Chapter Text
Nick Wilde woke up the way he always did—late enough that the day felt personal, early enough that it still had teeth.
The elephant gym above him had already started its morning sermon.
A bassy thump rolled through the ceiling, down the thin walls, into the cheap frame of his bed. Another followed, then a third—heavy, steady, the sort of sound you felt in your ribs more than you heard with your ears.
His gaze fixed on the underside of the bunk above him: blank wood, a hairline crack, a strip of old tape he’d never peeled off. Not because it mattered. Because choosing what to do with it would mean admitting he had choices.
“Morning,” he told the ceiling.
It did not reply.
Nick sat up slowly. His chest didn’t rattle. His throat didn’t burn. He wasn’t sweating through his fur or shivering under a blanket pile. No fever. No coils—no living heat wrapped around him like permission.
He was fine.
Which meant there was nothing to distract him.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand—small sound, clean cut.
Nick’s paw hovered.
He wasn’t expecting a message. Not a shift change. Not Bogo barking an order through a group thread. Not Judy reminding him, for the third day in a row, that the lobby was not a myth and he was capable of meeting her there.
The screen lit up.
Auntie 🧡
Mary’s smile filled the contact circle, gold loops around her neck catching some porch-light glow. She’d insisted on taking the picture herself yesterday, the same way some mammals checked the stove twice even after they turned it off.
Text me when you get home.
He had—immediately, both paws on the keyboard like the words might slip away if he tried to act cool.
Now:
Auntie 🧡: Mornin’, baby. You eat yet?
Nick stared at the screen.
Simple question.
His stomach chose that moment to growl.
Nick huffed a breath through his nose. “Traitor.”
He typed.
Nick: I’m alive. Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my brand.
The three dots appeared almost at once.
Auntie 🧡: I already told the Lord, so.
Nick’s ears tipped back.
A laugh tried to happen and died in his throat. But something under his ribs cinched anyway—like the joke had found the tender spot and pressed a thumb there.
Upstairs, the elephant hit the floor again, harder, as if the building itself had opinions.
Nick sat with the phone in his paw and Mary’s casual God-talk in his face—said like weather, like it belonged.
He set the phone down carefully.
Fine, then.
He swung his legs out of bed and his paws met cold linoleum. The floor had that slick, cheap chill that made him think of convenience store tiles and bad decisions made at two in the morning.
He padded into the kitchenette. The fridge was exactly where it always was: dented, off-white, handle that squeaked if you didn’t lift it right.
And now: the selfie.
Nick froze with his paw on the handle.
It was taped on crooked, because Judy treated tape like it was a tool of justice, not artistry.
Gary’s coils filled half the frame—golden-purple scale sheen in the light. Judy’s face was pressed in beside Nick’s, bright-eyed and grinning like she’d just closed a case in broad daylight. Nick was in the center, caught mid-second between a practiced expression and something real.
It looked like proof.
Nick opened the fridge.
Cold air breathed out. A plastic container sat on the middle shelf—leftovers from Mary’s table. A label was stuck on top in Mary’s handwriting.
For Nick. Eat.
Nick paused on it a beat too long.
He’d eaten some last night. He’d told himself it was practical—protein, carbs, something that wasn’t vending machine misery.
He hadn’t told himself it felt like being allowed to take up space.
He closed the fridge and the photo caught him again.
Nick turned away before it could catch him doing something foolish—like thinking.
He showered fast—because too much time alone with his own mind was how you summoned ghosts. He got dressed, because that was what you did. He brushed his fur until it lay flat, because the world treated “tired” like a confession.
He left his apartment with his coat on, his badge in his pocket, and Mary’s text sitting like a pebble under his tongue.
Outside, Zootopia was already awake.
The morning air smelled like damp concrete and roasted nuts from a cart down the block. A bus hissed as it knelt. Somewhere, a skunk took personal offense at a trash can lid.
Nick moved with the city—slipping into the current, letting the noise do what noise did best.
The precinct was loud in the way it always was: ringing phones, paper shuffling, printer chatter, a rookie laugh that came out too bright and then got swallowed the second the rookie realized it.
Clawhauser was at the front desk with a pastry box the size of a briefcase.
“Wilde!” he called, bright as signage. “I saved you one! It has sprinkles and—”
Nick’s face arranged itself into something presentable.
“Sprinkles,” he said, solemn, like he’d been granted a title.
