Chapter Text
The email was titled ZPD Holiday Gathering — Read Me, Please.
Which, in hindsight, should have been a clue.
Judy had opened it sometime around noon, balancing a case file on one forearm and a lukewarm coffee in the other. She'd skimmed the first two lines—food provided, dress code festive but optional—before her radio crackled to life. The moment duty intervened, she'd closed her phone and never looked back.
Nick had "read it" in the way Nick read most department-wide emails: he'd noticed the notification bubble, made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment, and then used the same dexterous thumb that could pick a lock to swipe it away like it had personally offended him.
So when Christmas Eve arrived and the bullpen had been transformed into something aggressively cheerful—tinsel draped along the railings, paper snowflakes taped to the glass, a small tree wedged into the corner beside Clawhauser's desk—neither of them had any idea they were about to be humbled by a concept called White Elephant.
They did, however, recognize food immediately.
Clawhauser's station had been converted into a full hot-chocolate bar, complete with marshmallows, candy canes, and at least three varieties of whipped cream. The breakroom table sagged under trays of cookies, holiday breads, and something that smelled like cinnamon and regret in equal measure. Garland looped around doorframes, and someone had dimmed the overhead lights just enough that the string lights did most of the work, softening the precinct into a warmer version of itself.
Nick paused just inside the doorway, blinking slowly as he took it all in.
"Is this," he asked, voice thick with suspicion, "what joy looks like?"
Judy nudged his elbow. "It's decoration, Nick. It can't hurt you."
He scanned the room—officers in sweaters, a few wearing Santa hats, one brave soul sporting a jingle-bell collar that chimed with every movement.
Nick leaned closer, lowering his voice like they were discussing a confidential informant. "If I start hearing carols, I'm calling in sick."
"On Christmas Eve?"
"Especially on Christmas Eve," he murmured. "It's a sacred fox tradition."
Judy's mouth twitched. "You're already here."
"You say that like I haven't escaped worse." His smirk didn't quite reach his eyes, which were already mapping exits.
Before she could respond, a familiar bark cut through the room.
"All right! Listen up!"
Chief Bogo stood near the tree, clipboard in one hand, mug in the other. The mug was bright red and declared WORLD'S BEST BOSS in block letters—meaning it had either been purchased by Clawhauser or inflicted upon him by someone with a grudge.
Bogo cleared his throat like the concept of merriment required formal approval. "We are doing this once. We are doing it efficiently. And then you will all return to whatever it is you do when you are not making my precinct look like…this."
A few chuckles rippled through the group.
Bogo's eyes narrowed, but there was an unmistakable softness under it. "It's been a long year," he continued, quieter. "And despite the…questionable decisions I've had to sign off on—" his gaze flicked meaningfully toward a cluster of officers who immediately pretended to be deeply interested in a plate of cookies "—you did good work. You kept this city safe. And you did it together."
Judy felt it, that small tightening in her chest that always came when Bogo acknowledged them as a unit and not as individuals he was bracing to reprimand.
Nick felt it too; his ears tipped forward, his posture subtly changing from loose to attentive.
"So," Bogo concluded, gesturing with the clipboard. "Food. Music. Exchange. You all received instructions. No complaints. No pranks." He paused. "And if I find out anyone damages department property, I will personally assign you to parking enforcement until spring."
The room collectively stiffened.
"Good," Bogo said. "White Elephant exchange in ten minutes."
He turned and strode back toward his office like he'd just declared martial law.
Nick waited until Bogo's door shut, then leaned toward Judy. "White Elephant," he murmured. "Why does that sound like a mob nickname?"
"I think it's just…a holiday thing," she said, squinting toward the growing pile of wrapped, numbered gifts beneath the tree.
"I trust it less already."
She rolled her eyes and headed for the refreshments. "It's a party. Try not to profile the decorations."
"I'm not profiling," Nick replied, drifting after her. "I'm assessing threat."
He picked up a cookie, sniffed it, and then took a bite with exaggerated caution.
Judy watched him chew. "Well?"
Nick's eyes went slightly wide. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. "It's…acceptable."
Judy snorted. "Contrary to your testimony, Officer Wilde, you look completely stunned."
Nick took another bite and spoke around it. "I wasn't aware morale could be baked."
Judy grabbed a cup of hot chocolate and topped it with an unapologetic amount of whipped cream. She was still in uniform—festive sweater optional, apparently—because she hadn't wanted to deal with changing, and also because the week had been relentless. She'd told herself she'd stay for an hour, smile, be present, and then go home to pack.
She was leaving for Bunnyburrow in the morning.
And she'd invited Nick.
It hadn't been a big dramatic invitation. It had been almost casual, slipped between tasks. If you want to come. If you're not doing anything. She'd added it like an afterthought. I know you all met briefly at Gary's homecoming party. Then, softer and more honest: But my mom's been asking about you. My dad will pretend he's not thrilled. My siblings will interrogate you like you're a new species.
