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The longer Morris stays on the farm, the more you get used to him.
He's not good for much, of course — that holier-than-thou, "farming is for masochistic country bumpkins" attitude isn't just a byproduct of his time at Joja, and the one time you have him weed, he only pulls up what was already aboveground — but what he is good at, he excels in, the town's tax forms with their attached checks finished earlier than anyone would ever do them, the fruit of your labour all accounted for as he takes inventory and calculates the maximum return on each lovingly raised parsnip. It's your agreement, simple as that: In exchange for his continued residence in your shed, he operates it as a CPA office eight hours of the day, suggests ways to improve the efficiency of production (some of which you nearly punch him for), and tries your food, taste-testing new recipes with all the enthusiasm of a man who loves to eat.
So you come to tolerate him, this odd creature of habit in his dark purple longcoat: Every morning, he wakes up the same time you do, makes the rounds of your farm with you, goes back home to crunch numbers until you bring him his food. Occasionally others come to see him, needing help with their own financial troubles; spring, especially, is a busy time. You feel pride at his unprecedented progress, the way Morris has slowly integrated into the patchwork of Pelican Town's residents, and plan to tell him when you have a moment. If you ever have a moment.
The night you come back late from the mines is not a night you anticipate having that moment. Scuffed and exhausted, your sword still dripping slime residue, you drag your feet on the dirt path where sprigs of new grass have been trampled, fantasising about your bed to the backdrop of crickets — but as you approach, you realise, with a flare of anxiety, that the lights are on while nobody is home.
Lights on can only mean — did something happen? You pick up the pace despite your aching limbs, not wanting to keep your visitor waiting. You're sure you shut off the lights before leaving; you always do. It's almost one o'clock, the only reason someone would drop by your house and opt to stay instead of telling you tomorrow is — is—
You throw open the door, and are hit with the scent of seafood. Even stranger, Morris — wearing your apron instead of his longcoat or vest, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbows — turns to face you from beside the kitchen counter, where he shuts off the sink and dries his hands.
"Well, well,” he says. “For a moment I thought I'd have to come and get you."
"Wh-what...?" you stutter — unsure what part of this scenario is the most counterproductive to your functioning. "Wait... Morris... is something...?"
He doesn't seem to understand your question, and so opts to ignore it. Instead, he directs your attention to the covered pot on the table — the source of the scent that had greeted you at the door. Your stomach twists, your mouth waters. You haven't had anything to eat in hours.
"Your dinner," says Morris, flashing you one of his wicked smug smiles. On a better night, you’d say something to wipe the expression off his face. "You forgot to prepare your usual before you set out this morning. I noticed when the number of carrots I recorded you planting was the same number of carrots harvested today."
He'd noticed? "Wow, that's, uh..."
"Impressive? Yes, I know." He puffs out his chest, looking somehow even more pleased, and your desire to smack him multiplies tenfold. "The rest of the ingredients belong to you, but I even walked to the fish shop today and purchased the lobster myself!"
"Con... congratulations."
You stand there, still questioning whether you're about to wake up any second, when the scraping of a chair pulls you back into the moment.
"What are you waiting for? Please, have a seat."
Ah, the customer service you could never tell was sincere or not. You drag your creaking body to the seat offered you, groan in relief as you collapse into it, and watch as Morris uncovers the pot and ladles its contents into a bowl. Although you try to resist, you swallow the scent as it wafts out, the medley of vegetables and lobster and hints of butter dancing on the back of your tongue before you've even tasted it, enveloping your senses in fog.
The bowl is placed before you. You pick up the spoon beside it as if possessed, dip it in the bisque, and put it in your mouth. Onion, celery, carrots, mushroom... you melt into the interplay of sweet and salty, into the smooth richness of the broth, blissfully anticipating more—
"Well?" Morris's voice breaks over you, and oh god why, why does he have to ruin it. "Please rate your level of satisfaction with the product from 1 to 5. Your feedback is very important to us."
Does he have any idea what you’ve been through today? You swallow the bisque in your mouth, whip your head toward him, and spit, "THREE!"
"Th..." Now you're seeing results, his self-assured grin almost immediately twisting into an offended scowl. "Three?"
"Five for the bisque, and one for the annoying waiter!"