Clawhauser beamed and shoved the box forward.
Nick took one look inside and realized Clawhauser had saved him the one with enough frosting to qualify as structural reinforcement.
“Buddy,” Nick said, “this is—this is irresponsible.”
“It’s breakfast!” Clawhauser insisted.
“It’s a cry for help,” Nick corrected, and took it anyway.
His stomach betrayed him. Again.
Clawhauser leaned in, voice dropping like he was sharing confidential intel. “You good? You look… you know. Like you had a day.”
A joke lined up and stalled.
“Just living the dream,” he said, and hated how flat it sounded.
Clawhauser’s smile softened without disappearing. He didn’t push. He just nudged a coffee toward Nick like a peace offering.
Nick accepted it.
Across the bullpen, the Zebros swept past in synchronized motion—one carrying a stack of forms, the other already talking.
“Bogo’s in a mood,” one of them said.
“Bogo’s always in a mood,” the other replied, without slowing.
They glanced at Nick.
“Hey, Wilde,” they chorused.
Nick lifted his coffee in salute. “Morning, gentlemen.”
Bogo’s office door cracked open long enough for his glare to sweep the bullpen—efficient, unimpressed—then shut again.
Then Judy appeared like she always did—quick, bright, purposeful, eyes already reading the room.
“Nick!”
He turned.
She stopped a few feet away, like she’d learned his space without anyone needing to lecture her. One ear tipped toward him.
“You slept?” she asked.
Nick took a sip of coffee. It was too hot and too bitter and it grounded him better than any pep talk.
“I performed sleep,” he said. “Gave it a solid effort. The critics are divided.”
The corner of Judy’s mouth quirked—almost a smile.
She clocked that too.
“Okay,” she said gently. “We’ve got a call. Convenience store in Tundratown. Theft in progress.”
Nick’s whiskers twitched. “Tundratown. So we’re starting the day with frostbite.”
“Or heroism,” Judy said.
Nick met her eyes and let the warmth there land where it wanted.
“Sure,” he said. “Heroism.”
The convenience store smelled like chemical cleaner and stale popcorn.
A polar bear cashier stood behind the counter, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to retire and also commit a felony.
“There,” the bear rumbled, pointing with one massive paw. “In the freezer.”
A walk-in door sat half ajar. Frost crawled along the rubber seal. From inside came a faint, furious squeaking.
Judy’s ears sprang upright. “Is… is the suspect in there?”
“He went in,” the bear said, deadpan. “He locked it. I told him it locks from the inside, too. He did not believe me.”
Nick pressed his paw to his face. “Sir, I want you to know I did not wake up today expecting to negotiate with a freezer.”
“Sir!” Judy called. “This is Officer Hopps with the ZPD. Can you come out?”
“NO! YOU CAN’T ARREST ME! I’M— I’M HIDING!”
Nick leaned toward the crack. “Buddy. That’s not how hiding works.”
A small gray mouse face appeared—whiskers crusted with frost, eyes wide and offended.
“I’m not coming out!” he squeaked. “You’ll put me in jail!”
“You broke into a convenience store,” Judy said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Yes.”
“The door was open!”
Nick’s mouth twitched. “So you walked in.”
“I’m not afraid of you!”
Nick glanced at Judy like he was requesting permission to be annoying. “Are you afraid of hypothermia?”
The mouse hesitated.
Judy crouched, voice mild. “Last chance. Come out, we cuff you, we get you warm.”
“I know what happened! You happened!”
Judy straightened. “Okay. Nick.”
Nick rolled his shoulders. “On three.”
They yanked.
The seal gave with a wet pop. Cold air burst out like a dragon’s breath.
The mouse stumbled forward, paws skating—one bad step from becoming a tiny frozen statue.
Nick caught him before he face-planted. The mouse immediately tried to bite him.
Nick lifted him higher. The mouse dangled, furious.
Judy snapped cuffs on wrists the size of bottle caps.
“I’m telling you,” the mouse squeaked, teeth chattering now, “I’m innocent!”
Nick looked down at him. “Sir, you are literally covered in frozen corn dogs.”
Sure enough: a pack was tucked under the mouse’s arm like contraband.
Judy’s expression did something complicated—horror, amusement, and the kind of compassion you saved for mammals about to learn a lesson the hard way.
Nick’s tail flicked. “Congratulations. You played yourself.”
