Chapter Text
The pool is flat, quiet, the water undisturbed and waiting patiently. There’s no one else around, which is just how she likes it. There’s no one to interrupt the flow of motion or distract her from her purpose. Swimming is a team sport yes, but it is first and foremost an individual challenge. There are no balls to catch, no puck to smack, just the endless flow of water and the will to see it through to the end, if you’re stubborn enough. And she’s stubborn alright. She sets her kickboard and pull buoy down on the edge of the pool and slips in with a small splash. The water is cool enough to produce a small shiver. Good, she thinks, smiling. Too warm and she might die of heat exhaustion. People never believe overheating while swimming is possible. She has been proving them wrong since she was six years old. Goggles on, ear buds adjusted, cap on straight. Time to go. She takes a deep breath, one hand hanging on to the edge, and goes under. Her hand slides down and out and she compresses against the wall behind her. She stares ahead, determined. Let’s do this. Hands come together and shoot out in front of her body, and she pushes off in one smooth streamlined motion. A kick, a glide and she’s up, breaking the surface. One, two, three, breathe. She cuts through the water, kicking strongly. One, two, three, breathe. The movements are repetitive but rewarding. She nears the wall, flips and kicks, and then is up above the water again, tilting her head to exhale a quick breath before returning her gaze forward. One, two, three, breathe – the pattern is an old one, a familiar one, so much so that she falls into it without thinking. The music blasts in her ears, driving her onward. Okay so it’s been awhile but damn, she might still have this. The wall approaches again and she flips in one smooth motion, hips undulating as she gives one strong kick before her head breaks the surface. One, two, three, breathe.
She hasn’t been a competitive swimmer since high school, but she tries to make it to the pool when she can anyway. Various sets and workouts float though her head; although she never sticks to a particular training regime, she does usually follow a pattern. 1000 warm-up freestyle, whether that be 2x500s or 1000 straight (it’s the 500s today). Then a kick set, a pull set, some IMs, some sprints, and a cool down. Anywhere between 2000 and 3000 yds and she feels good, feels happy, feels like it was a worthwhile exercise. She likes mixing it up, likes to keep all the strokes fresh (although breaststroke might be the exception). IMs are a particular favorite, mostly because of the butterfly. She is a flier, she loves feeling like a dolphin, loves the undulations; loves the way her hips feel like sex. It’s a beautifully smooth motion and quite unforgiving if the strength isn’t there, but it is by far her favorite.
Warm-up done, she pauses at the wall for a sip of water and some time to breathe fully. She puts a foot up on the rim of the pool and sinks down, stretching out her groin, then repeats for the other side. Excellent. She lifts her goggles up to rest on her head and grabs the kick board. Gonna be 10x50s today, maybe on the 1:15 interval. She looks at the clock, waiting for the second hand to reach the top, pushing off as soon as it does. Last week she kicked without the board, so this week the board is back. Can’t get too predictable.
The music still blasts in her ears. This is a fairly new portion of the routine and she has to admit that it’s an extremely welcome one. The beats keep her going, keep her upbeat; she ends up synching to their rhythms without even thinking about it. Music drives her in most other parts of her life – it only makes sense to add the pool to that list. She kicks on, switching back at the wall to fly. She likes to alternate between free and fly mostly, with the occasional backstroke thrown in. Annoying to kick on your back with the board though, so this week it will be skipped.
Halfway through the kick set and she’s starting to wonder why she didn’t do 100s. Somehow they go faster than 50s. Maybe it’s because there’s less stopping, less break in rhythm. Stay focused she scolds herself. And kicks even harder to prove a point. Fly, free, fly, free aaannd done. Finally.
Next comes the pulling. She’s feeling pretty good, so she’ll probably go over 2000 today. 5x100 pulls it is then. She tosses the board on the deck and grabs the foam contraption sitting by her water bottle, slipping it down under the water and sliding it between her legs so it rests solidly against her crotch. She squeezes her thighs together as she re-adjusts her goggles over her eyes, pulling her cap down over their top edge to seal them tightly against her face. She submerges once more, pulling back and pushing off yet again, although this time without the kick. That is the whole point of the pull-buoy after all – no kicking allowed. It’s all about the arms now. Freestyle is the easy choice for these sets; all the other strokes are just too ungainly. One, two, three, breathe. Pulling isn’t too bad actually – she can actually even do flip turns still. It’s all a matter of squeezing the thighs together and keeping them tense in the turn. Another flip and she’s on the home stretch for this first 100. Her arms are doing alright, although she can definitely tell it’s the second half of her workout. She reaches the wall and stops, glancing up at the clock. She’ll go again once 15 seconds have passed. Four more, and then it’s time for the real sets to begin. She can’t wait.
