I am I am I am;

Don't you know the devil wears a suit and tie Greer | D10 Mentor

[greer-morgan]

You can let it go You can throw a party full of everyone you know And not invite your family, 'cause they never showed you love You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up You can let it go You can throw a party full of everyone you know You can start a family who will always show you love You don't have to be sorry for doing it on your own

[mxhlon]

"Didn't wanna let y'go," Mahlon admitted, slightly breathless, bending at the knees to set her down. She had a point, but he felt senseless, as every one of his five were focused on Greer. There was a stretching pause, then, as the gears turned, his eyes darting from her around the room, trying to figure out a way to proceed that was logistically coherent. "Easier on top?" he asked, having never been with someone nine months pregnant (and entirely uncertain if this was going to hurt the baby or something). "Or, uh -- bent over?" He chewed his cheek. "Or on the sink?"

[greer-morgan]

Greer ducked her head, stealing greedy kisses from the salted skin of his chest. As much as he might not have wanted to let her go, her own desire for closeness was the same. “Probably, yeah,” she mused in response. “But I ain’t about to ask you to lay down here.” Her hand wandered, meandering in curves over his body, tracing the outline of muscles from his chest, to his stomach, and lower, to the bone of his hip. She hummed a consideration of the options as her hand trailed a path to the space between them. “Hell, split the difference,” she offered, fingers grazing the length of him before she wrapped them around. “An’ bend me over the sink.” A practical choice, she decided, as she started to tease Mahlon with slow strokes. “Gives me somethin’ sturdy to hold on to.”

[sxllout]

Monty took in her words with a still, but sour, face. Was this true? Had he been now dismissed for stepping out of the wealthy circles and into something better, more glorious? Was this how he was viewed now? More importantly:

"Is this how I treated you?" The question sprung from his lips before he could think to edit it. "I mean, I always knew there was a certain... power dynamic," he quickly added. "But these people who I once knew - hell, Diora over there made all the same bets I did last Games - they look at me now with... fear. Distaste." He glanced over at Greer. "I hope I never came across distasteful to all of you."

[greer-morgan]

"This really is new to you, huh?" She laughed through her nose, but Greer's eyes raked over Monty's expression as she tried to determine what it was he really wanted. Her reassurance? Her absolution? A Simple assessment? Monty's circumstances were rare— district and victor, but still career and sponsor— it made him more difficult to categorize in the rigid sense Greer preferred.

"You as a person? Not really," she shrugged, and that answer was true as Greer saw it. "But the whole thing ain't really about you as one person." Monty had never laid a hand on her, never seemed to derive some sick satisfaction in seeing if she'd squirm, but that didn't mean he didn't still hold a sense of power. It was that power dynamic that tainted everything. "Don't get me wrong, there are plenty'a individual shit bags millin' around sponsor circles," Greer added, because it was a sort of whispered truth they all knew, and it deserved to be stated. "You ain't one of 'em... but havin' to beg you to help save people I care about ain't exactly high on the list'a shit I do for fun," she told him plainly. "I don't like owin' people for shit, but I'm always gonna owe you somethin'. Whole thing's distasteful for a lot of us, yeah."

[liliana-cannon]

"I rather like Lyra," Liliana remarked brightly, because it was a safe bet, a winning bet. She wasn't about to go out on a limb and gamble on backing an unlikely candidate-- not because she thought it impossible, but because it was important she give off the impression around here of being sensible. "She's clearly pulling ahead, I'd say at this pace she'll make sure we're done here within the day."

[greer-morgan]

"So the lunatic careers are the ones that do it for ya then?" She quirked a brow, because Lyra had just set off four cannons— one of which was her own district partner. "She does seem like a good bet for the win," Greer conceded. "And I wouldn't be real mad about bein' done within the day." As much as her own tributes deserved to make it through the Arena, the likelihood was always low, and there was something to be said for at least making their deaths quick. "An' I guess it ain't like the teams actually need to worry about workin' with whoever wins," she added, the thought occurring to her for maybe the first time. "So, if she is some crazy person, s'not like that'll be Ev's problem." Or Cain's, but she cared a lot less about whatever his problems might be.

