Chapter 6
"Fitzwilliam! Can you swim to me?" She was no longer shouting, her voice projecting a calm authority, though the slight tremor at my name belies her tension. "I need you to swim to me, Fitz, I don't have anything you can hold on to but if you can't do that you need to float on your back until I can reach you to swim you in. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, I can hear you, I can swim to you." My voice is the strongest thing about me at this point, but it is encouraging for me to hear it.
"Ok, that's great, Fitz. Do you think you can swim to shore? We're not far but you have been swimming non-stop for nearly an hour, can you manage?"
An hour? "I think so. Just keep swimming, right?" I hear her chuckle and repeat the catchphrase, so I swim towards her as she keeps pace just outside my grasp. We are swimming along and through the breaking waves which means we have to duck and dive as we swim but also means we are getting closer to shore without having to fight against the current. She whoops and shouts that I could probably stand soon and then she kicks hard and sharp and catches the edge of a cresting wave disappearing from view. I dive under the next wave but turn into it and allow the churning barrel to take me until I can put my feet on the ground. I let the wave continue to push me in upright but as it ebbs away behind me, I realise my quivering limbs cannot support me and I crash to my knees on the sand.
Footsteps splash towards me, and gentle hands flip me on my back once another wave gives my suddenly inert mass a little buoyancy. She heaves me along with the assistance of several waves, all the while chanting, "Just keep swimming" over and over. Collapsing on the sand, the last wave nudges me directly into her lap, her arms still clamped under my shoulders. We are far enough into shore that she can rest. I watch her chest heaving as she tilts her head to lengthen her throat and gulp in more oxygen. I stare at her until my eyes dim and the lids close, hiding her from my sight. She calls to me as from far out to sea, and it feels like I'm sinking underwater, but I can't summon the strength to respond.
My limbs begin to tremble violently, from the cold and extreme fatigue. I instantly know what's coming a fraction of a second before it does and somehow manage to turn to one side. The contents of my stomach are expelled with a force I would not have believed my body capable of, and only part of it ends up all down her right leg courtesy of the ebbing wave that carries it back in our direction. I try to get up and roll away from her, but my arms refuse to cooperate, and I merely succeed in collapsing directly on to her leg again, covering her with whatever vomit was left on my face and chest.
She cradles my head, and somehow manages to ease her leg out from under me to begin arranging me so I don't drown in my own vomit. A part of me is offended and emasculated by her tender thoughtfulness and protests when she whispers she's going to need to run back for help and a stretcher. She ignores my feeble protest and runs back towards the water to wash my gratitude off, before heading to the campsite.
I somehow find it in me to heave myself to crawling. Every muscle I own protests, but my ruthless pride forces them into compliance and I crawl towards the water to wash myself also. She squeals in protest when she notices but is unable to move me until a wave large enough to clean me also sweeps me from my knees and throws us both back up the bank in a swirl of flotsam, jetsam, and probably, vomit.
To say I am embarrassed is an understatement. She, however, starts to laugh. With abandon. Eventually, I have to join her. We are lying in the wet, cooling afternoon of a suddenly stormy coast, waiting for the heavens to open, laughing like lunatics. I hear her peel herself off the sand once more, and then she drops on her knees at my head. Her face is framed in contrast to the sky, almost leached of colour and her hair is pulled away into a ponytail. I know without a doubt that she is the most beautiful thing I will ever see. As she speaks, I can see her impertinent smirk and the mirthful gleam in her eye. "Ok, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Have it your own way. I am going to clean up properly. I have a towel and water maybe about half an hour's walk down the beach, where we both started our little adventure. I am a little disturbed that none of our guys, or your friend, even noticed you had gotten into a little trouble this afternoon. Do you think you will be able to join me on your own steam, at some point today?"
I nod, struck dumb, as my mouth was suddenly dry from an impulsive desire to draw her face towards me and kiss her senseless. Luckily, the taste of my own bile reminds me that no one is going to enjoy that, and I turn away sharply. I make it to my knees again, slowly lifting my back and head as the quick movements make me dizzy. She places a warm and steady hand on my back as she kneels beside me again, "Fitz, stop it, I will wait as long as necessary, you need to breathe, and you need to rest. I'm sure you will be fine, but I need to get you back before you get too cold. I think I have Jane's Powerade in my bag, which might help."
Once she decides I'm steady enough, she disappears at a jog. I am as clean as I am going to get, so I crawl a little up the bank until I am well out of the water and land flat on my back. I wonder if the shivering would stop if I took the cargos off. I am barely halfway done when she returns, breathing as heavy as I was, but with much more of an excuse. I groan and laugh with deep embarrassment as I fall back with my pants half removed. With teeth chattering I explain my purpose. "I'm not sure that was entirely necessary," she chuckles, but she covers me with her beach towel and then tells me to hold fast while she unceremoniously tugs the pants all the way off. I hope I still have my boxers on.