*********
Her arms are tired now. Those last few hundreds were tough. But she got through them. Time to do a few IMs and reaaally wear myself out she thinks wryly. In for a penny, in for a pound, as always. Might rest a little first though. She deserves that much. She reaches out for her water again, glancing around as she takes a sip. The pool area is mostly empty still, although a few people have gotten into the hot tub. And there’s a man by the towel racks, a serious swimmer by the looks of him. He’s pale, but long and lean, with a swimmer’s wide shoulders and narrow hips. He’s wearing what she can only describe as Speedo shorts; they’re not bikini bottoms like the typical Speedo, but they aren’t long enough to be called jammers either. And definitely not swim trunks. His legs are all ropey muscle with a light smattering of hair across the thighs, thinning as it goes down. His chest and arms are even more sparsely covered – either he shaves or he wasn’t that hairy to begin with. She prefers the second option. His face is turned away from her but she can see his hair is cut rather short in the back and is a sort of auburn, with a slight curl to it. Oh hello there she thinks, perking up despite her penchant for swimming alone. Exceptions can be made when the others look like that. And if he swims well too, that wouldn’t hurt either.
Her staring is interrupted by the realization that her heartbeat and breathing is back to normal – time to stop dawdling and do her IMs. She screws on the lid to her water bottle and places it in the space next to her pull buoy. She returns her goggles to her face and seals them back on with a press of her thumbs. Down comes the cap over the top edge and she’s ready to go. She steals one last glance at the man, who is still facing away from her, fiddling with something in his bag. No matter – chances are he’ll either get in the lane next to her or he’ll still be swimming once she’s done. Either way, she’ll get to see him in action. Focus Liz.
She doesn’t submerge before kicking off the wall this time – it’s easier when starting with fly to fling your arms out above the water and dive in, that first downward motion key to finding the rhythm of the stroke. She surfaces, but doesn’t lift her head to breathe until the third such break. She looks up at the fast approaching wall for split second, gasps a breath, and then her face hits the water again, propelled forward by the windmilling of her arms and the snap of her legs, thrust together as if they were a mermaid’s tail. She used to pretend she was a mermaid as a little girl; she’d collect lengthy strands of giant kelp on the ocean beaches and braid it into her long hair, then glide around under the water, even diving through the waves like a dolphin, just pretending she lived there. It’s no wonder fly is her favorite stroke.
She hits the wall with both hands and turns sharply onto her back, arching up and then diving down, trailing bubbles from her nose as her legs kick strongly in a reverse butterfly motion. Her arms are long and pointed and pressed together behind her head, leading the way for her body to follow. She comes up and breathes as her arms begin to surge down and up and out and back. Her body twists to either side, following the motion of each arm in a continuous line. This is her second favorite stroke. Its cadence is smooth and strong and sometimes she feels like she can swim it for days. She passes under the flags that signal the approach of the wall and stretches out her arm, eager to avert a head-on impact by the use of her fingertips. They graze the wall and she turns back onto her stomach, pulling her arms back to her sides as she pushes off the wall and glides. She does the first few strokes under the water, pulling herself toward the surface. This has always been a hard motion for her, this cupping the water and pulling it back. Pushing it out and pulling it back. But she can manage for half a lap. She reaches the wall once more and turns, coming up into the smooth familiar motions of freestyle. One, two, three, breathe. Even though this is her first of three 100 IMs, she sprints it into the wall, determined to not waste a second of energy.
Her eyes sweep up to the clock, counting the 30 secs she’s given herself between each IM. It’s not quite an interval break because she doesn’t have to finish each one in an allotted time. But it is less relaxed then not having a deadline at all, and good middle step toward getting back into shape. As she prepares to hit the water once more, she notices a few items being set down in the lane next to her out of the corner of her eye. Well well well, she thinks triumphantly. Looks like I will get to see what he’s made of after all.