[experienceandobservation]

Florence Pugh | "We Live In Time" Special Screening in London, England | December 20, 2024

[mxhlon]

It was permission. At last, given freely. Mahlon was certain now that there was nothing between them: no fabric, or expectation, or inhibition preventing this from happening. Greer had stopped keeping him at arm's length, and Mahlon had given up on fighting his memories (the lack of them, missing, still missing). They coiled around each other, his hands sliding around her thighs, dipping beneath to tug at his own belt. Greer remained pinned, her legs around his hips, her back pressed to the tiled wall. Goosebumps rippled over flesh. "Sorry," he laughed, working his zipper, lips against her heartbeat. "It's probably cold. Here, let me--"

His pants pooled, and he stepped out of them, moving away, turning so Greer's skin wouldn't be against the wall. "How the hell d'you get out of maternity clothes?" Mahlon was searching blindly between them, one hand supporting her around his hips, the other feeling around her waistband, trying to make sense of it. But there were no buttons, no zippers, no directions. Huffing, he gave up toying nicely and hoisted her up, bending Greer over his shoulder, leaving her hips and legs dangling. "There," he tugged the elastic down over her hips, followed by her underwear.

[greer-morgan]

“They stretch,” she explained as Mahlon’s free hand trailed along her waistband, searching. “You—” pull ‘em, Greer would’ve continued, but even as the words were leaving her mouth Mahlon was reaching the same conclusion. Suddenly, she was over his shoulder, drawing a sharp inhale from the surprise of the movement. Greer’s elbows pressed into his back for leverage, and she shifted her hips as much as she possibly could in her given position, trying to allow him the space he needed to strip away those last bits of remaining fabric. "Ya didn't consider maybe jus' puttin' me down?" She laughed airily, her head dropping to follow the curve of her spine. As much as she appreciated his show of resolve, she wasn't sure how much longer she could mange her part in supporting herself— either over his shoulder or wrapped around his hips. "Ain't sure stayin' up here's gonna work for too much longer. One of us is gonna wind up pullin' a muscle," she snorted, a humored admission of her own inevitable defeat. Greer half-expected some tinge of disappointment over her inability to move in ways that would've worked for them in the past, but they weren't simply grasping at memories tonight. Instead, Greer found there could be a thrill in getting to discover with him again, to learning the nuances of this new dynamic.

[mxhlon]

He wanted to peel the layers of her away, to unearth some long, winding history between them in the process, but Greer seemed intent upon unraveling herself, and Mahlon made no move to intervene. Instead, he drew the fabric of his shirt up, freeing himself so that her skin had the warmth of his to press against. There, his hands ran the length of her back, fingers rippling over each vertebrae of her spine on their way down to grasp at her hips.

"I'm tired--" he mumbled, "of bein' blank, bein' empty." Mahlon dipped, hoisting her up, bringing her legs to his hips and her back to the wall. "Searchin' hasn't gotten me shit. Wanna focus on makin' new memories instead--" His mouth made landfall upon her chest, which heaved eagerly beneath his lips. "There's only you, only this--"

[greer-morgan]

She was tired too, exhausted by her own constant restraint. There was no denying the base desire that was ignited by the way her legs wrapped around his hips, or the way her breath hitched as his mouth made its contact. Yes, Greer wanted him to lay claim to her in the most primal of ways. She wanted to be consumed by the heat of a touch she'd been so many months without. But the heart of her exhaustion was buried deeper than that, rooted in an ache for an intimacy that existed beyond physical nakedness. It wasn't just Mahlon; they were both lost, searching, unmoored.

Greer's hands carded through his hair once more, her thumb brushing against the shell of his ear— a tether to ground her again. "Then, we'll stop searchin'," she accepted, and she wondered if Mahlon could feel the weight of the confession shift in her. We. She'd played her part in his searching, trying constantly to hand him pieces to a puzzle he still hadn't fit together. She'd waited and waited for him to find their matches, but still, they were scattered, and in the end, all she'd done was hurt them both. "And we'll stop pretendin', and jus' let it be... this." And right now, for Greer, that was enough.

[sxllout]

There were so many new faces in the room. And on the one hand, that was great. New people interested in the Games. But on the other hand, that meant that Monty had none of his mainstays. Where was Greedley Barchop, who liked to scratch his beard? Where was Monica Dewdropper, who he could seduce out of a huge check in the blink of an eye? Where was anyone? The new faces all seemed to shirk and hide from him, no matter how many buttons of his shirt he left undone.

