the bolter

Rory's voice wasn't malicious when she pointed out that Emily didn't have a reason to know whether or not she still played tennis, and for that, Emily was grateful. Rory could've been going about this interaction in a completely different way, but they'd both evidently decided to opt for polite conversation instead of cutting remarks (of which Emily knew there was probably no shortage of). She found herself nodding along to Rory's explanation of her coaching, absorbing new facts about the woman she'd once loved, new things about someone who she'd once known better than anyone else in the world. It was a strange sort of grief, to realize that the version of Rory she'd once loved no longer existed, just like the Emily of back then had been changed by the years that had passed since she'd been gone.

She was pulled out of her thoughts when the topic of conversation shifted to her and her life, or former life in New York. It didn't even occur to her that it was strange that Rory knew that until Rory caught herself, Emily catching on half a beat later. Had they really been so cut from each other's lives that she'd never told Rory she was going to New York? That they hadn't even had a single conversation in all the years that had gone by? With Rory standing right in front of her, it felt like time was warping around the two of them - her life on Marshall Island seemed so recent, so fresh in her mind, but, she knew, she'd built an entire separate life in a separate city, a million moments crammed into the years that separated her life in Marshall Island from the life she had now.

"It's okay," She blurted, laughing partially out of politeness but partially because the way Rory babbled when she was embarrassed was always endearing and funny to her, "We never blocked each other," Emily pointed out, as if that was an accomplishment on their part. Break ups could be ugly - but at least they never blocked each other, and Emily had never even deleted the photos off her Instagram - she'd left things exactly as they'd been. It was also a backhanded admission, because she was just as guilty as Rory of perusing the other's social media pages, keeping tabs when curiosity got the best of her. "I guess I was just trying to find a place that fits me as well as Marshall Island fits you," She shrugged, "But I guess it wasn't New York."

Her muscles were still tensed in her forearms, the sheets still tangled in tight fists, but her breathing was starting to even out, her mind balancing reality and fiction as every second passed. "It's... I'm..." Skipper's head shook in denial, even though she hadn't actually denied anything yet. What they were doing hadn't exactly led to an opportunity to drop the fact that she spent over a decade of her life in the military. How was she supposed to explain it in the midst of the panic flooding her veins. "A nightmare," the blonde finally croaked out into the darkness of the room, forcing the words from her mouth even though they hardly felt like her voice saying them. "It was just a nightmare." 'Just a nightmare' had never felt like such a lie. 'Just a nightmare' didn't leave fists curled this tightly into sheets, didn't leave chests so heavy it felt like it could suffocate her at any moment. 'Just nightmares' were so much simpler to explain to someone she'd been casually sleeping with in the dead of night, someone she barely hard known for a collective two months.

Now that she could see, she let her eyes rake over Skipper with an almost surgical-like precision, perceptive in gaze. A nightmare. Skipper didn't exactly seem surprised by this. Emily herself was no stranger to nightmares, especially in her youth, but they, for the most part, had subsided, and if one dragged her out of sleep in her mid-thirties, it would've caught her off guard. But there was a note in Skipper's voice that had snagged her. "A nightmare," Emily repeated, her eyes flicking down to how tightly her hands were clenched around the bedsheets. "Why don't you sound surprised?" She asked, letting her hand trail down her bare arm until she could wrap her hand around her fist, gently forcing her fingers open, coaxing them to relax instead of clutching the fabric so hard it must've hurt.

She wasn't exactly sure what they were doing, or what territory this was, because, so far, they'd only been hooking up and errantly texting. This - talking in bed together in the middle of the night, was undeniably something different, and yet, Emily didn't balk at it. How could she, when Skipper had sounded so terrified when she'd said her name. "Hey - you have to breathe," She said, interrupting her own thoughts when she'd clocked the fact that Skipper's chest was still heaving. "Nothing's here," She added, her thumb brushing over her knuckles.

starter for: @emsclarkes

Rory would tell anyone that she was doing just fine with it all. Sure, her barista that morning had been a little concerned when she'd practically froze in the middle of paying for her iced chai latte when she saw a flash of blonde hair in her peripheral vision. And okay, maybe she spent the entire day before holed up on the couch with a very large bottle of wine just so she wouldn't have to go awkwardly run into her ex-girlfriend. The fact that she could be anywhere was only a little anxiety-imducing, and Rory liked to plan ahead. And this? This was absolutely nothing she'd have thought to plan for.

Thankfully, the bimonthly tennis lessons she gave to a group of middle schoolers over the summer kept her mind away from Emily for most of the morning, and she was grateful that she had something she cared about enough that could. Now though, as she moved around the court picking up all of the balls she'd previously served over the net (she definitely had some emotions she needed to get out) her thoughts were coming back in full force. It didn't help that she was doing something the 2 had been so passionate about, either. Sighing a little dramatically, she willed herself to think about anything else just as she threw one of her balls into the metal basket she usually kept in her car, and it bounced off the corner and rolled off in the opposite direction. Not even thinking of anything else but following it, her vision remained on the ball as it rolled across the blacktop and landed against the nearby fence surrounding the courts, where it thankfully came to a stop. Her soft jog led her straight over to it and as she bent down to grab it, suddenly became aware of the presence of 2 long legs that stood maybe 3 feet away, and soon after when she looked up and was about to apologize, the achingly familiar body and head of blonde hair. Oh, shit.