She porpoises away from the wall, intent on perfecting this leg of her workout now that she has an audience. She still feels strong, although selfishly she’s glad it’s not the 200 IMs she’s swimming. Those would be killer. She hits the wall with her hands, grabs and flips back into the second length of four. Her thighs are beginning to burn, the quads aching deeply. She kicks on, determined to push through it. This is the part of the workout that really counts, that shows what you’re made of. The flags pass by and she feels for the wall, hand outstretched. A grasp and she’s over, kicking out and pulling up. For some reason it’s on the breastroke that she always feels the most tired. Almost halfway done – you can do this. She glides into the wall, touching, turning and pushing off in one smooth motion. A quick dolphin kick and she’s up. One, two, three, breathe. The rhythm carries her through the dragging weight of her arms and their tired muscles. She sprints into the wall.
Eyes glancing up and at the clock, she tries to bring her breathing down as she waits for the next signal to swim. Facing the way she is puts her peripheral vision directly on the lane to her left – the lane now occupied by the long lean stranger from the towel rack. He is standing in the water, adjusting his own goggles, water barely touching his belly button; she gives a quiet snort at their obvious height difference and he glances over at the sound, catching her eye to give the friendly nod of a fellow swimmer. Her head bobs in reply and then she re-focuses on the clock. Five, four, three, two, go! As the second hand hits the 60, she springs into the water once more.
*******
By the time she’s finished her third IM she’s glad the set is over. Her legs are burning, her side is aching and her heart is pounding wildly within her chest. She leans against the wall and sets her goggles up on her head, wanting to see clearly as she catches her breath. The man next to her has started his own workout, and he’s just as beautiful to watch in motion as he was standing still. Long fingered hands slice through the water, propelled by a powerful, not overly splashy kick. His strokes are steady and even and confident – this is a man who knows what he’s doing and enjoys doing it. He flips at the opposite end of the pool and comes back toward her, following his own one, two, three, breathe pattern. Arms outstretched, he finishes at the wall and stands up, long fingers pulling his goggles off his eyes and moving them onto his head. He turns, and smiles.
“God that’s been awhile,” he says. And even through the music playing in her head, the timbre of his voice is so deep and rich that a shiver runs up her spine at the sound of it. Paired with the sharpness of his cheekbones and the brightness of his kaleidoscopic eyes, it takes every ounce of her self-control to keep her jaw from dropping as she realizes who this man is. She reaches a slightly unsteady hand up to pause the ipod clipped to the back of her goggle strap.
“Doesn’t seem to have slowed you down any,” she replies, grinning, determined to be normal. “I take it you come here fairly often?”
He nods. “I try to come three times a week,” he says. His brow furrows. “Try being the operative word I think.” He laughs. “And you?”
“Same. Although I’m so horribly out of shape I don’t think I could stand to come any more, to be honest.” She laughs self-consciously and he looks at her appraisingly.
“I don’t know,” he replies slowly. “You seemed to be getting through those IMs just fine. That has to mean something.” He smiles encouragingly, eyes lit up to a pale green.
She snorts and rolls her eyes. “You should have seen me try them last week.” A pause. “Oh wait – no you shouldn’t have, they were terrible.”
He chuckles, and the noise is just as deep and delicious as she could have hoped for. “Somehow I doubt that, but I’ll have to take your word for it I suppose.”
She huffs a laugh and then has a brilliant idea. Well, maybe not so brilliant but…it will certainly be a challenge. And when has she ever been one to turn down a challenge? “I know I’m probably asking for a beating,” she begins slowly, “but how do you feel about a race?”
His eyes widen as a grin slowly spreads across his face. Obviously he thinks this is going to be an easy victory. “A race huh?” he smirks. “Are you sure you’re up for that? Not too tired or anything?”
She arches a brow. “Would have I suggested it if I was?”
He laughs again. “Fair point. Well then, what did you have in mind?”
“100 of any stroke – personally I was thinking fly, but anything you want to do would be acceptable. First one to the wall wins bragging rights for the rest of the night.”
“Fly huh” he says, looking thoughtful. “Not my strongest stroke but I think I can take you.”
She just stares at him, brows raised, and thinks yeah okay you have a point but I will definitely give you a run for your money. “Guess we’ll see” she says instead, chin tilted up defiantly.
“Yes. We will.”