He huffed over to a couch and flopped into it. His mood was evident on his face. "I am, yes," he mused in response. "It's not that I miss it. It's just that..." He leaned into the arm of the chair to get a bit closer to Greer. "Do I smell bad or something? I can't get a single one of these people to even look at me. Used to throw themselves at me and now... Ugh."

[greer-morgan]

Greer propped herself forward on her elbows to get a whiff of Monty before sinking back into her seat. "You don't smell," she confirmed in earnest. "You jus' ain't the one with all the power anymore," she continued, and with a roll of her eyes, Greer added, "Welcome to the glory'a bein' a mentor." It was harder to gauge now, though— who these sponsors were and what they wanted. "It gets them off, knowing they got all the cards... 'least it did before. I ain't got a fuckin' clue what sponsors want outta this last Games," she admitted, shrugging. "Either way, you ain't one of 'em anymore, which makes you officially beneath 'em instead." The celebrity of victory only went so far when you were still district in your blood.

[mxhlon]

But if you got hurt, I'd go to Four.

Mahlon's fingers crept up the back of her neck, snaking into her hair, tugging gently just to draw her head up, mouth open, pupils dilated. He was assessing her, searching, differentiating the present moment with the past's overlay. "You want a secret from a man who can't remember anythin'?" His lips grazed her jaw, then her throat. She asked too much. She wanted the impossible.

"Besides--" Mahlon murmured, drawing the fabric down off her shoulder. His mouth replaced it, teeth leaving marks of adoration. "I haven't kept anythin' from you." It was a telling realization, a confession in its own right. How rare -- to say you know everything. I am not a good person, but I have been true to you.

He busied his mouth, unsure what else might slip out, finding that laving his tongue across her collarbone was a better use. So much of him felt lost or fractured, but he could feel something nearing the surface, pressure building in his mind. A realization, maybe. A breakthrough.

[greer-morgan]

Greer hummed her concession, a laugh trailing after from low in her chest. She tipped her head back as Mahlon moved against her skin, following its slope down to her shoulder. Her own fingers threaded through the tufts at the crown of his head, holding him close as her eyes fell shut against the dim incandescent lights. “Guess you’ve finally found the one upside to memory loss,” she managed through her humored smile.

But Mahlon’s continuation formed a twisted knot of guilt and relief. “I know,” she admitted softly, because she was always the one who knew, and intrinsically, she knew this too. He had nothing to hide from her, and she’d kept everything from him. He had no secrets, and she had secrets in droves. Even now, when he’d begun to dig into the depth of her feelings for him, there was more to unearth. It went deeper still.

Greer pulled back from him enough to tug her shirt over head and cast it away. Her hands moved to her back and took hold of the clasp of her bra. She wanted to peel away the layers that existed between them— to lay herself bare before him, even if only physically. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the same anticipation of the night they’d snuck away from that rooftop wedding. That may have been just another of the innumerable moments she knew he couldn’t recall, but it was all overlapping now— what was familiar and new, first and routine— folding in on itself. Greer pulled the hooks apart and let another barrier fall away, blurring the once distinct boundaries between what was their past, present, and future.

[greer-morgan]

At the start of the Games, it shouldn't have been a shock to discover that all the viewing rooms were full of people. Greer shuffled in, taking up a space along the back wall that still had a bit of breathing room to spare. Her gaze settled on the screen long enough to get the gist of what was being presented. What was old had become new again: old arena, old mutts, old uniforms, and of course, same old bloodbath. "Good to know the careers are still a bunch'a fuckin' lunatics, and the Vox are passionate about recyclin'," Greer noted dryly to whoever was nearby, which in this case, happened to be Liliana. But Greer didn't recognize her as being affiliated with any one team, so she continued, "You watchin' for any tributes in particular?"

@liliana-cannon

[greer-morgan]

Quiet murmuring, people checking tribute stats and watching the big screens— the mentor's lounge was bustling with those who still had a tribute this side of the bloodbath. Somehow, that included Greer, who had both Bale and Greena left to keep tabs on. So, Greer leaned back cross-legged in an arm chair in an attempt to find a comfortable way to sit for a while as the tributes found places to settle in the arena. Her eye caught Monty's as he moved through the space, and though seeing him in the mentor's lounge wasn't unusual, it was a different dynamic this time around. This time, it wasn't Greer having a drink with Monty and trying to convince him someone was worth his support. This time, the two of them were, more or less, in the same boat.