They got him thawed enough to stop shaking like a maraca and read him his rights. By the time they loaded him into the back of the cruiser, all his anger had melted into pure, molten regret.
Judy shut the door.
Nick leaned back against the car and laughed—short, surprised, like his body had found the muscle memory before his brain agreed.
Judy watched him like she’d been waiting for that sound all day.
“There it is,” she said, low.
“Don’t get used to it,” Nick muttered.
Judy didn’t argue. She stayed beside him, calm and present.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get him processed.”
Nick nodded and moved.
By the end of shift, Nick’s body felt wrung out.
Not sick. Not fragile.
Just… tired in the way you got when you did your job while your brain kept trying to pry open a door you’d nailed shut.
The freezer case had been ridiculous. Exactly the kind of ridiculous that made Zootopia feel like a city full of real, impulsive mammals instead of a headline.
It should’ve been enough.
It wasn’t.
Judy waited for him by the lockers.
“Donuts?” she asked.
Nick’s first instinct was no—not because he didn’t want donuts, but because saying yes to anything lately felt like agreeing to be seen.
Then Mary’s text flashed in his head.
You eat yet?
Nick exhaled. “Donuts. Yeah. Please.”
Judy’s smile came easy, kind without fuss.
They walked out together.
The café they’d found during the reptile case was warm and busy in an easy way—milk steaming, cups clinking, voices overlapping in soft waves. A barista at the counter recognized them immediately.
“Officer Hopps! Officer Wilde!” she called, too delighted for someone who worked customer service. “The usual?”
Judy lifted a paw. “Uh—yes, please.”
Nick slid half a step behind her on instinct.
The barista’s eyes flicked over him. “Rough day?”
Nick could have answered with a joke.
He didn’t.
“Just… a day,” he said.
The barista didn’t pry. She just nodded and moved on.
They found a table near the window.
It was a two-top, too small for two tired mammals with too much between them. Judy sat, then nudged her chair in without thinking. Nick sat opposite—and their knees nearly bumped under the table before they both adjusted like nothing happened.
A couple sat two tables over—fox and rabbit—leaning in close like the world was a secret. A tired commuter in a wrinkled suit stared into his coffee like it owed him money. A mother bounced a sleepy kid in a stroller with one paw and scrolled her phone with the other.
Life happened all around them.
Nick sat down. The chair squeaked.
The barista brought their drinks a moment later, quick and efficient. Judy thanked her, then slid Nick’s cup toward him so it wouldn’t be in the way.
Her thumb brushed the rim—close enough to brush his paw, too.
Nick froze for a fraction, then wrapped his paw around the cup like he’d meant to do it all along.
Judy sat back across from him and let the lull settle.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said.
Her paw hovered near his wrist—an instinct that stopped itself. She settled for the edge of the napkin instead, smoothing it once.
Nick’s gaze slid away. “Am I?”
“Mm-hm.” Judy kept her voice light, but her eyes stayed sharp.
She watched his face when he answered—like she was collecting tells—and then looked away first, like she hadn’t. “You didn’t even make fun of the mouse’s tiny prison sweater.”
Nick’s tail flicked. “Hey. I respected his dedication to dramatic suffering.”
Judy’s expression warmed—real this time—then softened.
“You’ve got a lot on your mind,” she said, quieter.
Nick’s swallow caught, and he reached for his coffee like it was armor.
“It’s just…,” he started, and the sentence ran into a wall.
Judy let the beat stretch.
Nick tried to build a joke. It didn’t land.
The door burst open.
“NICK WILDE!”
Nick flinched on reflex.
Nibbles Maplestick barreled inside like a weather event.
She had a mic bag slung across her shoulder, headphones around her neck, and enough energy to power the espresso machine if the city grid ever failed.
“OH!” she said, spotting Judy. “And you! Hi, Bunny Cop! Wow, you two look like you just wrestled a freezer.”
Nick gave her a slow once-over. “Do you… live here?”
Nibbles gasped like he’d insulted her lineage. “I thrive here. There’s a difference.”
She slid into the booth next to Nick without waiting for permission, then paused—actually noticing his posture.
Her voice dropped a notch.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re doing the frowny thing.”
Heat crept up his muzzle. He forced his mouth upward. “This is my face.”
Nibbles squinted at him in the tone of a mammal who’d interviewed politicians. “Mmhmm.”
She dug into her bag and slapped a glossy coupon slip onto the table.
