greer-morgan

[greer-morgan]

It was like breaking through some invisible barrier— crossing the threshold of an open door that locked again behind her. There was no going back from this, not this time. Perhaps, not really ever before. She'd learned once, on a rooftop in the heat of summer, that any feelings she had for Mahlon couldn't be easily locked away. For one reason or another she'd tried, and always, she'd failed. And now, when she'd clung to the notion that she was doing the right thing by disguising their past, her feelings were still ripped from her chest with such ferocity it could've been the sinew from her ribs.

Though familiar, this touch was not simply some revisitation of what had been felt before. It was completely present, so deeply rooted in the immediate here and now. Granted permission from the fantasy of pretend, there was no need to consider how the choices of today bled into the consequences of the future. There was no burden of reality to hang over their heads, no question of trying to untangle the knotted yarn of past and future. There was only this, only him.

Greer pressed deeper, meeting his eager exploration with her own. She drew the taste of whiskey and citrus from his mouth as her hand tightened its grip on his shoulder. There was an urgency born from the death of her restraint, a pot finally boiling over. Whatever it was that they were pretending, this hunger was palpable, primal— more real than the ground beneath her feet.

The lines began to blur: between him and her, between now and then, between Panem and whatever had existed prior. Mahlon let them. The melding eased his muscles, pulled them down from sharp angles into easy slopes. Yes, this was more than alright. The overlap didn't scare him, not like it had. They were pretending. The world didn't have to make perfect sense.

But this did.

This touch, this proximity. He saw her across time and space, those same eyes, but a new fullness to her face. The versions overlayed upon each other, and Mahlon marveled, seeing double, seeing his past and his present. "Greer--"

He wasn't sure who had leaned forward, who had crossed the final, minute gap. But his mouth found hers, tongue delving, pressing past the chaste formality of a closed-lipped kiss. His want ran deep, as did their history. Mahlon understood that now, that none of this was unexplored, left simmering. His thumbs sloped the arched bones of her cheeks, palms gliding down to trace her throat. Greer had been hiding something in plain sight, something worth discovering.

[greer-morgan]

“Right,” she nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral despite the grim circumstances. It was logical to assume that someone would call Lee if there was anything he needed to know. That he hadn’t been called meant that it was probably more or less fine. “Like keepin’ your tributes from tryin’a launch themselves off the roof?” A dark joke that was also not a joke at all. If his tributes were anything like hers, that’s what he was worrying about. “‘Least I’m assumin’ that’s what Colt’s up to anyway— pep talkin’ ‘em for the win, instead'a lettin' 'em take their chances with the force field.”

There was little that could be said to lighten the mood unfortunately. Lee's mouth pulled into a small line. "Trying to tell myself that, at least," he said. "And when I got the call myself that we'd have to be back here... I haven't been able to keep an eye out, y'know?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "But Blue or Ma would call if." He shook his head. "So. Can't worry about it. Got plenty here to worry about."

[greer-morgan]

"A hell of a catch, huh?" She flashed her eyebrows at Everett, choosing to pull out that specific snippet from his point. It was a knee-jerk reaction to avoid the more sincere portion of his argument. Greer didn't particularly bode well with feeling out of control, and this was a situation that had snowballed so far from even the illusion of control. The more she said it out loud, the more she had to acknowledge everything she was powerless to change. "I've almost told him so many times," she confessed. "But I keep psychin' myself out thinkin' there's gonna be some moment it'll make sense." In truth, Greer was being a coward, avoiding giving Mahlon a reason she wasn't sure he'd want to have. "And now, suddenly, there ain't really a whole lotta time for moments left."

"Well look, if he fell for you once, he'll do it again," Everett pointed out. "No reason he wouldn't. You're a hell of a catch, and he liked you the first time around. This time he'll have even more reason to, right?"

[greer-morgan]

“Freaky stuff? I’m only askin’ to put my nose in your mouth. Ain’t gotta make it into somethin’ weird,” she pouted unseriously. “But I guess if that’s what gets you goin’, who am I to judge?” She teased. "Fine," Greer acquiesced with a sigh as he emptied the glass and replaced it face down on the tray. She hummed, intrigue reignited by Cade's suggestion. "See, now, I'm holdin' you to that, even if we're stuck under some new Tarren warrior society. I’m gettin’ tequila as a reward for gettin’ this kid evicted.”