"Never again!" I groan, thinking of my ridiculous decision to swim in cargo pants while I attempt to sit up and take stock.
"Oh, 'never say never' is what they say," she quips, while she returns to my side and is using the towel to make sure I was dry all over, "I'm pretty sure you're going to want someone to take your pants off for you at some point in the future." When her words and her actions finally connect in her mind, she leaps to her feet and backs away, her face a picture of horrified embarrassment, as I try and fail to hide my laughter. Maybe I am a little lightheaded, but truly, it is delightful to be around such an open book – sweet and sharp, innocent but also shrewd. She was snarky, but in the most charming way I had ever seen.
"Are you done laughing at me?" I sober up instantly at the hurt in her tone.
"I was not laughing at you! I was laughing at me, or maybe us? I make the worst rookie mistake ever - getting caught in a rip, wearing cargo pants for shit's sake, then I vomit all over the poor girl trying to help me, before collapsing in a quivering heap while trying to remove said pants. Then you tease me about wanting someone else to take my pants off, while you towel me down like a beached whale or something. I have to laugh, otherwise I will cry. Things like this don't happen to Fitzwilliam Darcy."
My breath had faded by the end of my little rant until I sounded more like a plaintive child throwing a tantrum. I was gripping my head against the almighty headache that had developed. In all honesty, this is probably the most humiliating moment of the day, save for the fact that it draws her to me again. She kneels at my head, dropping the bag next to her and gently touching my forehead. "You know, they usually try to keep beached whales wet, not dry them off," she murmurs as she rummages in her bag and lifts my head to slowly tip the contents of her sports drink into my mouth. It was warm, sweet and salty, and had the added benefit of replacing the vomit taste in my mouth. Each swallow revived me, and though I probably could have sat up and taken the bottle from her, I let her drip feed the 600mls in slowly, enjoying the feel of her hand cradling the back of my neck and the look on her face, again full of sympathy and concern. It feels so good to accept her kindness.
I roll away from her and push up slowly, thanking someone somewhere that my arms are able to bear the weight. She grabs a pullover from her bag and uses it to brush the sand off my back and arms before she tugs it over my head. I protest feebly that it would be too small and all she said was, "I prefer menswear and I like my hoodies sloppy." It is soft and warm, and smells like her. Extreme fatigue obviously turns me into a teenage girl because I think, "I am never taking this off." I can't be sure I didn't say it out loud either, but I am too embarrassed to ask when she says, "Comfy isn't it?" and chuckles. I just keep breathing deeply, ostensibly to avoid any further dizziness but actually just to try and remember her scent. When I manage to stand up 5 minutes later, making sure the towel is securely wrapped around my hips, she hovers nearby, knowing she can't really do anything except provide a soft and utterly tempting landing if I was to collapse again.
Muscles screaming in protest, I discover I am yet able to walk and maintain my balance. She swiftly gathers up her things and fishes out her phone for a torch. "I don't have any reception out here, it's an old phone, otherwise I would've called Jane and had them bring a stretcher down before." I reach out and grip her shoulder as I take another step, needing the contact and the balance.
"It's really ok. I'm hoping I can get away with keeping this on the down low from the universe at large." I push away from her and start stretching and flexing my legs to get them going again. I've always kept myself pretty fit so I'm confident I'm not in any danger of collapsing anymore. She starts talking after she's certain I can keep pace with her.
"I'm really sorry, Fitzwilliam, I'm going to have to tell the leaders at the camp. I probably should've gone for help. They all told me you must've gone home when I came down for a walk and a swim. I was about to turn back after my usual half hour when I saw someone out past the breakers caught in a rip, so I dumped my stuff and followed you up the beach for 40 minutes. When I realised it was you I figured you must have been swimming for ages already. I could see what you were doing but I knew you would've had very little left in the tank to make it to shore. I couldn't go and get someone by then and I just hoped having someone in the water with you would motivate you enough."
She paused for a few steps, shaking her head, "I only dived in when you got crunched the first time and I didn't see you come back up for a while. I kind of panicked at that point but you were already so close. I prayed you were ok, and then I saw your head and called you again before you got hit from the other side. Thank God, it was the last set for a while, and I could talk you in. I think you were unconscious for about 3 minutes when I finally collapsed at the shoreline. Then I was really kind of freaking out, just between you and me, and then you started shivering all over and well then, there was the impressive projectile vomiting.