Nick had stared at her for a beat, the kind of beat where his eyes sharpened and his humor hesitated, and then he'd said, softly, "Yeah. I'd like that."
So now, standing in the precinct with string lights reflecting off the glass and cinnamon in the air, Judy carried a warmth that had nothing to do with the cocoa.
Nick, predictably, noticed the softness in her expression.
His ears flicked. "What's that look?"
"What look?" Judy asked quickly.
"That one." He pointed at her face like it was evidence. "The one where you look like you're thinking about something you don't want to explain because it's going to make me insufferable."
Judy took a sip of her chocolate, buying time. "It's nothing."
Nick hummed. "Mm. It's never nothing. But fine. I'll let it simmer."
"Don't," Judy warned.
He smiled. "Too late."
Before she could threaten him again, Clawhauser bustled over, wearing a sweater with a reindeer face knitted onto it so large it looked like it had its own personality.
"Judy! Nick! You made it!" Clawhauser beamed, practically vibrating. "Isn't everything adorable? I worked so hard on this. And—okay, this is important—I even got Chief Bogo to approve the cocoa bar." He leaned in, lowering his voice like it was classified. "He fought me on it, but I wore him down. Marshmallows were the turning point."
Nick glanced toward Bogo's office. "Incredible. A true holiday miracle."
"And don't forget your gift!" Clawhauser added, gesturing enthusiastically toward the tree. "We need you to put it under there so it can be numbered."
Judy blinked. "Numbered?"
Clawhauser nodded brightly. "You do know how White Elephant works, right?"
Judy's eyes widened. "Oh. Yes! Of course I do."
Nick's head turned toward her, slow and deliberate.
"Stop it," she hissed.
He smiled, just a little. Said nothing.
She leaned closer. "For the record, I did bring a gift. It's in my locker."
Nick's mouth twitched. "You didn't put it under the tree."
"I didn't know," she whispered back. "I thought it was just…a normal exchange."
"A normal exchange," Nick echoed mildly. "At the ZPD. On Christmas Eve."
She glared.
Nick's expression went innocent. "Carrots, I'm not judging. I'm just—admiring your optimism."
Clawhauser, oblivious to the crisis unfolding, clapped his paws. "Okay! Ten minutes! Find your seats, everyone! We're gonna do the exchange!"
He hurried off like a cheerful tornado.
Judy exhaled sharply and turned on him. "Did you bring a gift?"
"Of course I did." Nick said easily.
Judy stared. "You read the email."
"I skimmed," he said. "Which, last I checked, is more than you did."
"Is yours under the tree?"
Nick paused—just long enough to be suspicious—then shrugged a little too casually.
"No."
Judy raised an eyebrow.
Nick sighed and spread his paws. "Okay, fine. I didn't put it under the tree. Because I thought it was a normal exchange. You know—bring a gift, give it to someone. Not a whole Clawhauser numbering system."
"Wow," she said flatly. "Making fun of me for thinking the exact same thing. How fox of you."
Nick's mouth twitched. "In my defense, I stopped laughing the moment I realized we were both wrong."
Judy grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward the lockers. "Come on. We're fixing this."
Nick let himself be dragged, casting one last look toward the tree. "You know, this all would've gone a lot smoother if the email had come with diagrams."
They moved quickly, slipping down the corridor toward the lockers as the noise of the party softened behind them. The string lights gave way to fluorescent glare, festive warmth replaced by the familiar hum of the precinct at work. Judy yanked open her locker and pulled out a small bag wrapped in green paper with a red ribbon. The wrapping was neat, deliberate—evidence of time spent choosing and re-choosing, smoothing edges, tying the bow just right.
Nick's gaze dropped to the ribbon, then lifted back to her face. Something flickered there—surprise, quickly masked.
Judy shut the locker and pointed at his. "Wrap yours. Now."
Nick opened his locker with maddening calm and pulled out a package wrapped in silver paper. The bow on top was immaculate, like it had been tied by someone who'd either practiced or cared too much.
Judy blinked. "You wrapped this."
Nick's ears tilted, faintly smug. "I can do things."
"That's…terrifying."
Nick grinned. "Thank you."
They hurried back into the bullpen, sliding their gifts into the numbered pile like they hadn't just sprinted through the precinct like criminals. Nick eyed the stack. "So. How does this actually work?"
Judy glanced around. "I have no idea."
Nick's gaze slid to the printed sheet taped near the tree—White Elephant rules. His eyes narrowed.
Judy followed his line of sight.
WHITE ELEPHANT GIFT EXCHANGE — READ THE RULES OR SUFFER
Nick's mouth went slightly open.