They both start to prepare for this head to head matchup, the short, stocky girl versus the tall, lean man. As she slides her goggles down onto her face, Liz has to laugh at what her big mouth has gotten her into. She just challenged Benedict Cumberbatch to a one-on-one fly race. And he actually accepted. This was turning out to be one crazy night. Okay, time to focus she thinks, looking forward and taking a few deep breaths. The mistake that everyone always makes with fly is going out too fast. She has a feeling that Ben is going to fall into this trap: he’ll sprint super hard for the first 25 and then by the time that last 25 rolls around, he’ll be dead in the water. She hopes so anyway, because she knows to do otherwise. The key is to find the right balance between too slow and too fast and swim that for the entire 100, with enough left over to sprint the last leg at a decent pace. As long as I can stay within 2 body lengths for the first 50, I should be golden she tells herself, and grins. Oh this is going to be FUN.
A hand on her shoulder breaks her concentration and she glances over to find Ben staring at her, lips pursed and goggles on. “Ready?” he asks.
She nods, and points at the clock. “Let’s go on the top.” The second hand ticks slowly toward the 60 and as she watches, Liz can feel her heartbeat speed up in anticipation of what is about to happen.
Ten seconds to go and she tenses up, arching sideways to the wall, compressing her legs like a spring. She’ll need all the acceleration she can get.
Five, four, three, two, GO! And she’s off, diving into the water. Kick, kick, come on Liz get to the surface, now stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe; and stroke, stroke, breathe. Her peripheral vision tells her that Ben is about half a body length ahead and going fast, but she’s okay with that. She’s on autopilot now, she’s got the rhythm, and she’s feeling great. Stroke, stroke, glide – she hits the wall with both hands and turns, diving back in the way she came. A few strong double leg kicks later and she’s back on the surface. As is her habit, she doesn’t lift her head to breathe until the third stroke in. She’s can see that she’s gained on Ben slightly but not enough to make a huge deal one way or another. It’s this next upcoming length, the 75, that’s going to make the difference. Come on Liz she tells herself. You can do this. She comes into the wall, clasping the side for a millisecond before she springs off and back down the pool. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Alright, time to step it up a notch. Ben is starting to tire, the cycle of his arms slowing down. He definitely went out too fast. Still, with his extra height and big hands working to his advantage, she definitely can’t count him out entirely. She all but doubles her pace, thighs burning in protest, but it’s worth it as she comes into the wall for the final time nearly even with the man next to her. He glances over, startled, as they kick under the water, and she grins as she breaks the surface. Stroke, kick, stroke, kick, come ON you’ve got this, he’s done for, he doesn’t really like fly, this is YOUR stroke, come ON show him what a little competition is. She’s only lifted her head twice to breathe so far on this last final length (unbidden the phrase ‘breathing is boring’ flashes through her mind and she rolls her eyes at her own brain) but it’s worth it because Ben is gasping to her left and has lost the easy rhythm of his first 50. And every extra breath he takes brings her closer to victory. They’re not exactly neck-in-neck because her head is a little bit ahead of his, but she knows she has to be even farther along to beat his long arms. The wall is fast approaching; time to give it everything she’s got. Stroke, kick, extra hard use those hips YES, stroke, kick, stroke come on just a little bit more, kick one last time, don’t look at him, focus ahead, there it is and REACH and done! She finishes perfectly at the end of her stroke, and immediately surfaces, gasping for breath, chest heaving. She reaches up automatically to pull her goggles off her face and set them atop her head, before glancing over to see how her competitor is doing. He too is breathing heavily, bent nearly in half with his elbows resting on the side of the pool, goggle position mirroring her own. He turns toward her and grins.
“Well that was fun,” he says, panting. “It was pretty close there but I honestly think you won.” He holds out a hand across the lane line. “Congratulations, fly girl.”
Liz can’t help but smile at the moniker. “That’s supah fly girl to you,” she teases, laughing a bit at the ridiculousness of her reply and situation as she grasps his hand and gives it a firm shake, her stubby fingers practically disappearing among his long narrow digits. She lets go before she does something stupid, like caress his palm. “No, but seriously – great race. I haven’t sprinted that hard in a long time. And it felt awesome!” She laughs again, high on her victory and endorphins. Which probably explains her next comment. “I would say better than sex,” she continues, “but that might be going a bit too far.” For a critical second she’s forgotten that he is not, in fact, one of her really close friends who knows to expect this sort of thing from her. Shit.
He stares at her, then lets out a bark of surprised laughter, and her mind goes blank. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Probably most girls wouldn’t be talking about sex with Benedict Cumberbatch within an hour of meeting him. Course, most girls wouldn’t have challenged said man to a swim race either. Liz is grateful she’s never fit into that ‘most girls’ click, despite the somewhat awkward situations she creates for herself sometimes.