"So, you're a mentor now," Greer acknowledged, halfway between observation and question. Monty wasn't the first to change his role in this new world, but some changes seemed like a bigger shift than others. "You missin' us all beggin' you for money yet?" She wondered. "Or are you havin' fun joinin' in on the grovellin'?"

@montgomery-cannon

[greer-morgan]

Greer was feeling restless, both in her mind and her body. She'd tried the standard remedies— a bath, reading— really made an attempt to get some sleep, but despite the late hour, she was wide awake. So, she'd made her way down to the communal kitchen area where things were slightly better stocked, because if she was going to be awake she might as well not be hungry and awake. "You want a slice'a this cheese danish?" She asked over her shoulder, the box lying open in front of her, as her quiet solitude was interrupted by the rustling of someone else entering the room. "Or an olive?" She added, lifting a fork with a single green olive speared through.

@sheenlux

[coltmarrow]

Colt listened to Greer, not moving except for running his thumb along the palm of his hand. He was trying to pay attention, trying not to let his thoughts wander or get distracted because she was right. He knew she was right. She was making more sense than most people these days.....he felt his eyes watering up because he was sad....sad that this was the world where they lived where kids and people would get sent off to die for no reason. Finally, though, he let himself chuckle a little, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"We could have another revolution, put you in charge of Panem. We could run it together. I'll be like, the public face, you tell me what to say. We'd be an unstoppable pair. Mahlon, and your friends could be like our hired muscule."

[greer-morgan]

"Another revolution?" She glanced sidelong at Colt, raising her eyebrows at him incredulously. But Colt was chuckling, and after a beat, Greer found she was too— dry laughter bubbling into something easy, more genuine. "I don't wanna be in charge of a damn thing," she answered. And maybe that was inherently the problem. Power was corrupting; how long could anyone who wanted power stick to the ethics of their original cause? "And I'd be happy with Mahlon bein' my unhired muscle back home for a minute." Away from places like Eleven, and arenas, and the front lines of Four. "Jus' havin' him take out the trash or haul straw out to the barn would be great." It was almost embarrassing, how she'd morphed from someone who was fine with Mahlon leaving for weeks at a time with virtually no contact while he helped Joe in Eleven to someone who, deep-down, was willing to consider the merits of wrapping him in bubble wrap and throwing a GPS tracker on him for good measure. "Is that still what you'd wanna do?" Greer asked curiously. "You'd still wanna be the face on everythin'?" In this hypothetical world where they were the ones in charge.

[cade-bentley]

He hoped to hell things wrapped up forever after this, because that would also mean that, ideally, things were on the upswing with the war to the North, and maybe Cade wouldn't be actually shipped out. For now, he just wasn't going to think about it. Maybe they'd win the war before he had to go anywhere or do anything, right?

He hummed in vague agreement. "Would be pretty awful to have a baby on some sort of a Victory Tour. Or at the Ball, like Cress. Very, uh. Public."

[greer-morgan]

"Yeah, that is absolutely not happenin'," she stated without room for disagreement. "I will cross my legs and hobble my way home before I have this baby on a Victory Tour." Greer knew, of course, that the timing wasn't really up to her, but a part of her still thought she might actually mean it. Luckily for her, the chances of needing to be on a Victory Tour were probably slim. “Goin’ into labor at a ball does seem like a real career thing to do,” she noted, hitting career like it was an insult— her distaste only topped by the role Cress now played: gamemaker. “Bet after that, every pregnant woman in District One was tryin'a give birth in a ball gown. 'Cause how else would their friends know they can keep up with the Capitol trends?”

[decimafaustina]

There was anger fizzling in the air between them, and Deci knew enough in her hollow head to know she was about to lose her chance to learn. like, actually learn a weapon. If she couldn't pick something up, the pair from one certainly wouldn't want her as an ally. and if she got kicked off his weapon's station, she'd lose Monty as a force behind her.

She huffed, but shook her head. "I want to learn." She said quietly, cowed. "Let's go slow."