“Arcade night,” she announced. “Friday. You’re coming.”
Nick glanced at the slip.
Judy leaned closer. “It’s… an invite?”
“It’s a command disguised as an invite,” Nibbles said brightly. “No tragic monologues. Just buttons and bright lights. And maybe I destroy you at Dance Dance Revolution.”
Nick looked up. His mouth found a smirk before he could stop it.
“Huh,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”
Nibbles’ eyes lit. “There he is! That’s the fox I remember!”
Nick drew a careful breath, caught off guard by how much the words landed.
Somewhere under the table, his knee edged forward again before he could stop it. Close. Not touching. Enough to feel the heat of her through fabric and air.
Over Nibbles’ head, Judy met his gaze and gave him a small, encouraging smile.
Nick felt his heartbeat kick once.
“Wow,” he said, trying for light, “I seem to be getting roped into a lot of… community.”
Nibbles slapped the table. “Yes! Exactly! Welcome! We have snacks and emotional baggage!”
Judy choked on a laugh.
Nick’s laugh followed—short, startled, real enough to surprise him.
Nibbles popped up. “I have to go. I have an episode to post and a morally questionable amount of caffeine to ingest. I’ll text you the time. Don’t make me hunt you.”
Nick lifted his coffee. “Threat received.”
Nibbles finger-gunned him and sprinted out, leaving the booth like a hurricane leaving calm behind it.
Nick watched the door swing shut after she left.
Judy tracked his gaze.
“So,” she said softly.
Nick’s mouth opened. His gaze dipped to the coupon, slid to his coffee, then found Judy again.
He exhaled.
“Mary’s family,” he said.
Judy’s ears angled forward. “What about them?”
Nick’s mouth went dry.
“They talked about God,” he said.
The words hung there. Not dramatic. Just heavy.
Judy didn’t do anything performative with her face. She nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “Bunnyburrow… it was normal. For us.”
Nick traced the edge of his cup with a thumb.
“It was normal for them,” he said, quieter. “Like it wasn’t even a thing. Like you talk about the weather, or the train schedule, or—”
He stopped.
Judy didn’t rush him.
Nick took a slow breath.
“It wasn’t bad,” he said carefully.
Judy held his gaze. “But it scared you.”
Nick’s shoulders hitched.
He didn’t deny it.
Judy leaned in, dropping her voice.
“Nick,” she said, “you don’t have to agree with them. You don’t have to be like them. You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Nick said too fast.
His voice came out sharper than he meant.
He winced.
Judy stayed put.
Nick breathed out.
“It’s not that,” he admitted. “It’s… they say it like it means something. Like it’s allowed to mean something.”
Judy’s ears eased into a softer set.
Nick studied the scratches in the tabletop.
“My mom used to talk like that,” he said.
Judy’s paw stilled on her cup.
Nick’s breath caught. He hadn’t meant to say it.
It slipped out anyway.
Judy didn’t pounce. Didn’t flip into detective-mode. She just breathed.
“Yeah?” she asked, barely above a murmur.
Nick’s jaw worked. “Yeah.”
His gaze drifted to the couple two tables over—fox and rabbit, laughing at something small.
Nick couldn’t find a full breath.
“It’s bigger than one meal,” he said, almost to himself.
Judy nodded once. “I figured.”
Nick tried for a joke and couldn’t find one.
Judy kept her voice level.
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said. “But you don’t have to pretend you’re fine, either.”
Nick’s eyes stung.
He fixed on the rim of his cup until it passed.
Judy saw it and didn’t call him out.
Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a napkin.
Nick blinked. “What—”
Judy smoothed it on the table like she was about to write a ticket. She found a pen in her jacket—because of course she did—and started scribbling.
Her handwriting was blocky. Efficient. The handwriting of a mammal who took notes because her brain refused to let anything stay abstract.
She tore the napkin cleanly and slid it across.
Nick’s eyes went to the napkin.
Case note:
Evidence shows you’re loved.
Stop ignoring the evidence.
Nick went still, paws planted on the table, like the room had tightened around the ink.
“Hopps,” he said, voice low, “this is…”
“Annoying?” Judy offered.
Nick’s mouth twitched. “Accurate.”
Judy’s grin warmed—small and stubborn.
“Good,” she said. “Then keep it.”
Nick folded the napkin carefully—too carefully—and tucked it into his coat like evidence.
Judy watched him do it and didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have to.