“Few things are,” he replies finally, and sweet jesus was that a wink? Is he flirting? “And to think I thought it was going to be a fairly easy victory,” he continues, thankfully moving away from the topic of sex. He shakes his head, a small sheepish smile on his lips. “Thanks for teaching me a lesson.”
Liz laughs. “Anytime.”
Ben perks up at the invitation. “So,” he begins, “when are you free for a rematch? I was planning on swimming again on Friday, around this time. Does that work? Obviously fly is your thing but I’d like to see you try to beat me in back.” His challenge issued, he gives a crooked grin, and she laughs.
“That eager to redeem your manly honor huh? Can’t stand to get beaten by a girl?” And yeah, she’s definitely crossed the line from friendly teasing to flirting but jesus fucking christ, he was the one who winked one of those beyond gorgeous eyes at her.
“My manhood is sadly lacking now,” he agrees, shaking his head and trying to pout; and just like that, they are back in sexual territory. She stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s pulling her leg or if he really doesn’t realize what he’s just implied with that statement. Judging by the look of horror slowly spreading across his angular face as he returns her gaze, it’s the latter. She tries not to laugh, she really does, but it’s a losing battle – and no amount of lip biting can stop the guffaw that bursts forth a few seconds later.
“I’m sorry –“ she manages to gasp out between giggles. “But your manhood is lacking?” He freezes, looking like a deer in the headlights, then actually blushes. “Oh god,” he moans, one long fingered hand coming up to cover his face as he looks down in embarrassment. “This is not my finest moment ever.”
She waves a hand in absolution. “Please, don’t worry about it. I knew what you meant. It’s just the way you said it-“ and here giggles win out again and she has to stop talking before she chokes.
Laughter really is contagious it seems, because despite the red still staining his cheeks, Ben starts to chuckle as well, the deep notes rumbling low in his chest. He looks up at her and their eyes meet, which only serves to increase the frequency and pitch of their laughter. Remember this Liz she tells herself firmly. Remember the time that you and Benedict Cumberbatch sat and giggled about dick sizes like thirteen year old boys.
As the laughter dies down and their breathing begins to return to normal, Liz opens her eyes (she has a habit of squeezing her them shut whenever she laughs) and meets Ben’s gaze once again. “So – “ she says. “Now that comedy hour is over, I should probably do my cool down and let you get on with the rest of your workout.”
“Probably,” he agrees, smiling back at her. “I have certainly enjoyed myself here today, manhood issues aside.” He rolls his eyes as she snorts.
“Yeah me too. Friday then?”
He nods. “Friday it is.” He reaches for his goggles and then stops and shakes his head before turning back toward her. “I’m Ben, by the way. Somehow we seemed to have missed the introductions bit of this whole adventure.”
Liz huffs a laugh through her nose. “So we have. I’m Liz.” She extends a hand again, which he quickly grabs in a firm clasp.
“Nice to meet you Liz.”
“You too Ben.”
One last exchange of smiles, then he lets go of her hand and turns his attention once more toward the pool. She re-applies her goggles for the final time, presses play on her ipod (still clipped to her goggle strap) and sets off from the wall at a slow relaxed pace. One, two, three, breathe. She usually does a 200 cool down, alternating 50s of back and free. Sometimes she only does 100 but the extra yardage is definitely appreciated today, with all the sprinting she’s done. Her mind wanders as she cruises along, falling into the smooth rhythm of long practice. You just met and raced and made dick jokes with Benedict Cumberbatch. A smile crosses her face as she relives the manhood comment. And GIGGLED like crazy people together. And you’re going to do it again on Friday. And he’s just as awesome as you ever might have hoped for. She flips smoothly and kicks off on her back. Ben slides by to her right and her lips quirk upward. Even from this angle she can appreciate what a gorgeous form he has, in all senses of the word. The flags pass overhead and she turns over, gliding a bit into the wall before flipping onto her back once more. Kicking underwater, she breaks her streamline to glance over into Ben’s lane, only to find him mirroring her position. He sticks out his tongue and she snorts, bubbles escaping from her nose only to rise up to the surface. She follows soon after. What a fucking dork this man is. And you wouldn’t have it any other way Liz she thinks happily. Friday can’t come soon enough.