[greer-morgan]

"Good," Greer replied flatly. Although in truth, there was some satisfaction in seeing Decima not give up just because she'd been pushed a little. Maybe the tribute had some fight in her after all. Maybe it wasn't just a waste of their time. "Set yourself up again, but don't release it yet," she directed. Greer took a swig from her water bottle as she waited for Decima to ready herself, and when she was done, Greer swept her gaze over the tribute. "You're still holdin' tension," Greer assessed. "Feel like that's half your problem. Breathe," she instructed. "Ease up your shoulders, focus your eyes on the target, and right before you release your arrow, exhale."

[greer-morgan]

What a Bland Goodbye (Pt. II) | Self-Para

"But it was... hard to be his daughter. I can't not... You know, he was... It was... Oh, he... he was hard on women. You know, he couldn't... He couldn't fit a whole woman in his head." - Shiv Roy

“Fuck, Greer, why don’t you ever answer your damn phone?” “Callahan?” “I’ve been tryin’ to get ahold of you for three days.” “I’ve been sorta busy here, and cell service in the Tower ain’t exactly been great. What the hell’s goin’ on?” “It’s dad… he’s dead, Greer.” “What happened?” “Heart attack.”  “Where are you?”  “We’re in the Capitol. Everybody’s here.”

Which was how Greer found herself climbing the stone steps of a funeral home on the other side of the city. The sun had dipped low enough to be blotted out by the Capitol’s high rises, making the temperature frigid even under several layers. It was only the cold that kept her from lingering outside, but her dread was nearly enough to offset it.

It was eerily quiet moving through the lobby of the building. Family pictures were displayed on stands like a path culminating in a final large portrait at the threshold of the room she was meant to enter. The pictures were so perfectly pristine— stiff poses and sterile smiles— they looked more like models in stock images than a real family. 

Tonight’s service was merely the viewing, so it was only the Morgans themselves that dotted the room surrounding Redford Morgan’s casket. Greer couldn’t remember the last time they’d actually all been in a room together. Surely, not for about a decade at least. At tomorrow’s service there would be more people. A few Snow-era loyalists, city peacekeepers, maybe even some current sponsors would all fill out the seats and pay respects to a deposed mayor from a district they would pretend not to be disgusted by. They would have nothing personal to say about a man they’d never actually met. They’d come to uphold optics that hardly had a place under the Vox, but tradition was a deeply ingrained thing in some circles, so they’d go through the motions anyway. Greer wouldn’t hear the sweeping generalizations paying homage to what they’d call a fine man; she wouldn’t be attending.

“Hi, G.” Callahan was closest to the door, so placidly, he was the first to greet Greer. He moved to her left to hug her around her stomach, formal as it was. The last time they’d been together was Prairie’s funeral, and the last two years had changed Cal. The circles under his eyes were deep and his cheekbones were more pronounced than Greer had ever seen them before. On his face, he wore every moment of the last year’s stress and hunger.

“We saw you at the reapin’. Well, mom, dad, and Leighton saw it on TV, but I took Teeny and Avery-Kate back home. We didn’t stay in town… y’know, long enough to come by your place,” Cal rambled, searching for some explanation or justification that would fill in blanks of the last several months. “Thought I’d give you the heads-up that mom’s pretty upset you didn’t ever tell her.”

“Well, for once, somethin' ain’t about her,” Greer groused.

Cal nodded, “You still with that same guy? The one who punched dad in the face.”

“Mahlon, yeah,” she answered, not wanting to have to dig into the specifics of their complications.

“He didn’t come?”

“Did you want him here?” She asked in a dry laugh.

“Me? Absolutely. Hell yeah, I’d love to see what would happen,” he offered a genuine laugh in return. “Mom? No, definitely not.” 

The two of them stood for a moment in a comfortable silence. Despite the fights and the years they’d gone without speaking, they always seemed to be able to pick back up again.

“I’ll let you go to talk to the little girls,” Cal nodded toward the youngest Morgan sisters. The little girls were twenty and twenty-three now, but being the babies of a family seemed to be a position you never quite out grew. “They’re losin’ their minds to talk to you ‘bout baby stuff, or whatever.”

“Yeah, I bet they are,” Greer resigned herself.

“Y’know—”

“Don’t—”

“New government in charge, you bein’ the first of us to have a kid. I’m startin’ to think I’ve been thrown into some alternate dimension,” he teased, like the two things were equally unlikely.

