who's adopted mother died, leaving her alone. Again. But with the pills, I'm Beth Harmon, the chess player like there's never been, certainly not a woman. I'm somebody, Benny. Without them, I don't know who I am, what I am. Chess is all I have left now."

Benny pulled away. "Bullshit."

Beth raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

"That's bullshit, Beth. You don't need the pills to beat Borgov! You don't need the booze. You beat me three times at speed chess. Three times. I meant what I said, when I told you that no one had done that to me in fifteen years. You didn't have either of them in New York. When you were there, there with me, God, you were like nothing I've ever seen. You could do anything, Beth. Beat anyone you wanted. But deep down, I don't think you want to, do you? Because you're scared, because inside, you're still just that little kid sitting in the basement, aren't you, playing that first game? But I can help you, Beth. You think I haven't had problems? Haven't had nights were I couldn't sleep, the board all i could see? Hell, I got drunk sometimes too. But not like this. Not like you."

Benny took a breath, fingers pulling at his rings.

"As for the rest of it, it wasn't about sex or you beating me or you living with me or you leaving me, it was about just being with you. About having, for the first time in my life, an equal, not just in chess, but in spirit. About having someone who I could laugh with, someone who challenged me. I love Chess, and you helped me love it even more, helped me see the beauty in it when I'd just started seeing it as a means to pay the rent and wear a fancy leather coat and not get laughed at. So, for the love of all that's holy, Beth, I'm pleading with you here: tell me where the rest of the pills are."

Beth hung her head, checked at last. "Everywhere," she told him. "They're everywhere."

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! Welcome to my first multi-chapter Queens Gambit fic! My other Queens Gambit fic, Truly Mine, is available to read if you wish to do so. And yes, it is Beth/Benny, because I can't seem to get enough of the Pirate and the Queen. I hope you enjoyed this fic, it was a real pleasure to write.

Stay tuned for more!

All my love, Temperance Cain