Judy leaned in. "What."
He pointed. "Stealing."
Her eyes followed his finger.
Pick a number.
On your turn, unwrap a new gift…
…or steal an already-opened one.
Judy's ears lifted so sharply they almost hit the paper. "Wait—what do you mean steal?"
Nick pointed at the line like it made his case for him. "I mean…steal. Like, with your whole chest. In public. While everyone watches."
Judy stared, trying to force the words to rearrange into something more sensible. They didn't. "So you don't just…exchange?"
"No," Nick said slowly, the dawning horror in his voice competing with a very fox-like fascination. "You put your gift into the wild and then the wild decides who deserves it."
Judy's stomach dropped. "So we don't choose who gets—"
"—anything," Nick finished, eyes still locked on the rules. "We don't choose who gets our gift. We don't know whose gift we get. And apparently the entire point is to encourage sanctioned theft with seasonal decor."
Judy looked at the pile again, and it really did look different now—less like a festive stack of presents and more like a trap, neatly wrapped.
Nick glanced at her. "Tell me you brought something you'd be comfortable watching a stranger walk away with."
Judy's expression went blank.
Nick's brows lifted. "Carrots."
Judy swallowed. "I…put thought into it."
Nick closed his eyes for half a beat, as if bracing. "Of course you did."
Judy's ears angled defensively. "And you didn't?"
Nick opened one eye. Paused.
"…I may have invested a non-zero amount of effort."
Judy arched an eyebrow.
"All right," he sighed. "I invested significant effort. But hear me out—I think this actually works in our favor."
"How?"
He glanced back at the rules, then at the pile.
"Well, if you're going to host a gift exchange that encourages theft," he said, voice smooth with unmistakable confidence, "the first mistake you make is letting a fox attend."
Judy stared at him for one long second.
Then a small huff escaped her, followed by a smile she didn't bother hiding. She leaned in too, lowering her voice like they were sealing a pact.
"We get them back."
Nick's mouth curved—sharp, delighted, and absolutely in sync with her. "We get them back."
The exchange began with Bogo calling out numbers like he was dispatching units.
Grizzoli went first. He unwrapped a fuzzy sweater dotted with tiny snowflakes. Polite applause followed.
Delgato peeled open his package next. A mug emerged—I'M ONLY HERE FOR THE BENEFITS. Laughter burst out across the room and died instantly under Bogo's glare.
Judy barely noticed.
She sat rigid, watching each package get selected with the intensity of a bomb tech. Nick sat beside her, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, tracking the movement of every gift like it was a suspect crossing a street corner.
"Do you see yours?" Judy murmured.
Nick's eyes flicked across the pile. "Yes."
"Where."
He nodded toward the tree, where Officer Higgins had just selected a silver package.
Judy's throat tightened. "That's yours."
Nick's smile was tight. "Yep."
Higgins tore into the paper and lifted the lid of a small box.
Inside sat a snow globe.
Judy blinked.
Not a generic one. Inside the glass, two small figurines stood back-to-back—a fox and a rabbit in ZPD uniforms, snow drifting around them in a slow, endless fall. The base was carved wood, smooth and deliberate, etched with careful lettering:
Partners. Always.
Judy's breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
Higgins smiled. "Oh wow. That's…actually really nice."
Nick exhaled through his nose. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It is."
Judy turned toward him. "You made us into a—"
Nick's ears flicked, defensive. "It was subtle."
"It's adorable," Judy whispered.
Nick shot her a look that said not now.
Before she could respond, another number was called.
Officer Wolford stepped forward and unwrapped a small green package.
Judy's stomach dropped.
That one was hers.
The paper tore, the ribbon slipping loose as the contents spilled free. A scarf unfurled into Wolford's hands—soft, dark red, worked through with stitching that was careful and precise, the kind that clearly took time. Near one end, a tiny embroidered carrot.
And just beside it—
A little fox tail.
Wolford's face lit up. "Oh! This is nice."
Before Judy could brace herself, he looped it around his neck, adjusting it with obvious approval.
Heat rushed to her face.
Nick leaned closer, his voice low. "You weren't subtle."
"It was subtle," she hissed, mortified.
He hummed, thoughtful. "Emotionally honest, then."
She shot him a look.
Wolford gave the scarf another appreciative tug. "It's warm."
Nick nodded solemnly. "Functional and thoughtful. Strong combination."
Judy fixed her gaze straight ahead, willing herself not to combust on the spot.
When Wolford returned to his seat, her embarrassment lingered—right up until a rule surfaced in her mind, clear and unmistakable.
Gifts may be stolen.
Judy turned her head slowly toward Nick.
He met her gaze.
There was no humor now. No teasing.
Only agreement.
"We get them back," Judy whispered.
Nick's mouth curved, sharp. "We absolutely get them back."