“Shut the fuck up, Cal,” Greer snapped back, but she couldn’t quite suppress her smile as she walked away. 

Avery-Kate beamed at Greer as she approached, while Sadie offered a smile laced with exhaustion. Both of their faces were blotchy and red, evidence of all the crying they’d done up until now. They wrapped around her tightly, clinging in a way that was usually more Leighton’s jurisdiction than Greer’s, but then, seeing Greer always seemed to come with disaster in one way or another. Maybe they’d just learned to frontload their affection where she was concerned. 

“Niece or nephew?” Avery-Kate blurted, arms still wrapped around Greer’s midsection. “Teeny an’ I got a bet goin’. I think girl, but she thinks boy.”

“I dunno,” Greer shrugged, almost sorry to disappoint them. 

“But you’ve spent so much time in the Capitol… you didn’t find out? That would drive me insane,” Sadie chimed in.

“I wanna be surprised,” Greer defended. “I like not knowin’.”

“You’re so weird,” Avery-Kate rolled her eyes. “When do we get to know then?”

“March,” she answered.

The two younger girls exchanged glances. That was practically around the corner now, and even at a wake, they couldn’t quite mask the excitement that bubbled between them. 

“Are we allowed to… like… see it? When you have the kid, could we maybe come around an’ meet ‘em?” Avery-Kate asked after a beat. 

The question had clearly been gnawing at her since the reaping, and that realization hit Greer like a slap. Her separation from her parents had once again trickled down— a poison that managed to seep into every relationship she had. Sure, she hadn’t known how to contact her family after they’d left Ten, but she also knew that wasn’t the whole of it. It wasn’t really like she’d tried.

“Yeah, of course,” she answered. It was a compounding realization. Her sisters had never seen the farm, they didn’t know anything about her life or her family, and Greer didn’t know anything about their lives either. They were barely more than strangers now, even if they all shared a connection at their roots.

“You’re the first people I’ll call to get your asses out to Ten,” Greer assured them, and they seemed satisfied, even if not totally convinced. Greer had said it before— that she’d call— but they were willing to believe her one more time.

“Cool,” Avery-Kate accepted the words at face-value. “Do me a favor, though,” she added.

“What kinda favor?”

“No double names. Don’t do that to a baby,” she pleaded.

“Deal,” Greer laughed.

“How much stake do you put in wives’ tales?” Louise Morgan interjected, figuring if she knew her daughter at all, the answer was probably very little. “Because you’ve got that boy glow to you. Girls: they steal all your beauty for themselves. Trust me, I should know.”

Greer frowned, “I’m winded gettin’ up off the couch. I ain’t got the energy to worry about if I need to be jealous of my unborn baby.”

The younger girls could feel the shift in Greer, and took it as their cue to slip away— off to find Leighton who was hounding the funeral director about program details.

Louise glanced down at her folded hands before returning her gaze to Greer. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You weren’t goin’ to, were you?”

“No,” she answered quietly.

Louise’s mouth pulled into a thin line. It was nearly a smile, it just got caught halfway between warmth and sadness. “You look so much like him when you make faces like that. You get that same crease right between your brows.”

Greer didn’t answer. She knew she looked like her father, but it wasn’t a kindness to be reminded.

“You two really are exactly alike. You’re both so stubborn, and you let everythin’ get you so riled up,” Louise continued, a newfound softness to her voice. “He saw so much of himself in you, Greer, that he never knew what to do with it, but he loved you. He loved you so much.”

Greer could feel the hot well of tears against her lower lashes. She cleared her throat, willing her voice not to catch when she spoke. “Dad didn’t love anythin’,” she argued. “He didn’t know how.”

“Oh, honey, of course he did. You kids meant everythin’ to him… he just— he wanted you to show the world the best of yourselves. He wanted you to have everythin’.”

“He wanted us to look good,” Greer countered. “That ain’t love, mom. Bein’ afraid’a him all the time, havin’ to walk on eggshells, always feelin’ like you’ve done somethin’ wrong— that ain’t love.”

“He wanted you to do well. He wanted you to have easy lives,” Louise explained. “Good jobs, good families. He didn’t want you to struggle like so many in Ten do.”