"Aw, Greer, you miss our little tryst that much? I'm touched." He touched his heart, shaking his head a little. "Sorry, but I don't do the freaky stuff anymore."

He couldn't help it, it lasted all of a few seconds before he broke out into a wide grin, then picked up a glass and tipped it down his throat. Suppressing a cough (that was decidedly not very manly), he put the empty glass down on the tray, upside down. "Greer, I'm taking you out once there's no more baby on board, mark my words. Tequila. So much tequila."

[greer-morgan]

— Dear [ ], Nick Lantz (bio)

[text ID: I hid your name in a poem. / I hid your name in my mouth. / I hid your name in plain sight.]

[greer-morgan]

Greer's eyes flitted down, watching Mahlon's hand pause to rest against the taut curve of her middle— a momentary connection between them and their child. It made her heart ache, stirring with both a sharp pang of regret and a wave of unearned relief. There would be a tomorrow— one without this imagined circumstance— and in that tomorrow, Greer would tell him the truth. But in this present, what gripped her beyond anything else was longing. She needed him, unbearably. She couldn't push it away for one more night, and what good would it do when they always ended up back in each other's arms anyway? Always.

Her gaze shifted, looking up at him through her lashes before lifting her face to meet his eyes. "It's alright," she answered, her voice husky in its quiet admission. Her certainty grew, and with his hand on the slope of her cheek, her expression softened. "It's more than alright, Mahlon," she stuttered a faint laugh, because simply permitting this proximity didn’t even begin to scrape the surface of her desire. Their breath overlapped, close enough to feel the charge of the air exchanged between them. "I want this... you."

Mahlon wasn't sure his memories were worth retrieving. His old life hadn't been worth much. Certainly, whatever had been spent in sponsorships had been more than his value, a debt he'd never repay. Even now, holding Greer, he felt unworthy. She shone, a gilded softness that radiated around her, aura emanating like fire's glow. Mahlon was drawn to it, the way someone desperate would crawl toward warmth. But how could this be permitted? How was it acceptable for him to share her space? Her time?

"This is alright," Mahlon replied, swallowing down the whole of his unworthiness. They'd agreed to pretend, to suspend belief. Maybe they could exist outside of war. Maybe Mahlon could deserve this. But the words had slipped off without sinking in, their true intent missed as his mind drifted elsewhere. The music began again, swelling, the rasp and fray of a heady voice going down smoothly, as the whiskey had. Mahlon opened his mouth, as though to answer again. To answer better, with more feeling. But what good were words you'd never learned? Feelings you couldn't remember, bubbling back up to the surface?

"This is alright," he repeated, fingers skimming back down her side, palm splaying over her stomach, feeling life inside. Was it wrong for him to pretend--? Would it be alright, just for tonight? He moved from her stomach to her cheek, taking her face, feeling her ease beneath his hands. Where was the line in the fantasy? Where did the illusion end? "Tell me it's alright," Mahlon said, half directive, half desperate. "Tell me yes."

[greer-morgan]

Greer swayed with Mahlon. One hand rested lazily on his shoulder, while the other slipped under his arm to fit against the slope of his shoulder blade. For a long time, Greer didn’t speak. With her head tucked against his chest, she listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was a metronome behind the crooning jazz, lulling her into the warm haze of what could have easily been a dream.

One song faded into a lapse of popping static, making way for a new song to follow. “This is alright?” Greer lifted her head to ask, though she almost didn’t. It was nearly too close to an acknowledgment that could shatter this illusion. To ask was to bring into this altered present a past that had been blurred and concealed, renewed and changed. It was a question that teetered on trying to decipher the meaning of holding each other so closely when the last time they’d been together they had agreed on space. Now, here she was inhaling the warmth of him, entwined over such a flimsy safety net of pretend.

"Shit, I thought you'd never ask," Mahlon exhaled, breath releasing as though it had been eternally held. It was hyperbole, though only slightly. His relief was genuine, as was his interest. Mahlon threw back the rest of his drink in one, two, three full-bodied gulps, jostling his way out of the booth and up so that he could extend a hand. He didn't know the first thing about pre-Dark Days dancing, but he knew that he craved closeness, and he with a bit of determination and rhythm, the rest would follow.