By the time Judy's number was called, she'd already built a strategy.
Nick's number came two turns later.
Judy approached the pile with an expression that suggested cheerful compliance. Nick knew better; his eyes followed her like she was casing a vault.
She selected a gift at random—small, blue, harmless. She carried it back and unwrapped it.
It was a set of novelty socks with tiny paw prints.
Judy clapped politely, holding them up. "Wow! Socks!"
Nick leaned toward her. "You look thrilled."
"I am thrilled," Judy hissed. "I'm thrilled I didn't accidentally take a bomb."
Nick's eyes flicked toward the snow globe. "I thought you were going to steal."
"Not yet."
He frowned. "Why not yet? We're either picking or stealing."
"Because if I steal right away, everyone knows I care."
Nick raised a brow. "Carrots, you stared at that scarf like it was the last warm thing in the universe."
Her cheeks heated. "Nick."
"Just an observation."
She huffed. "We wait. Until everyone thinks the game is over. Then we'll steal."
"That sounds…illegal."
"Technically," she said tightly, "they never specified when the game ends."
Nick's brows lifted. "Look at you. Exploiting loopholes."
She glared.
"So proud," he added.
Her eyes were still narrowed when Nick's number was called.
He walked to the pile with easy confidence, picked up a medium-sized package, and returned. He unwrapped it.
A plush white elephant stared back, wearing a tiny Santa hat. The tag read: WHITE ELEPHANT CHAMPION.
The room laughed.
Nick stared at it, expressionless.
Judy bit her lip.
Nick lifted the plush, turning it toward the room. "I was wondering when the actual white elephant would show up."
More laughter.
He set it down carefully and leaned toward Judy. "So now we wait?"
Judy nodded once. "Now we wait."
The next turn came.
Another officer stole a gift. Someone swapped. The room warmed into the chaos of it, laughter growing louder, rules becoming less rigid as the sugar and cocoa set in, until finally the last gift was taken and the game finally ran its course.
Judy's fingers twitched.
She watched the scarf. Wolford, still wearing it, was talking to someone else, distracted, one paw gesturing animatedly.
Now.
Judy inhaled slowly.
Then, as casually as she could manage, she stood.
Her smile was polite. Her ears were relaxed. She walked forward with the innocence of a rabbit about to steal something precious in front of her entire workplace.
She stopped in front of Wolford, took an internal breath…
And lifted the scarf right off his shoulders.
"I'm stealing this," she said brightly.
For half a beat, the room went silent.
Then it detonated.
Laughter burst out from every direction, loud enough to rattle the ornaments on the little tree. Someone yelled her name—half scandalized, half delighted. Another officer clapped like she'd just won a bet.
Wolford's eyes widened. "Hey—!"
"I'm sorry—!" Judy blurted, already backing away, clutching the scarf to her chest as she retreated. "It's—it's just really nice!"
Nick's head dipped, like he was trying not to laugh.
"Hopps!" Bogo yelled across the room.
Judy clutched the scarf like it might vanish if she loosened her grip.
When she finally managed to escape back to her seat, her pulse was racing in her ears.
Nick leaned in, voice a whisper. "Subtle?"
Judy hissed, "Shut up."
His gaze flicked to the table where the snow globe sat, the one Higgins had placed down earlier like it was ordinary. Like it wasn't a careful little universe made out of wood and glass and a thought that had no right being so tender.
"My turn," he whispered.
Nick didn't move right away.
He waited until the room's attention shifted—until someone unwrapped a singing fish and everyone groaned—then stood, smooth as if he were simply stretching his legs.
He crossed the room and stopped at the table.
Higgins glanced up, still half-laughing. "Oh, hey, Wilde—"
Nick picked up the snow globe carefully, turning it once in his hands.
"You know," he said mildly, "I was wondering how long this would last."
Higgins frowned. "Last?"
Nick smiled, easy and unapologetic. "On the table."
He lifted the globe. "I'm stealing this."
The room howled.
Laughter surged again, louder this time—shouts, groans, someone demanding an official ruling, someone else loudly declaring that this was exactly why foxes couldn't be trusted. A chair scraped back. A few officers applauded like they'd been waiting for it to happen.
Higgins spluttered. "What—hey!"
Nick didn't argue. He didn't slow. He simply turned, the snow globe steady in his hands, and walked away from the noise like he'd just reclaimed something that had been misplaced.
Judy watched him cross the room, stunned.
The laughter, the mock protests, the commentary about foxes and theft blurred together until it was just sound—background static she barely registered. Her attention narrowed to the globe in Nick's hands, to the way the tiny figures inside stood back-to-back, frozen mid-duty as snow drifted endlessly around them.
When he reached her, his expression had softened. He was still Nick—still casual, still composed—but the sharp edge he wore for the room had gone quiet, replaced by something steadier. Intentional.