“He wanted to make things easy by makin’ our lives a livin’ hell?” Greer huffed. “You wanna know the real fucked up thing, mom?” She asked but continued without waiting for an answer. “I’ve got it. That supposedly good job, and someone who loves me, and the kid, and I—” I can’t even bring myself to tell that man about his baby. “I have everythin’ he wanted me to have, but I have everythin’ in spite of him. Ain’t one good thing in my life is because of him. The only thing he gave me is feelin’ like I’m gonna ruin it. He made me feel like I’m gonna be a shitty mom, ‘cause he made me feel like a shitty kid.”

Louise looked at Greer, pride warring with the foundation of the bridge her daughter had just put between them. “I’m… I’m sorry you feel that way, honey,” she answered, her earlier warmth cooling again. “I’m guessin’ you won’t be comin’ tomorrow?”

“No.” Greer answered unflinchingly, swallowing down the threat of a sob.

“You should say your goodbyes to him then.” Louise began to walk away, but she turned to add one more thing. “Greer, you won’t be a bad mother. Trust me.”

Greer approached her father’s casket with a cautiousness she rarely managed. When she was little, he’d been so larger than life. He was a commander of peacekeepers, a liaison to presidents spanning regimes. He was the first, final, and only say on every decision within the Morgan household. He was the iron fist who kept his wife and five children in line. Greer had hated him with every fiber of her being, and yet, his voice never quite left her head. But now, lying there in that casket, he looked… so ordinary. It churned within her— how mundane it all was, how flat. She wondered if she’d feel better somehow if he’d had a more brutal ending. If it had been at the hands of the Vox, or the people of Ten. If the people he’d hurt had been his downfall, maybe Greer would’ve felt like at least someone's suffering could have meant something. But no, she realized, it would’ve been empty either way.

Greer cradled her hand over her bump, soothing the pain of a sharp kick. Redford Morgan would never know his grandchild, never have any hold over who they were. He would also never make amends, never give Greer the apology she’d been waiting her whole life to hear. There was and would be no grand event, no sweet revenge or satisfying conclusion. No, he was simply just gone, and what a hollow feeling that was. Greer looked down at her father in his casket, and it wasn’t quite a goodbye she had to offer. It wasn’t a declaration of love, and it sure as hell wasn’t her forgiveness.

“Turns out, I still don’t have a single damn thing to say to you.”

[mxhlon]

She worked more swiftly than he did, her movements quick and deft. Door closed, lock turned -- each action felt definitive, and his heart raced out of his chest. Yes, he wanted to know a secret. I've missed you. I love you. Mahlon was too afraid to offer his. "From before?" he asked, focusing on hers instead. There was something there, something he could trace back between them, deep into the nothingness.

Greer's fingers danced along his waist, and Mahlon's caught her face. His palms cradled her head, thumbs sweeping broadly across her cheekbones and over her lips. "Tell me another," Mahlon's touch dipped, down to her throat, hands kneading slowly into her shoulders and the back of her neck. He liked to see her pliant, relaxed. "Tell me another secret." He dipped, tilting her chin up, tasting her lips.

[greer-morgan]

"From before," she confirmed, her voice barely above a whisper as she entangled herself in him again. It was the kind of answer that only enlightened more questions— breadcrumbs in a trail to whatever existed in the mysterious past. It was enough to know that their before was not what she'd made it out to be, and yet, not enough to have any indication of what it actually was. It was just another tug in the slow unraveling of knowing that they'd been here before, but the depth of their history was still so murky.

The kiss was an easy melding of forms. It was all old habit, haste giving way to a familiar sensuality under the pressing of his fingers. She broke her lips from his to answer his request, though she knew Mahlon had no idea how dangerous a request it really was. I've missed you. I love you. I lied. I'm sorry. The secrets were so thinly veiled it was a wonder he hadn't tasted them on her tongue, but those were secrets she'd keep for the light of day. "What I said wasn't true." Her head fell. Momentarily, she buried her face against the space of his collarbone, pressing a featherlight kiss against the fabric of his shirt, before she lifted it to look at him again. "I said I wouldn't go to Four." It was something of a dig she'd denied in Ten. "But if you got hurt, I'd go to Four." Yes, she'd have waited at his bedside then too.

"I think you're startin' to rack up a debt now," she noted, pulling in a deep breath of air. "Your turn."