He opened his mouth, as if to say may I have this dance? or would you like to? But Mahlon's eyes fell to his fingertips, to the slight tremble in them. A sharp pain broke out behind his eyes. He blinked, seeing, and seeing, but not in the present time. His hand outstretched, waiting for Greer, but the music was different, her stomach had not grown to carry a child. She touched his palm, and he shuddered. Yes, yes. They had been here before.

Mahlon guided her, angled slightly to her side so she could lean against him without her stomach getting in the way. It was easy to cradle her. Easy to rest his chin on her head, to let his fingers dance down her side. Easy to pretend they were somewhere else, sometime else, entirely. A different world.

[greer-morgan]

“A bow an’ arrow ain’t ever gonna be the fastest option,” Greer snapped, having assumed that was obvious by the nature of needing to load it and aim. She exhaled through her nose, trying to dispel her own frustration over Decima’s frustration. And this, Greer reminded herself, is why she wasn’t a trainer. “You want distance between you an’ whatever’s tryin’ to kill you, and that’s why you use a ranged weapon. It ain’t a bad idea to keep a knife or somethin’ on you too, but beggars can’t always be choosers when you get in there. You usually end up with the first thing you can get your hands on,” she explained. “You wanna get good enough to do this faster? You gotta start slow an’ get used to the way it feels, so you’re not lobbin’ arrows everywhere but the target. You don’t wanna do that? Then, we’re wastin’ each other’s time.”

"If a mutt's running at me, I'm not going to have time to slow down and set it up." She needed to get good, really good, with instincts and reflexes and all that, in three days. Couldn't Greer appreciate the urgency of that? "This was the weapon my mentor used to live, but he didn't do that going slow." Or maybe he did. She still hadn't seen his games. She should check. Regardless, she lined up another shot- quickly- and huffed when it missed the target, embedding itself pointedly in the floor about 20 yards past her goal. "ugh!"

[greer-morgan]

“To bein’ care free,” she returned, tapping her glass against his with a soft clink. It was a dangerous thing to admit out loud— that you’d chosen to spend any time at all not worrying about what horrific thing would be around the corner. Surely, there would be someone taken or something destroyed, and pretending there wasn’t always some tragedy just around the corner felt foolish under most circumstances, but under this warm glow, tucked away from reality it felt gifted to them.

“Oh, I know you do,” she laughed, bringing her glass to her lips for a sip to properly seal their toast. She wondered fleetingly if it bothered him— the invasive nature of her always knowing. “It ain’t you I’m worried about fumblin’,” Greer admitted. She wasn’t quite sure how to navigate the closeness of slow dancing with the distance of her belly between them. Mahlon may have been relearning his mind, but Greer was relearning her body, and it wasn’t always gracefully. “Anyway," she breathed, a smile tugging at her expression. "This has all been one hell of a real elaborate way of askin’ if you’d like to dance with me.”

His curiosity piqued, eyes flitting up from her mouth, as though he could pretend to be normal. "A game--" There was hesitation there, distrust for those. They'd landed him in an arena twice, taken his memories, destroyed his world. But Greer wasn't the Capitol. A game with her wasn't meant to hurt.

And the more she spoke, the further into the illusion he sunk. It didn't take much. Mahlon was eager for immersion, for reprieve. If she wanted to pretend, he'd do so happily. "Alright," he murmured, lingering, knowing that the moment he stirred, the act would begin. He wanted one more minute in this limbo with her, one more second in between.

Mahlon cleared his throat, lifting his glass to toast. The blanket of their fantasy settled warmly, the weight of it lulling him entirely. "To bein' carefree," he proposed, voice low, the roll of syllables vibrating from his lips. "But for the record, ain't no need for fumblin'. I love dancin'."

[greer-morgan]

“I’m alright,” she confirmed, because it wasn’t like there was really an alternative. She had made her choices, and now she was living in the reality of those choices. She just had to continue to put one foot in front of the other, to keep moving. “But you got any advice on tellin’ an amnesiac that you’re not stalkin' him, you're jus' havin’ his baby, let me know,” she laughed, the sound quickly melting into a groan as Greer scrubbed her hand over her face. The absurd humor of it could only buffer so much.