He stopped in front of her and held the snow globe out.
Not with ceremony. Not like a reveal. Just held it out, patient.
Judy hesitated before taking it, fingers closing around cool glass. The weight of it was real—solid and careful in a way that made her throat tighten. She turned it once, and the snow inside lifted and fell, slow and endless, dusting the tiny fox and rabbit in their uniforms like it had been snowing there forever.
"You made this," she said quietly, voice too small for the room.
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. "Commissioned. I know my limits."
She smiled despite herself. "Partners," she read softly, tracing the lettering with her thumb. "Always."
"Seemed accurate," he said. "Also legally defensible."
She snorted, then laughed—a small, breathy sound that surprised them both.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Around them, the party continued to unwind—someone arguing over the singing fish, Clawhauser loudly defending the merits of novelty bowties. Judy remained anchored where she was. Her eyes stayed on the globe, on the rabbit and fox inside standing shoulder to shoulder, equal and unyielding.
"You didn't have to make it…us," she said.
Nick met her gaze. "Yeah," he said gently. "I did."
His answer landed with unexpected weight, stealing her breath for a second longer than she'd intended. She set the globe carefully on the table between them, then reached for the scarf she'd reclaimed— still faintly scented with cinnamon and the lingering closeness of the room.
She held it out.
Nick blinked. "What's this?"
"Don't," she said, already smiling. "You know exactly what it is."
He took it slowly, unfolding the fabric with more care than he probably realized. When he saw the stitching—the carrot, the fox tail—his ears flicked once, betraying him.
Judy shifted, suddenly nervous. "It's okay if you don't like it. I mean, I know it's not subtle—"
"It's subtle," he said immediately.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," he amended, "it's emotionally aggressive. But in a good way."
She laughed, relief loosening her shoulders. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, looping the scarf around his neck, adjusting it until it sat just right, "remarkably well-accessorized."
She watched him for a second too long.
Nick caught it. "What."
"Nothing," she said quickly.
"Uh-huh."
They sat there, side by side, gifts finally where they belonged—snow globe safe at Judy's elbow, scarf warm against Nick's throat—while the noise of the precinct settled into something softer.
After a beat, Nick leaned closer, voice low and sincere beneath the humor. "Hey."
She looked at him.
He let the moment stretch just long enough, then reached down and picked up a familiar forgotten white elephant plush, turning it toward her like an offering. "Should we adopt him?"
She held the moment for a breath, until a laugh escaped her lips.
"Really?"
He turned the plush again, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness. "He's clearly been through a lot," Nick said. "Abandoned. Overlooked. Wearing a hat that doesn't fit his head."
Judy felt the corner of her mouth lift. "You're sympathizing with a plush."
"I mean, look at him." He glanced down at the tag, then back at her. "I'm sensing a real underdog story here."
"Nick," she said, trying for stern and missing by a mile. "We are not taking home evidence."
Nick sighed theatrically and set the elephant back on the table, adjusting the Santa hat so it sat straighter. "Fine. But if he mysteriously relocates himself to our desk cluster tomorrow, I'm not filing a report."
Judy nudged his knee with hers. "You would be the worst influence."
"And yet," he said, tilting his head, "you're my partner."
She looked down at the snow globe, fingers tracing the curve of the glass. The fox and rabbit inside stood steady, unchanged no matter how many times the world around them shook. After a moment, she gave it a gentle turn, watching the snow rise and fall again.
"It's really perfect," she said quietly.
Nick's ears flicked, just once. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She swallowed, then added, "Thank you."
Nick's paw brushed the scarf again, thumb slowing as it traced the stitching, lingering over the careful work there like he was taking stock of every quiet hour it must have taken.
"Of course," he said simply.
Then, quieter—meant only for her—
"And I love it."
The party shifted after the exchange.
Music softened into the background. Conversations broke into smaller clusters. Officers drifted toward the cocoa bar or the cookie trays, the energy loosening into that warm, end-of-year exhaustion.
Judy stayed mostly with water.
Not because she didn't want to drink—she did—but because she knew her limits, and also because she was leaving early tomorrow and she didn't want to show up in Bunnyburrow smelling like peppermint schnapps.
Nick, naturally, made a show of nursing one drink for an hour, just to be irritating.
"You're really committing to this," Judy said, nodding at his cup.
Nick glanced at it. "It's called pacing."
"It's called pretending," Judy countered.
Nick's eyes glittered. "It's called not letting you outdrink me."
Judy snorted. "I'm not drinking."
Nick leaned in, lowering his voice. "That's what you think. But you're a prey mammal at a holiday party. Peer pressure is coming."
Judy's ears flicked. "No, it's not."
Nick's smile grew. "Bogo is going to give a speech."
