Work Text:
Player is undeniably, what some would call, a workaholic.
On their third date, they take Willow to Lucella’s local library under the pretence of Getting Work Done. It would truly be a date — if she actually allowed it to become anything more than the mingling of two people who shouldn’t be mingling — but decided to accept the invite anyway because it could be fun.
And it was fun for Willow, who had organised a point system of sorts with scattered stationary on the desk, pelting an eraser at them like some makeshift arcade machine. Anything but actually reading the syllabus for her electronics class, or working on one of the many abandoned activities from one of her many irritated therapists.
But she was quiet enough for them and everybody else visiting the library to work comfortably. They stay until closing time and then some, until a grouchy librarian shoos them out into the parking lot, drenched in golden early summer evening light. Standing outside the car, Player sighs at the reports they’re yet to complete, tempted to call it a night for work purposes - but give in and take Willow back to their apartment to see if she remembers how to be loud.
***
Willow is undeniably, what Player would call, a procrastinator.
It’s non-stop and makes her want to punch a hole through the nearest wall, but refrains because her current therapist has only just stopped asking things like ‘What happens in your body when you’re angry?’ which feels like a rather perverted invasion of privacy. But she has the maturity to admit it’s true. She is a professional procrastinator.
(Willow, did you eat?
Willow, did you work on your project?
Willow, have you done anything that’ll better you or others in the past week?)
And the answer is always no. Maybe later. And later does come occasionally when Player convinces and/or forces her, but working comes easily to them because it’s all they know. Pouring over case files and investigating scenes until way after Willow’s night classes are over and the opportunity to rendezvous slips away. But that’s probably a good thing as they shouldn’t be meeting at all, for a myriad of personal, social, ethical, emotional, hell, even legal reasons.
What would their sergeant do if he knew Player was… was… seeing a…
Willow ends up punching a hole through the wall anyway and spends the following day shopping for drywall filler and listening to her therapist drone on about self-awareness and negative mindset.
***
Player is undeniably, what some would call, a workaholic.
It’s not an addiction. It’s work, for God’s sake. It’s compulsory.
But Doggy countered with the fact staying hours late is not, in fact, compulsory. He asked what they thought was going to happen if they took a break and Player couldn’t imagine a decent answer if they wanted to.
(Okay, okay, everyone’s addicted to something. Whether that’s caffeine or nicotine or… not learning their lessons when it comes to dating. So, fine! Player is no better than any of the other survivors. But they’re not really claiming to be and that doesn’t make it okay but sometimes it’s all they can handle.)
They ask Willow about it once, bitten nails trailing down her arm, Player’s duvet tucked beneath her armpits since she’s rather insecure for someone so inviting of perception. (Not just in sex; in terms of disposition, too. Geez, not everyone is a pervert.)
As they expected, she’s adamant they’re overworked, but they pin that to her underlying hatred for the police and nothing more.
***
Willow might not be so much of a procrastinator anymore.
She finishes her first year at college in the middle of June - barely passing but it’s a pass nonetheless that leaves her feeling rather proud of herself (for once) and earns a long ‘well done’ kiss from her friend/situationship/enemy/ally/partner/whatever other options you can list in a medical form under ‘relationship to emergency contact.’
This, Willow decides, is the second time she’s felt raw affection towards Player that isn’t a memory tainted by desperation or exhaustion, lust or disgust.
(The first was two months ago, sat in their drafty apartment eating pizza on the floor, windows open to diffuse stuffy spring heat. It didn’t work. She still felt as warm as she had if they’d been bolted shut, but that was probably for other reasons. It was… nice. She liked the heat when it wasn’t too hot and she liked pizza and she—
—liked Player.
Didn’t she?
Yes.
No?
Yes. Oh god. She did.
Unfortunately, a migraine overcame her after that realisation and Player escorted her home, face sympathetic but a little sceptical. Being a good actress can only get you so far against the head of the LPD investigation department, where it is quite literally their job to analyse people and places.
Willow locked herself in her bedroom and had something akin to a tantrum. Which was humiliating, gruelling to clean up and entirely unraveled three weeks of precarious progress with her anger management – until she realised it wasn’t anger she was feeling at all and hope truly was lost.)
Player lets her go from said kiss, smiling, and Willow tries to smile back when all she can taste is bile.
This should not be happening.
Dating is okay. Kissing is fine. Sex is acceptable.
But none of the above is love and that’s the difference that leaves her reeling into the bathroom on what should be a celebratory night.
(Willow is undeniably, what she would call, a procrastinator.)
***
Player used to be, undeniably, what some would call, a workaholic.
It takes roughly a year after regaining their title as head detective to succumb to burnout.
November sleet on the windows and dirty plates and abandoned phone calls build up around them like depression’s Colosseum. Willow visits twice in three days and they have awful sex and eat takeout, which doesn’t really help but gets them to feel more than they had in a short while.
Better than nothing. Rome wasn’t built in a day. But this Colosseum was and that’s probably the concerning part.
They can tell she wants to help and also hates them and also wants to say ‘I told you so’ simultaneously and it’s really fucking endearing. So endearing in fact they’re tempted to say ‘I love you’ right there and then but don’t because Player knows she’ll already be organising an escape route if they dare.
The only thing they have left to offer is the only thing she’s going to reject.
***
Willow doesn’t reach out for three weeks as Player regains their footing. It’s what Tigry recommended, and whilst she never really trusts his judgment, the guy has read a lot of books and surprisingly has some good advice when it comes to relationships.
(Is this a relationship?)
No. It can’t be.
Perish the thought.
***
Willow slams a hand down on her notebook to pin the pages down, legs jittering every time the public bus turns a corner, or, you know, dares to even move five yards down the road.