At least you woke up after that. Seriously, you should probably go to emergency – or at least have our paramedic look at you. She's our "first aid officer" really, but as she's a qualified ambo she's got all the right skills to assess you. I promise you no one else needs to find out, but I have to be up front with the team. It's going to be so awkward, I will never live it down, either way. It doesn't help that you're like 6 feet 4, built like a Norse god and utterly gorgeous. No one is going to believe I'm with you out of the goodness of my heart. As though self-sacrificial charity can only be bestowed upon the unlovely. I will never be able to look Errol in the face again."
I know I'm blessed with physical beauty, I know it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things as I have no control over what I look like, or how others see me, but it does the craziest things to my insides to hear her say such things, so matter of factly, as though they aren't also outrageously flirtatious and don't make me fall a little more in love with her. I can't help it, I want more.
"You think I'm gorgeous?"
"You think you're gorgeous!"
"Oh, I know I'm gorgeous, Lizzy. I am simply more than a little pleased that you agree with me."
She sighs heavily. "Fitzwilliam," she uses her most professorial tone, "you simply cannot say such things to me when we are alone and in such close quarters."
"You said it first!"
"I did not express an emotional response, I stated a fact. You indicated pleasure. This is the problem. Objectively, you are gorgeous. That cannot be said objectively about just anyone-"
"You're gorgeous." I state the fact as matter of factly as she did. She didn't buy it.
"No, that is not a fact."
"It's a fact if I say it is."
"Fitz. Can I call you Fitz? Ok, so, it's not a fact simply because you say it. I can ask a random selection of one thousand sighted adults who will 100% respond in the affirmative that you are objectively beautiful. Frankly, a significant percentage of unsighted adults would somehow know it too! It's a thing, no one can deny it. Trust me. There have been studies."
"And this one random stranger, who would prefer it if you called him Darcy, still says you are beautiful."
"Not objectively, not at all."
"You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, Lizzy."
"Nonsense, you were more credible in your comments to Charles, than you are being right now."
"I was lying to Charles."
"Why?" Her tone is derisive and disbelieving.
"I just needed him to lay off and I barely even looked at you. Until he left. And then you were glaring at me, and I realised you were gorgeous. Then, it was terrifying."
She snorts in laughter. "Oh please, Fitz, I'm a psych major – first class, no less! There is nothing objectively gorgeous or terrifying about me!" She is genuinely entertained by this conversation.
"I wasn't terrified of you. I was scared by my reaction to you. I'm 28 years old, Lizzy. I've never felt instantly drawn to anyone, like I was to you that night. I have a disorder, like a phobia, about being touched. It started when my mum died but kind of took on a life of its own after that. I've managed to get to the point where I can tolerate being touched by members of my own family. I never, ever touch people I've just met, voluntarily." We'd stopped walking, still hundreds of meters from our destination and from her safety. "Elizabeth, is that your full name? It suits the beautiful woman that you are, Elizabeth. This is not a line, I'm not trying to get you into bed, but I don't think I noticed anyone else in that house after you walked in, and I haven't thought about anyone else but you since then. I thought I was dreaming or dying when I heard you calling me in the water. It was like a siren call, except you weren't luring me to my death. I am petrified because I don't know anything about you at all and yet you make me want to do crazy things." Her eyes are doing that assessing thing again – no judgment, no emotion – just intense inspection. "Like this." I stroke her cheek gently with the back of my fingers and she barely flinches.
Her voice is a whisper. "I should be afraid of you, but I'm not." She blinks, "To be fair, that is probably less romance and more common sense. You can barely walk right now, so you're more of a danger to yourself than you are to me." Her eyes dart to my lips just a little too often to hide the fact that her words are a partial bluff.
"You terrify me, Elizabeth." My public persona hides a massive secret that I have just revealed to a perfect stranger before I do the very thing the thought of which used to make me physically ill. I capture her lips in a sweet, soft kiss that rocks my world. My complete joy in feeling my body respond as it should to this beautiful creature prompts me to draw her closer and lengthen the kiss. She trembles, sweetly complying but not reciprocating, allowing me to touch her but remaining passive. I finally break the kiss, heart racing and breath heavy, still stroking her cheek. She bites her lower lip and I know she is tasting the difference, assessing herself as she continues to assess me. She tilts her head and smiles, "Well, at least we can attest to the life and breath-saving abilities of blue Powerade. Totally gets rid of vomit mouth."
"Oh, shit. I am so sorry." I release her immediately and can't help but join her in the awkward chuckle, as I wait for the impulse to wipe my mouth, or clean my hands, overtake my desire to pull her into my arms again.
It never happens.