Judy blinked. "He already did."
Nick lifted a claw. "A second speech. The sentimental one. Where he forces everyone to toast something."
Judy stared at him. "You're making that up."
Nick tilted his head. "Am I."
Judy's mouth opened—
—and Bogo cleared his throat again.
The room quieted like someone had flicked a switch.
Nick didn't look at Judy. He just sipped his drink, smug.
Bogo stood near the tree again, mug in hand, clipboard gone.
"This precinct," he began, voice reluctant, "has survived another year."
A few chuckles.
Bogo's eyes narrowed. The chuckles died.
Bogo's expression softened by degrees. "I've…seen a lot of teams," he continued. "Most of them fall apart when the pressure hits. Most of them don't last."
Judy's ears angled forward. Her chest tightened.
Bogo's gaze swept the room. "But some of you—" his eyes paused briefly on Judy and Nick "—have proven that partnership is not just…convenient."
Nick went still.
Judy felt her throat tighten.
Bogo cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with his own sincerity. "So. We are going to toast."
A collective groan and laughter.
Bogo raised his mug. "To the mammals who kept this precinct running. To the ones who stayed late. To the ones who covered shifts. To the ones who made my job… slightly less intolerable."
He paused, then added, quieter, "To partnership."
Clawhauser squealed softly and handed out small cups of sparkling cider and something stronger that smelled like cinnamon fire.
Judy instinctively declined when a cup was offered to her. "No, thank you," she said politely.
The officer offering it shrugged and moved on.
Nick leaned in. "Good," he murmured. "Stay sober. We need one of us to remain employable."
Judy shot him a look.
Then Bogo's voice rumbled again. "Hopps. Wilde."
The room collectively turned.
Judy froze.
Nick's ears flicked, suddenly alert.
Bogo's gaze held them. "You two have caused me more paperwork than any partnership in this department." he said. "And you are now, for the record, the first officers to ever violate the rules of a White Elephant exchange."
Laughter erupted.
Judy's face warmed. Nick's mouth twitched.
Bogo's expression didn't change, but his voice softened. "You've also done work that matters. And you do it together. Whether I like it or not."
The room made a small "aww" noise that immediately died under Bogo's glare.
Bogo lifted his mug. "To the ZPD's most stubborn partnership."
Every cup lifted.
Judy stared at the cups.
She could feel it—every eye, every expectation, every moment of the last year and more converging on her.
Nick leaned toward her, voice low. "Carrots," he murmured. "You don't have to—"
Judy exhaled.
She took the cup that Clawhauser practically shoved into her paw with starry-eyed excitement.
Nick stared at her like she'd just made a dangerous decision.
Judy lifted her cup.
"Cheers," she said, trying to sound normal.
They drank.
Judy barely tasted it before the warmth hit her throat and spread like wildfire.
She blinked once.
Then twice.
"Oh," she said quietly.
Nick's ears angled toward her immediately. "Oh what."
Judy's eyes widened slightly. "Oh that's…strong."
Nick's mouth curved. "It's cider."
Judy frowned at her cup. "Is cider supposed to be this strong?"
Nick leaned closer, sniffed the air near her cup, and his eyes widened.
Then, very slowly, his expression shifted into pure, delighted horror.
"Oh no," he murmured.
Judy stared at him. "What."
Nick's voice was gentle, like he was talking to a child near a stove. "Carrots…that's not cider."
Judy blinked.
He nodded toward the table behind them, where a handwritten label sat crookedly beside a half-empty pitcher. Spiked — Do Not Refill.
"That's Clawhauser's," Nick continued calmly. "Hard cider. Heavy on the hard."
Then her ears dipped. "I drank that?"
Nick nodded once, solemn. "You did."
Judy stared at the cup like it had betrayed her personally. "But it's the same as your cup..."
Nick's smile turned sharp. "Yeah. That's how they get you."
Judy's eyes narrowed. "Nick, I'm not drunk."
Nick's grin widened. "You're not drunk yet."
Judy pointed at him. "You're—you're enjoying this."
Nick leaned back, smug. "I am. Immensely."
Judy tried to glare, but it came out softer than she intended. "I'm fine."
Nick's eyes glittered. "Okay."
Judy blinked. "Okay what."
Nick leaned in, voice low. "Okay, Officer Hopps. Say the alphabet."
Judy stared at him. "What."
Nick's grin was lethal. "Say the alphabet."
Judy's ears flicked in indignation. "Nicholas Wilde, I am not—"
Nick lifted a paw, cutting her off. "You just said my full government name. That's not a good sign."
Judy's mouth opened, then closed.
Nick's grin widened.
Judy narrowed her eyes. "A. B. C. D. E. F. G…"
Nick's ears twitched as if he was savoring it.
