Work Text:
April 1985
Freddie re-enters Florence’s life rather abruptly.
She wishes she could say she didn’t see it coming, but she knows what his job is. She knew the second she decided to return to competitive chess that their paths would cross again.
She was just… putting off thinking about what that would mean. What it would be like. It’s been a few years since Bangkok. She has some perspective now. But in regards to Freddie, most of what she feels is frustration that she spent so many years letting him walk all over her like that.
Sometimes, she sees him on TV. Sometimes, she misses him. Those times are few and far between—she’s angry far more often.
She knows he’s at this mid-level tournament, but she doesn’t expect to run into him in the hallway the day before the games start. Judging by the slack-jawed look on his face, he hadn’t, either.
“Uh,” he says, stilted. “Hey, Florence.”
She nods. “Freddie,” she says, and walks right past him.
For a moment she thinks he’s going to let it be. Then, he keeps talking.
“Wait, wait,” he protests, and she hears the sound of rummaging behind her. Florence takes a deep, steadying breath, and turns around—he’s digging around in inner suit jacket pockets. “I need to give you this.”
Triumphant, he pulls out a blank white envelope. Florence eyes it with suspicion.
“What is that?” she asks.
“Just—take it, you can look at it later,” he says, holding it out between them and motioning to her with it.
She doesn’t even look at it. She’s been through enough. It had been years, but Bangkok is still fresh in her mind like an open wound barely scabbed over. “Freddie,” she says threateningly, “if you think I’m going to play this game with you again—”
Freddie’s hands go up in surrender, the envelope flapping around with them. “Okay, Jesus,” he says. “Listen. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I promise I’m not up to anything. I don’t want to cause problems or throw you off your game. Just… don’t open it until after the tournament if you want, but I need you to take this.”
Florence stares him down.
She had known him once. She was painfully familiar with all his flaws, and she likes to think she could tell when he was being sincere. Unless he's taken an acting class in the interim, nothing about him screams trouble—but he’s also shifty and uncomfortable. She’s caught between curiosity and the non-zero chance that taking the envelope would mean inviting Freddie Trumper back into her life.
Ultimately, curiosity wins out. She holds out her hand.
Freddie gives her the envelope and takes a step back, like if he 's in too close proximity to her one of them will explode. “Thanks,” he says halfheartedly. He looks conflicted before he continues. “Just so you know, you’re the best player here. I’ve been doing commentary on the rest of these guys for ages. If you ever want to talk strategy…”
He lets it hang there. She says nothing. After a moment, he turns and walks away.
Florence makes her way to her hotel room, the envelope held firmly in her hand. As she walks, she has half a mind to stow it away in her suitcase and not look at it until she’s safely back at home. As it happens, as soon as the door is shut behind her she rips it open.
There isn’t much inside. Just a piece of paper with Freddie’s handwriting on it, and a cheque.
Dear Florence,
I never paid you for Merano. I guess technically I fired you at the end, but we still had an agreement, and I never would have gotten there without you. So, here’s what I owe. No strings attached.
Sorry it took so long. And for everything else.
-Freddie
She stumbles over to the hotel bed and sinks down onto it. She reads the letter over and over again, looking between it and the cheque in disbelief.
Florence had never expected to see that money. She’d given up on it the moment she and Freddie had their falling out, and she was never going to fight for it if it meant having to deal with him. Now, here it is in her lap.
She’d known him once. They told each other everything. She knew his every flaw, every strength and weakness, had seen him at his best and at his absolute worst. The Freddie she knew would never have done this.
Florence wonders what else has changed.
It isn’t easy, but she takes first at the tournament. Freddie doesn’t approach her again, and she doesn’t ask him to talk strategy.
She does think about it. She remembers the rush, when they used to talk about chess. Like they understood each other, like their minds were extensions of each other—it was intoxicating in a way very little has been, since her life fell apart.
She cashes the cheque. The next time she sees him at a tournament, she says hello. The time after that, she invites him to have coffee with her.
It’s a work in progress.