Lucella was truly in the swing of Christmas; Willow Wolf was not. Streets and stores flooded with shoppers, drenched in twinkling lights, walls plastered with caricatures of Santa Claus — it all made her rather on-edge. What with an upcoming set of midterms and scrounging money for rent before the end of the month, anything that didn’t involve work must be banished from her brain.
One was far easier than the other. Willow is a connoisseur at scrimping but a novice at getting her head in the books.
She takes in a sharp intake of breath and wonders why the fuck she’s doing this.
Really. Why should she be allowed to attend a Christmas gathering hosted by two people she tried to murder/plague with an infection that basically meant death in the midst of a pandemic?
That’s not an easy thing to forgive, certainly not for Pony.
So a small part of her thinks Player might have thought to get her an invitation.
This is an uncomfortable dress but the code of attire was ‘formal chic.’ Definitely courtesy of Zizzy; Pony doesn’t even know what those words mean and will wear jeans and a flannel if not playfully warned by his girlfriend. Never sternly. They’re the epitome of forehead kisses and ‘I’d search far and wide for a cure if you become a zombie in the apocalypse.’
Except that was exactly what happened and it’s all Willow’s fault.
It’s nauseating, actually.
***
Player arrives at Pony and Zizzy’s Christmas extravaganza thirty minutes early to help them set up.
After not seeing eachother in nearly a month, Georgie launches himself at them the minute they pull into the driveway and exit the car, tackling them in a hug that nearly knocks them both to the ground. It’s exactly what they needed.
The twins are quick to follow and then Pony, ushering Player away from the trio of giggling teenagers - already drunk on fruit punch and the anticipation of presents the following morning.
They’ve always liked the holidays, spending most of them by Doggy’s side, at the station or otherwise.
Usually at the station.
But Poley sat them down and insisted he doesn’t see their face around at all tonight, that they have other officers and detectives to do the work, that if they don’t take a break, their body will do it for them. Player had sighed and squirmed in their seat, deeply uncomfortable with the mention of the week they could hardly move from their bedroom.
(They don’t know how to feel now that the workaholism is being weeded out of them.)
***
Everyone knows Zizzy is well-off, wealthy even, but it’s events at the house where it really shines the brightest.
Literally.
She’s decked the whole place in red and green lamps, glittery tinsel, wreathes with scarlet Poinsettias, golden stars that line the doorway and enough food and drink and merry to feed her family, friends, and everybody else she felt obligated to invite.
When complimented Zizzy shrugs and says that, unfortunately, she’d been taught how to plan an event since she was a little girl.
The guests are so spread out across the manor that Player rarely sees anyone they recognise while stood by Pony, both of whom were nursing their whiskey and keeping an eye out for their respective… partners.
Zizzy was gone exercising her embittering expertise—being the perfect, primped host—and Willow was absolutely nowhere to be seen. Player knows a lot about her, once of which being her absence is never a good sign.
(But they also weren’t really expecting her to show up anyway.
She’s not great at that.)
Three hours of ambling about the house with Pony later, Zizzy calls for toasts and a slew of somewhat tipsy guests meet in the dining room to knock back champagne and listen to well wishes about festivity and good fortune and carrying that energy into the new year.
Player, grinning, pats Pony on the back twice and watches as he grabs the microphone.
***
Willow hoped clinging to the sidelines would reduce this entire experience to Arrive, Make Ample Small Talk, Leave.
Easy enough. And for the most part, it worked.
In a respectable blazer and tie and smiling like the Cheshire Cat, the only reason she’s attending this party catches her eye, stood alone. She stands a little straighter as they seem to notice her, too.
Player urgently points as discreet a finger they can muster at Pony, who is currently thanking everybody for coming, and then Zizzy, standing nearby in a pristine violet dress. Their lips form the shapes of; ‘He’s going to propose!’ and Willow’s hand jumps to her mouth in fervent shock.
And proposes he does, kneeling before his love in front of a hundred people to display his devotion to the world.
Zizzy says yes through tears.
Because of course she does.
It’s sweet.
Perfect, really.
Willow couldn’t care less.
The new-found fiancées bask in the applause, hanging off eachothers arms, helplessly giggling like little children as guests trickle from the exits like water and salt in a funnel.
Player is practically beaming as they make a beeline for Willow’s corner; happier than she’s seen a worn out detective in months. This sort of stuff does make them happy, she supposes. Proposals and plans and the promise of an upcoming wedding.
They say she looks beautiful and she says they look nice enough and kisses them as casually as she can pretend she feels.
***
Ten minutes before midnight, somebody raps at Willow’s front door and she seriously considers ignoring it as she’d already shouted at some drunk teenagers trying to Ding Dong Ditch. But, seriously, who would want her attention on New Year’s Eve?
(It’s Player. Who else would it be?)
She drags them inside as they apologise twice for disrupting her quiet night. Having a quiet night on the thirty-first of December in the city is simply not possible so Willow can’t find the fire to care.
And, fine, she wouldn’t mind the company. But that is not her fault! Tigry and Rash are off being in love to celebrate and can’t (won’t) include her, and they’re basically her only friends since she won’t (can’t) make more. So, really, who can blame the woman?
The minutes dwindle from ten to five to two and Player and Willow eagerly stare at the tiny television screen, watching the countdown premiered across the country.
The city holds its breath.
And then fireworks explode on the television screen and outside the windows, too.
Willow turns to look at her companion for the night, who is equally star-struck.
Player kisses her longer than they ever have; softer than ever, too, without the mutual expectation of sex or responsibility. And whilst the former is bound to happen tonight and the latter makes Willow’s stomach churn - the new year is about change and resolutions so maybe this should be one.
Player pulls back and whispers ‘I love you.’
Her lips twist themselves into a nervous smile but, she too, repeats them verbatim.