You shovel another spoonful into your mouth, hunger taking over as you relish the heat and spice of your meal. It's just the way you like it, down to the amount of salt, despite you never teaching him or writing down the recipe; given that, you wonder how he figured it out. You think about the days he's come early, accordion file under his arm, pens neatly arranged so that if one ran out, he would have easy access to the next. It seemed a safe assumption he was more invested in his paperwork than you, since he brought his work with him no matter where he went and scribbled things down as you chopped, but you had never checked to see if those were actual forms he was filling out, and if he had been working... if he had been working...
Another chair, scraping against the floor. Opposite you, Morris — now apron-less and wearing his jacket — plops down with a sigh. "Ah," he says, "that won't do at all. A measly one out of five? We'll have to fire him. Perhaps run him out of Pelican Town... again."
Blood rushes to your cheeks, competing with the bisque on your tongue and the warmth of your house on its own, but you say nothing. Although you aren't looking directly at him, you see his hands interlock with each other across the table, elbows resting on the surface. You also think you see the tips of his mouth curve upward, forming that smile you know so well, but you can't be sure.
"So? What do you think of that idea?"
You finish the remaining soup, put the spoon in the bowl, and push it aside. If this is the game he wants to play, you’re up for it. "I disagree. I think he... has some usefulness yet."
"With that abysmal performance? 1 out of 5? I'd blacklist him from the industry, if I were you."
This time you laugh, meeting his crimson gaze. He is smirking at you. "Thankfully, you're not. And in any case, I think you're beginning to like it here."
"My talents aren't appreciated here, however. Clearly."
"I appreciate them." You reach across the table and touch his arm, holding it. "And so does everyone else."
His eyes dart to your hand before settling back on your face, studying you intently. The smirk has faded. You get the sense that he's trying to parse how sincere you are, but you can't be sure; despite your meal giving you a little spike of energy, you're definitely stretching thin your body's ability to stay awake, your thoughts becoming cloudier and less coherent by the moment as if you had just drunk an entire cask of beer.
"I mean... even Mayor Lewis says... you're helping all these folks who don't really understand... numbers. Or — legal numbers. Taxes. Like me." Your eyelids begin to droop; you don't remember what you were going on about in the first place. "Umm... I'm glad you came back, Morris."
He still is saying nothing. You close your eyes, your head dipping as if to obey the pull of gravity then and there.
"Thank you."
◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆
When you wake up the next morning, it's already past ten, you have a headache, and you nearly trip, leaping out of bed, over your sword. There was too much to do in the four hours that have already gone by — strawberries to harvest, eggs to collect, fences to build, breakfast to make — but because of yesterday's late night, you won't have time to do them all unless you want to forego some errands you were supposed to run for Lewis and the Wizard. Cursing yourself for overstaying your time in the mines, you pull on your boots, throw open the door — and bump into the baskets of strawberries and eggs sitting on your porch.
You stare at the plump, seed-studded berries, then at the smooth, unbroken white shells, speechless. Are those...? Then — at the sound of approaching footsteps — you raise your head to see who's coming down the path.
Oh. Morris.
He stops at the foot of your steps and waves his hand. The rare good mood. "Good morning!" he greets you. Though he looks smug as usual, your increased elevation mitigates the effect somewhat, and you can almost forgive him.
“Good morning, Morris. Umm... these strawberries and eggs, are they...?”
"Yes, they belong to you. I outsourced your labour to the children this morning — don't worry, the guardians consented. In return, they were allowed to eat as many off the vine and pet as many chickens as they liked. Fair trade?"
If there were a way to make the past twelve hours even more surreal, this was it. "Fair trade..." you repeat. Should you accompany that with a smile? After a moment's reflection, you do. "Why did you...?"
"Why did I...? Don't insult me. Efficiency — employee productivity — is the foundation of JojaCorp! Besides..."
He adjusts his glasses, possibly for dramatic effect. Probably for dramatic effect.
"...If you have any more episodes like last night, my duties might soon take on a more managerial role. If you want to avoid that, you need to take better care of yourself, Farmer."
You throw out something snippy, but all you receive is a beatific smile. Then he retreats, because the next thing he knows, you've got a strawberry in your hand and are aiming it square at his glasses, and Morris has had glasses long enough to know what comes next.
Yes — you and Morris were getting used to each other indeed. And — Yoba help you all — it was going to take a long time.