Chess Fanfiction

[icarus_chained]

For my sister's birthday. Happy Birthday, hon!

Title:  The Art of Using
Rating:  PG-13
Fandom:  Chess (London version)
Characters/Pairings:  Walter
Summary:  "Using lives for nothing" Florence had said. Walter wonders about that, sometimes.
Wordcount:  520
Disclaimer:  Not mine
Warnings:  This is working almost entirely off the summary of the plot, so ... yeah.

The Art of Using

"Using lives for nothing." Walter sometimes wonders about that, only idly, with a faint smile always present on his lips. Using lives. But what other way is there, to get what you want, what you need? Oh, people may dress it up in pretty words, call it love or friendship or being there for each other, but always, at the base of things, they are looking out for themselves. Enticing others to bear part of their burden for them, calling it love, when in reality they're just using each other in disguise. Really, he's only being honest about it.

But he supposes she had a point, in that particular instance. He used all the wrong people, it seems. Molokov, who couldn't convince rain to fall downwards. Florence herself, who was as fickle as women usually turned out to be, and as weak. She hadn't even made a dent in the Russian's determination, had she? He still laughs about that, though, sometimes. So much for love, eh?

And then Trumper. Now he had been a surprise. Malleable and usable all the way, right up until the critical point. An ego like that should have been, and was, incredibly easy to manipulate. All down the line, the man had danced to his tune, and then, at the last, when everything rested on him, after all other plans had failed ... Walter has to laugh. He really does. After all that, after all those loses and compromises, after all but selling him his soul, Trumper had turned around and helped the enemy. Why? Because of love. And at the end, did he achieve anything by it? Not a thing.

So. He hadn't gotten what he wanted. All his using, all his scheming, come to naught. In that, the woman had been right. But really, was that his fault? It wasn't his using that had done that to them. It was their own. All their own. Florence, going from man to man like a yo-yo, falling as soon as she realised they weren't strong enough to let her use them. The Russian, left with only his silly game. Molokov ... well, the less said about him the better.

And Trumper. Left with nothing. Nothing at all, because he had abandoned everything his alliance with Walter had earned him, at the last second, for a false love, a false using, that was never going to work. It's enough to make a man cry. Certainly enough to make Trumper cry.

But for Walter, all it does is prove him right. The only way forward in this world is to use people, and allow for being used yourself. No room for pitying delusions like love. Pretending that it isn't a using makes you forget you're being used, and that never ends well. Look at Trumper. Hell, look at any of them. Did any one of them get their 'happy ending'?

So he wonders, sometimes. About what she said. But never for long. Never seriously. And never without that faint, mocking smile.

And sometimes, too, he likes to think that he was the best of them, in his way.

At least he was honest.