Judy continued, faster, because she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "H. I. J. K. L. M…"
Nick's smile grew.
Judy's eyes narrowed. "N. O. P. Q. R. S…"
Nick leaned closer. "Careful. This is where it usually goes wrong."
Judy glared at him. "T. U. V. W. X…"
Nick's eyes sparkled.
Judy's mouth tightened. "Y. Z."
She sat back, triumphant. "See."
Nick clapped softly. "Fantastic. Now do it backwards."
Judy stared.
Nick's grin was wicked. "I'm kidding."
Judy's eyes narrowed. "You're awful."
Nick's smile softened. "I know."
Judy's head felt…light. Her limbs felt warmer. The room felt louder in a way that made her want to laugh at things that weren't that funny.
Nick watched her, amused and attentive in equal measure.
Judy took another sip—out of stubbornness more than sense.
Nick's paw shot out and gently took the cup from her. "Nope."
Judy blinked at her empty paw. "Hey."
Nick held the cup away. "You've made your toast. You've honored your partnership. You've met your annual quota for recklessness."
Judy leaned toward him, squinting. "You're…bossy."
Nick's eyebrows lifted. "Do you want to hear Bogo call me 'most stubborn partnership' again or do you want to go home?"
Judy frowned. "Home?"
Nick's voice softened. "Your place. So you can sleep. So we can go to Bunnyburrow in the morning without you falling into a snowbank."
Judy stared at him for a beat.
Then her expression softened, and she leaned closer—not quite touching, just close enough that Nick's ears flicked.
"You're coming," she murmured.
Nick blinked. "To Bunnyburrow?"
Judy nodded solemnly. "To Bunnyburrow."
Nick's mouth twitched. "Yes, Carrots. I'm coming."
Judy smiled, satisfied, and leaned back.
Nick stared at her like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or be deeply endeared.
He chose both.
Nick didn't announce their exit. He just guided it.
He steered Judy through the crowd with one hand hovering near her elbow—not gripping, not dragging, just ready. Judy insisted she could walk fine, which she proved by walking fine for exactly ten steps before veering slightly toward a decorative snowman someone had placed near the hallway.
Nick caught her gently.
Judy frowned. "That snowman…is looking at me."
Nick's voice was calm. "He's not."
Judy narrowed her eyes. "He is."
Nick leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, "Carrots, it's papier-mâché."
Judy blinked. "That's…worse."
Nick sighed. "Okay. Let's get you home before you arrest seasonal decor."
Judy huffed, but she let him guide her out.
The cold outside hit Judy like a slap of reality, and for a moment her eyes widened, her ears twitching sharply.
Nick watched her carefully. "You okay?"
Judy nodded too fast. "Yes."
Nick's mouth curved. "That was convincing."
Judy glared, then immediately lost her balance for half a second because her glare required too much effort.
Nick steadied her with a hand at her waist.
Judy blinked up at him, very close now.
Nick froze—just for a heartbeat.
Judy's expression softened in a way that was not sober.
"You're warm," she said.
Nick's ears tilted, betraying him. "It's my coat."
Judy frowned. "No. You."
Nick swallowed. "Okay."
Judy leaned closer, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret. "Your ears turn red when you're embarrassed."
Nick's eyes widened. "They do not."
Judy smiled. "They do."
Nick's mouth opened—
—and then closed, because she was right.
He guided her down the sidewalk toward her apartment, the city around them quiet and softened by holiday lights. Snow drifted gently from the sky, catching in Judy's fur and on Nick's coat. The world felt like it had been turned down to a lower volume—no sirens, no urgency, just the hush of Christmas Eve.
Judy's steps slowed.
Nick glanced at her. "Hey. Don't fall asleep standing up."
Judy blinked at him. "I'm not asleep."
Nick hummed. "Okay."
Judy's voice was suddenly very serious. "I have to pack."
Nick nodded. "Tomorrow morning. You can pack tomorrow morning."
Judy frowned. "But my mom will—"
Nick's voice softened. "Your mom will be thrilled you're alive and coming home and bringing me for inspection. She'll survive if your socks aren't folded."
Judy blinked. "You're…brave."
Nick's mouth twitched. "I've faced worse."
Judy squinted. "Worse than my mom?"
Nick hesitated.
Judy's eyes widened in drunken delight. "So you are nervous."
Nick sighed. "Yes."
Judy nodded solemnly. "You'll be fine."
Nick couldn't help the laugh that slipped out of him. "That's the second time you've said that to me today, and it's still not reassuring."
Judy leaned slightly into him as they walked. Nick adjusted without complaint, letting her weight rest against his side.
Judy's voice softened. "I'm glad you're coming."
Nick's smile faded into something quieter. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."
Judy looked up at him, eyes bright and a little unfocused. "You're gonna like Bunnyburrow."
