Chapter Text
It’s 6:03 am, and someone is knocking on Morrow Wilson’s apartment door. They have been for about three minutes now, a steady, even-tempo knock. The type of knock that rings out through the apartment with a dull sound, the type of knock that Morrow will probably hear in their nightmares going forward.
Morrow is awake, and they can hear the door. But they have no intention of getting up, not yet. They’re sunk deep in their cheap comfortable couch that they bought with Reese and Teddy when they went thrifting a few seasons ago, two suitcases at their feet. They knew they were going to have to leave this morning, and even so, they aren’t ready to do so. Morrow spent all night on this couch, organizing and reorganizing the things they own into those two suitcases. They seemed so small when they were packing them, but now they feel as if they’re standing guard in front of them, protecting Morrow from the conversation they know they’re going to have when that door opens.
As the person at the door knocks again, Morrow sighs and stands. They grab their suitcases, one in each hand. They’re heavier than they expected, packed to the brim with trinkets and memories from their past few seasons in blaseball.
As a child, there was no way Morrow could have fit everything they owned in two suitcases. They had a closet full of bright and colorful outfits, a trunk full of treasured toys and all the stuffed toys a young kid could ask for. Then they lost all that when they had to go train with the sages, who harped on and on about material possessions being weaknesses and unnecessary. When they had packed their bag to run away from there, all the things they owned could fit into a single lightweight backpack.
And then when they were a movie star, they owned enough junk to fill up six houses and still have garbage to spare. None of the things really mattered to them, though. When they lost it all during the rescue operation and showed up on the doorstep of the Pies with nothing in their possession but a bad attitude and bitterness, none of it really would have been made better for keeping a suitcase or two of garbage, paid for by that vile Turnip family.
But these suitcases aren’t full of garbage. These suitcases are filled with things that Morrow collected so that they wouldn’t forget their team in the shadows.
Three custom made trench coats, one for each environment they could find themselves in. A choker to remind them of their seasons on the Pies, and their acceptance of them despite all Morrow’s issues. A handmade bracelet from Son. The purple and white tie-dye bandana Teddy bought them. A spellbook from Marco, fully annotated. The hard candy that Sosa and Comfy made in the shape of a little magnifying glass, that was more glass than candy. The heavy duty flashlight Jordan had made them, to help with short-distance teleportation in the dark. The tape recorder Math suggested they use to try and talk through their feelings (complete with several tapes Morrow made of some Spies downtimes). A convenient bag of toothbrushes, shampoo, conditioner and all other matter of on-the-go items from Denzel, all average quality. A pair of heelies, from Karato. Home-made granola bars from Malik. Fingerless gloves and their accompanying gloveless fingers from Reese. And finally, the bat that Alex and Fitz worked together to pick out for them. Even after their allergic reaction that left them feeling weak, the bat was never heavy in their hands. It was weighed perfectly, and if Morrow swung it the right way, it would always hit it’s target. It’s not the bat’s fault that all they seemed to do was miss now.
Morrow hears the bag of hard candy clack together as they move their suitcase with all of their mementos in it. They’d be worried about it breaking, if Comfort wasn’t the one that had made it.
“It’ll survive,” they say under their breath, moving to the door. “Time to see if I will.” They suck in one big lungful of air, like it’s going to be the last clean one they get, and then they use their magic to slowly creak open the door.
The agent standing outside their door isn’t one Morrow recognizes. That’s not too strange, though. It would be worse if it was Alex or Fitz condemning them to the darkness of the shadows. Morrow doesn’t know if they could take that.
“Agent Wilson. I’m here to take you to your next assignment.” They say, voice devoid of emotion. God, Morrow wishes that could be them.
“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Morrow fixes their hat on their head. “Are you going to let me see Donia on my way out, or is this going to be a ‘ships in the night’ thing?”
“You are not going into the shadows, Agent Wilson.” They say.
Morrow’s heart skips a beat.
They’re not getting rid of them? They have to stay? They get to stay? They have to keep failing them, over and over and over? They don’t have to be stranded in the shadows?
There’s a rush of joy, and anger, and hopelessness. The agent at their door does not seem like they’re going to continue speaking without prompting.
“What? The hell are you here for, then?” Morrow says, unable to keep their words untainted by bitterness. “What do you want from me?”
“You will be batting for the San Francisco Lovers, effective immediately.”