"Thank you, s'all I ask," she laughed.

"And you're... okay?" He still didn't quite know what he'd say if she said she wasn't; he wasn't the comforting type by any means. But maybe he knew a little bit about coming back wrong. About not really fitting into what you were supposed to be. Maybe he could kind of understand what Mahlon would be feeling right now.

"Cain's not everyone's cup of tea," Everett allowed, "so if you ever start striking up a friendship, I'll look into it, save your ass. Trust me." He laughed.

[greer-morgan]

"I... dunno," she answered honestly. It was a grim thought, but it was also a realistic one— something that maybe she was going to have to start coming to terms with in order to move forward. "He's gettin' little things back, but they're jus' details. S'all random an' outta order. Not a lot that he can actually string together." It wasn't enough to really see the big picture. "Startin' to figure that if it was gonna happen, it would'a happened by now."

"You're relegatin' Cade to snack boy? Ain't even lettin' him play? That's cold," she laughed. "If I ever suddenly get the urge to get to know Cain, then I need help, 'cause I'm bein' blackmailed." Mostly, Cain had committed the crime of being thirteen when Greer first met him, but even now, he seemed about as interesting and as spoiled as a long forgotten jug of milk.

"You think it might never come back?" Everett asked, a frown in his expression. He couldn't imagine how hard that would be for Greer. To have a baby with someone who didn't remember anything about his past, anything about your past.

"Cade's bringing us snacks." He laughed. "Cain's got no blackmail, he's different once you get to know him, I swear."

[greer-morgan]

"Well, it stuck this time," Greer pointed out. It was an objective improvement over the last shot, even if it still wasn't the center of the target. She understood the frustration, but she also wasn't sure what the tribute had expected from learning something new. "Slow down an’ take the time to set up your shot, you’re still rushin’ through it.” Regardless, Decima would still need to do it again and again. “Think of every arrow as the last one you got. Better to get one good shot then waste time havin' to shoot a bunch. You ain’t gonna wanna go head to head with a career if you can help it, so bein’ able to take ‘em down from a distance is the best way to do it. ‘Least in my personal experience.”

"Okay." She said, although it didn't hit as excited. She wasn't thrilled about doing that again. It was embarassing, to be bad at something in front of everyone, to have to do it again. So she'd have to just get better, right? so do it again. grip looser. keep eyes on the target. She could do that, right? easy. She tried, and her arrow stuck into the same exact spot it had bounced off before- very solidly into the very corner of the target. "ugh!" she groaned, annoyed with the slow progress.

[greer-morgan]

"Yeah, guess it worked out this time." The odds apparently were in their favor this time around. As long as this remained as the last Games then it had been the right choice. Not that Greer was involved in making it. She'd never had a say in anything that happened regarding her family, and now, she'd put herself firmly in the position of last to know— mutually.

Greer nodded as Lee spoke. "Nurse is probably the best thing to be, if you gotta be out there," she offered. "Doubt they're lettin' medical staff get as close to the action." Though, Greer didn't actually know if that was true. Maybe Lee's sister was right on the front lines with the soldiers. Maybe she was back at some makeshift base treating patients away from the field. Who knew? "S'a good rule'a thumb," she agreed, glad she'd managed to guilt Mahlon into at least a few letters back. "She's probably jus' real busy. Probably ain't gettin' a lotta time to sit down an' write, or call, or whatever."

Lee nodded. "Suppose we at least know no Morgan was pulled. So maybe the bowl was the safest place for them." It was a horrifying thought, to be sure, but it wasn't untrue - if this truly was the last Games, then being in that bowl and not drawn was much safer than the guaranteed danger of the war.

A soft pall fell over his face at her question. "Uh, yeah. Older sister is a nurse, so she said it just made sense for her to go. Got in a nasty fight with my little brother over it, too. Blue's twenty five and wanted to just put his name in, especially since June has kids and all that." Lee instinctively stuck his hands in his pockets - a habit he picked up after being chided for crossing his arms in self-comfort.

"But I think she's fine. Haven't heard in a bit. But no news is good news, as the saying goes."