Nick's eyebrows lifted. "That sounds like a threat."
Judy giggled. "It is."
Nick shook his head, amused. "I'm walking into a family ambush."
Judy nodded, pleased. "Yes."
Nick sighed dramatically. "Merry Christmas to me."
Judy's smile widened. "Merry Christmas to you."
When they reached her apartment building, Nick guided her up the stairs carefully, one step at a time. Judy insisted on doing it herself, which Nick allowed, because he'd learned that fighting Judy on principle was like arguing with gravity.
Inside, her apartment was dim and quiet, the little Christmas lights she'd strung along the window glowing softly. The warmth wrapped around them immediately, and Judy's shoulders dropped as if she'd been holding herself upright purely out of stubbornness.
Nick closed the door behind them and turned.
Judy stood in the entryway, swaying slightly, snow melting into tiny droplets on her fur.
Nick watched her for a moment, then spoke gently. "Okay. Coat off. Water. Bed."
Judy blinked. "You're bossy."
Nick's mouth curved. "So I've heard."
Judy took off her coat with exaggerated care, then looked up at him suddenly, eyes wide with a realization that seemed very important.
Nick paused. "What."
Judy pointed at his neck. "You're wearing it."
Nick glanced down at the scarf—the one she'd made, the one she'd stolen back with the sheepish determination of someone defending her heart.
He shrugged lightly. "It's cold."
Judy's smile grew soft. "Good."
Nick's ears warmed. "Carrots…"
Judy stepped closer, slow and unsteady. Nick braced instinctively, ready to catch her.
But instead of falling, Judy reached up and adjusted the scarf gently, straightening it like she was making sure it sat right.
Her paws lingered.
Nick went still.
Judy's expression was focused in the way serious Judy got sometimes—like she'd narrowed her whole world down to one small task that mattered.
"There," she murmured, satisfied.
Nick swallowed. "Thank you."
Judy looked up at him.
Her ears drooped slightly, softening her face. "You're nice," she said quietly, like it was a confession.
Nick blinked. "I'm—"
Judy lifted a paw, cutting him off the way he'd cut her off earlier, only this time it was gentle. "Don't argue."
Nick's mouth closed.
Judy's smile wobbled, then steadied. "You're…you're really nice."
Nick's voice softened. "Okay."
Judy blinked slowly, then leaned forward.
Nick's body went rigid for half a second—anticipation, uncertainty, all of it flashing through him.
But Judy didn't kiss him.
She pressed her forehead lightly against his chest.
A small thing. A warm thing.
Nick exhaled, tension draining out of him like he'd been waiting all night for permission to just…be.
He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her carefully, holding her close.
Judy sighed, content, and her ears rested against him.
Nick murmured, almost to himself, "You are going to be so embarrassed in the morning."
Judy's voice came muffled against his coat. "No I'm not."
Nick's smile grew. "You absolutely are."
Judy huffed. "I'm brave."
Nick's laugh was quiet, fond. "Yes, you are."
He guided her towards her bed. Judy protested weakly once, then gave up, letting him tuck her in with the patience of someone who had carried her through far worse nights.
Nick pulled the blanket up over her shoulders.
Judy blinked up at him, eyes heavy. "Nick."
"Yeah?"
Judy's voice was sleepy and sincere. "Don't let my siblings steal your scarf."
Nick's mouth twitched. "I won't."
Judy nodded, satisfied, and her eyes drifted shut.
Nick stood there for a moment, watching her breathe, the room quiet except for the soft hum of her Christmas lights.
Then he reached into the coat draped over the chair beside her bed and drew out the snow globe—the one he'd stolen back with the quiet certainty of knowing who it truly belonged to.
He set it gently on her nightstand.
Partners. Always.
Nick stared at it, then back at Judy.
He shook his head softly, smiling to himself.
"You're going to ruin me," he murmured.
Judy didn't respond—already asleep.
Nick turned off the light, leaving only the soft glow from the window, and stepped away from the bed.
He didn't leave.
Not yet.
Instead, he went to the window, scarf still looped around his neck, and let the quiet of Christmas Eve settle around him like snow.
Tomorrow, he'd walk into Bunnyburrow.
Tomorrow, he'd formally meet the Hopps family with his best smile and his sharpest wit and his most respectful posture.
Tomorrow, he'd probably get interrogated by a dozen rabbits and possibly adopted by half of them.
But tonight—
Tonight, Judy was safe.
Tonight, she'd laughed.
Tonight, she'd leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Nick Wilde—fox, con artist, reluctant hero, and now unwilling participant in holiday cheer—found himself smiling into the dim light, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.
Outside, snow fell steadily over Zootopia.
Inside, the city's most stubborn partnership slept on, wrapped in Christmas lights and the kind of softness that didn't need to be explained to be real.