And so she concluded that, despite how difficult things were, she'd done the right thing in telling Rory, even though she wasn't sure if moving here was even the right thing. It was done and she was there, and, she reasoned, she could always just pick up and move again. It's what she did, after all. It was no use wondering if she'd ever find a place that felt like home, a feeling that, at 36, was so foreign to her, even though she had felt at home with Rory, before their relationship had ended.

It had taken a few days, but Emily was coping with her stress by not coping at all. Instead, she'd taken to going on pre-dawn runs and texting her old tennis coach, hoping that each day she could make herself tired enough to actually sleep at night. She'd contemplated giving up tennis in her twenties - obviously she'd never play professionally, so it almost seemed silly to have a coach - but Emily was committed to constantly improving. She needed someone to push her, to yell at her, to give her something to work toward, even if it was just a silly little hobby. And Dean had done that for her in the years she'd lived on Marshall Island, and she was grateful he'd been willing to meet her at the tennis courts and kick her ass at it that morning. It was everything she'd needed to clear her mind, and she welcomed how her muscles burned in exhaustion from how hard she'd played.

Dean had left, but Emily was considering sticking around to see if anyone would play singles, or practicing her own returns against the wall when she saw her. Emily saw Rory before Rory saw Emily, as familiar as she'd remembered, chasing an errant ball across the asphalt, towards her. If Emily's brain had been working, she would've taken a step back, or said something before Rory had nearly reached the tips of her sneakers, but she didn't rendered silent in disbelief, even though, inevitably, she knew it would happen one day.

"Hi Emily," Her own name was so familiar on Rory's tongue that she felt her throat thicken at the sound of it. Oh- how she had missed that sound. "H-Hi," She said, feeling her spine straighten, her eyes locked on Rory's soft, endless brown eyes. She followed the arc of the ball Rory tossed, tearing her eyes away from Rory's face briefly, until she spoke again. "I- no, no, you're not interrupting," Emily said, twirling the neck of her racket to give her hands something to do. "I was here with Dean," She explained. It wasn't lost on her that she didn't have to explain anything - Rory knew who Dean was, she knew Emily played tennis and he was her coach and that Emily loved nothing more than playing tennis until she was exhausted. "I wasn't sure if you still played," Emily admitted in response. Emily wasn't sure of anything, really. Four years was a lot of time for a person to change, and she wondered just how much Rory had changed.

closed starter for @emsclarkes

She could feel the sweat already forming warm beads on her temple, her chest threatening to cave in with each startled breath she took, as she jolted awake, the sheet beneath her gripped between her fists so tightly she wasn't sure if it would ever be able to be unclasped or if her fingers would meld with the material of the sheets and become one. Her gaze darted around the darkness of the room, as though she was seeking out both the threat and a way to keep herself safe. It wasn't until she could feel the movement next to her that her heart slowed enough for her to actually feel how hard it was beating against her chest instead of it just being completely and utterly numb. "Em?" Skipper wasn't sure why she uttered the name of the other as she struggled to catch her breath, zoning back into enough of reality to figure out just where she was and who she'd been with. After leaving the service, she'd always expected the nightmares to fade off as she became more integrated with civilian life, but they stayed with her, as strong as the memories that showed up in them and the million deaths she never lived. It was the reason she absolutely never lingered after hooking up with someone, not since Jessie... not until now.

She'd never intended to rekindle things with Skipper once she actually moved to Marshall Island, but one thing had led to another and their stream of text messages never really stopped when she was back in New York packing up her place. More than that, she actually missed her, and felt a sense of longing when she returned back. She wanted to see her, regardless of how fucked up that was. But she'd reached out, and Skipper had come over to her half-unpacked, overpriced apartment, and Emily had opened a bottle of wine for herself, knowing where the night would go. She actually liked that Skipper hadn't gotten up to leave the moment it was over, and she, for once, didn't really question things when she ended up in an oversized t-shirt, curled up into Skipper's side, her lids heavy with sleep.

That sleep was shattered in an instant when she felt her wrench up from beside her, shaking Emily out of her own sleep with a gasp, fumbling to sit up in the darkness, to get her bearings, to figure out what exactly was happening. "What?" Emily gasped, her chest heaving, trying to hold on to the tail end of a dream - a nightmare? - no, it was real, Skipper was awake next to her, and speaking, asking for her, the name tumbling from her lips almost too easily in the dark.

"I- Yeah," Emily responded breathily, confirming that she was there in bed, reaching out in the darkness on instinct, fumbling for Skipper's upper arm. Groggy, her eyes found the clock - 3:41am - as she coughed to clear her throat. "What? What's happening?"