[greer-morgan]

Greer eyed Cade as he entered, the clear liquor glinting at her under the fluorescent lights. She narrowed her eyes, groaning to make her pining evident. Whatever it said about her that going all of six months without a drink made her envious of anyone able to snatch a glass from the tray, she didn't care to unpack. "Do me a favor," she deadpanned. "Take a shot an' then let me smell your breath— jus' for a couple'a seconds." Her expression eased into humor, but even Greer wasn't quite sure how serious she was being about the suggestion. "Let me live vicariously, an' I won't rat you out to your boss."

"Training treat!" Cade announced, walking into the busy training center holding a circular, silver tray filled with shot glasses-- all filled nearly to the brim with a clear, strong-smelling liquor. What could he say? He was a saint, really, lifting the spirits of the final round of tributes being sent to their deaths, and some majorly bummed out mentors and trainers. He set it down on a nearby rolling cart, shoving a spread of knives aside, then called, "Come and get them before I'm found out by my boss!"

[greer-morgan]

“If he gets his memory back,” she corrected, because the memory loss had stretched on for five months now without much regained. Mahlon had collected bits and pieces— breadcrumbs of time lost— but the gaps were still monumental in comparison. The doctor had given them benchmarks: days, weeks, months. It seemed like they were quickly approaching the possibility of never.

“In a world with no Games, you’re still hangin’ out with Cain Gunn? The kid have some kinda blackmail on you?” She asked, cracking a smile. “What about Cade? He ain’t around in your hypothetical?”

"Stupid for hoping it could really be over," he said, his tone distant, more reflective than usual. "I mean, what would even do? Without the Games? You'd disappear off to your nice big front porch. Have your baby with Mahlon. Happy family... once he gets his memory back. And I would go back to beating Cain in video games and... I guess just... hanging out." Hers sounded nice, while his didn't sound like much of anything.

[greer-morgan]

“Then play a game with me,” she dared him further. And although the context was lacking— that it had been a shared excuse once before— she thought it might appeal to him anyway. That hope was only spurred by how Mahlon’s fingers trailed a path over her skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “You an’ me... we ain’t in the Capitol tonight,” she explained. “Ain’t here for the Games, cause there’s no such thing,” Greer set up the scenario in which they could live for the next few hours. “Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout the Vox, or the Tarrenfree, or whatever the hell else might be goin’ on.” They were free of their burdens under the surface of this dream-like place, and Greer wanted to pull him down farther, to submerge them both completely without a need to come up again for air. “Tonight, we’re from some time before all this shit— before the dark days and the fall’a everythin’.” No tidal waves or nuclear war, no arenas, no family shit, or lost memories. Tonight, Greer was begging for simplicity, the ease of this agreed upon delusion. “Jus’ for tonight, we pretend. Maybe we fumble our way through some dancin’, and we jus’ enjoy it all like it’s some time back then?”

The drink was nothing particularly special. Cocktails, it seemed, hadn't changed all that much from the Dark Days, or, if they had, they'd been lost to time entirely. But it was the all of it, the everything -- the music, and the liquor, and the smell of Greer's hair and skin. Combined, it sent Mahlon into something of a stupor, a sweet daydreaming state wherein she could have asked him for his heart on a plate, and he'd have agreed.

"'Course," Mahlon let his head lull back against the leather of the booth, fingers dancing thoughtlessly up her arm, up over her ear, to tuck a loose strand away. "I'll indulge jus' about anythin'--" If it has to do with you.

[greer-morgan]

"Yep," she agreed flatly after the arrow had finished its slide into the back wall. "And now you're gonna do it again." Even if Decima had hit the target perfectly in the center, Greer would've made the same demand. The repetition was necessary to get a feel for decent form. The more natural it became, the less time it would take to set up an accurate shot when it counted. "Ain't gotta grip so tight on the bow. Relax your hands a little," she suggested. "An' try keepin' your eyes on your target more than worryin' about linin' up the arrow itself."

She watched Greer go, watched her form, watched her go. The arrow sailed, and it didn't hit the middle. A proud part of Decima wondered what would happen if her arrow could go even better than Greer's. there was a part of her that vainly preened at the idea, at being better, at outperforming on her first try.

She took a breath, picked up her own bow, and shot.

Wide. Outer ring, pinged off the side and flew beyond the target.

"Woah." She murmured, pretending like she hadn't been anticipating doing farrr better than that. "That's a weird feeling."