Chapter Text
Subjects: Officer Judy Hopps
Status: Pending Deployment
The Past: A Week Ago
The rain in Savanna Central was completely relentless, a grey, weeping curtain drumming against the single pane of glass in Judy’s apartment. It was a lonely sound, the rhythm of a city that was too big, too loud, and too full of mammals who didn't know your own name.
Judy sat at her cramped desk table, the rough surface cluttered with half-eaten Thai takeout—Pad Thai for only one—and the formidable stack of documents Chief Bogo had dropped on her and Nick’s laps three hours ago.
Target: The Ice Gallery / The Siberius Syndicate. Cover Identities: Oliver and Elise Winters.
She clicked her pen—click, click, click—the sound rapid-fire and nervous, a metronome for her impending anxiety. The ink was bleeding through the paper where she had underlined the word HUSBAND three times, as if staring at the word would make it make sense.
Her eyes drifted to the photo paper-clipped to the "Oliver" file. It wasn't one of Nick’s smooth, hustler mugshots where he looked like he knew the punchline to a joke you hadn't heard yet. But it was his Academy ID photo. He simply looked a little younger, the fur on his cheeks slightly unkempt. He was trying to look serious for the camera, stoic even, but the corner of his mouth was twitching upward, fighting his usual smirk. It was a look that said, I can’t believe they’re letting a fox do this.
She traced the curve of his ear with the tip of her pen, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.
Husband, she thought, the word feeling foreign and heavy in her mind. I have to pretend to be his wife. I have to pretend to love him without ruining everything we actually have.
Her Carrot iPhone buzzed violently against the table, startling her. The screen lit up, shattering the ominous mood with a bright, over-saturated photo of two beaming bunnies.
INCOMING FACETIME: MOM & DAD
Judy let out a long breath, forcing her ears to perk up, physically shaking off the weight of the mission. She plastered on the trademark "Hopps Optimism" smile—the one that hurt her cheeks—and swiped to answer.
"Hi! Oh my gosh, look at you!" Bonnie Hopps’ face filled the screen, the pixelated image warm, chaotic, and suffocatingly familiar. "Stuart, get in the frame! It’s Jude-the-Dude!"
"Hey there, Cottontail!" Stu squeezed into the shot, his glasses crooked, holding a basket of blueberries. "We were just talking about you! Did you know that Gideon Grey just had his fourth litter? Can you believe it? Four! And they are just the roundest little things you ever saw."
"That's... that's a lot of kits, Dad," Judy said, her voice tight. She quickly shifted the dossier on the table, covering the words 'High Risk' and 'Money-Laundering' with a greasy napkin. "I'm happy for him. Really."
"It makes you think, doesn't it?" Bonnie sighed, adjusting the camera so Judy could see the golden light of the burrow kitchen behind them. It looked so warm. It smelled, even through the screen, of yeast and safety. Home. "You’re deeply in your twenties now, Judy. The farm is doing so well, and we built that extension on the west burrow... you know the one with the nursery view? We put in those double-pane windows you like."
"Mom," Judy warned gently, twirling the pen faster. "We talked about this. I have a lease."
"I’m just saying," Bonnie continued, her voice soft and pleading. "There is plenty of room here. You’re all alone in that big bustling city. And you know what they say, a doe shouldn't be alone, Judy. It’s not natural. We worry about you coming home to an empty room every night."
"I'm not alone, Mom," Judy said, the defensive reflex kicking in. "I have friends. I have colleagues. I’m busy. I have a career."
"But are you happy?" Stu asked, abandoning the blueberries. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his eyes full of a simple, crushing concern. "We see the news all the time, Jude. The fires. The protests. We just want you to have someone to come home to. Someone to... well, someone to hold the umbrella when it rains. Someone to watch the door. There’s a very nice rabbit from the Burrows, Terry. He’s into carrot cultivation, very steady paws—"
"Dad, I don't need steady paws, I just need back-up," Judy snapped, then immediately softened. "I mean... I'm fine."
Judy felt a lump form in her throat, hard and sharp. She looked at the rain streaking her window. She looked at the empty chair beside her.
Then, she looked down at the photo of Nick.
"Well, you have that fox," Bonnie said suddenly, her nose twitching as if she had caught a scent through the fiber optics. "Nick. Right?"
Judy froze. Her finger stopped tracing his picture.
"Nick," Judy corrected, her voice softening in a way she didn't intend. "Yes. He’s... uh…he’s my partner."
"Just a partner?" Bonnie asked, leaning closer to the camera, her eyes narrowing with maternal radar. "Because the last time you visited, you wouldn't stop talking about him. You said he fixed your taillight without asking. You said he knows exactly what coffee shops you liked. You said he makes you laugh when you want to cry."
"Mom, stop."
"I’m just simply asking!" Bonnie threw up her paws. "He sounds... very devoted, Judy. Foxes are loyal, aren't they? Once they choose someone? I remember reading that they mate for life. They find their person and they just... stick."
Judy stared at the file. Under COVER DYNAMICS, it read: Subjects must display high levels of physical affection and intuitive non-verbal communication.
The irony twisted in her gut like a cold knife. Her parents were begging her to find exactly what she was about to fake. They were dreaming of a reality that she was only allowed to have if it was a lie.
"He’s just a friend, Mom," Judy lied.
The lie tasted like copper. It sat heavy on her tongue, coating her mouth in ash.
"He’s just a guy I work with," she added, the deflection practiced and hollow. "We’re practically like…oil and water. He’s the cynical type, I’m an optimist. And it’s strictly professional, by the way. We’re just... different species, you know? It doesn't work like that."
"But, oil and water make vinaigrette, Judy!" Bonnie countered, not letting it go. "Some of the best things don't make sense on paper."
"Well, that’s a shame," Stu muttered, retreating back to his blueberries. "Because a fox who fixes taillights for free? That’s very rare, Jude. That’s a keeper. Terry would have charged you for parts and labor."
"We just want you to be loved, sweetie," Bonnie whispered, her eyes soft. "We want you to look at someone the way I look at your father. We just want you to be safe with extra precautions, of course."
Before Judy could answer, a shout erupted from the other side of her paper-thin apartment wall.
"SHUT YOUR TRAP, PRONK!" Bucky’s voice roared, muffled but distinct. "SHE'S TALKING TO HER PARENTS! LEAVE THE POOR GIRL ALONE, SHE’S GOT NO ONE!"
"I WAS JUST SINGING!" Pronk yelled back. "IT'S THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE!"
"IT'S THE SONG OF A DYING GOAT! LET HER BE SAD IN PEACE! SHE'S LONELY, PRONK, HAVE A HEART!"
Judy winced, the tips of her ears turning pink as the neighbours inadvertently confirmed her mother’s worst fears.
"Oh dear," Bonnie said, looking alarmed. "Are those... your neighbours again?"
"They're... quite lively," Judy managed, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle. "Look, Mom, Dad, I have to go. It’s a very big day for me tomorrow. I love you."
"We love you too, sweetie. Find someone to hold that umbrella."
The screen went black. The apartment was suddenly twice as quiet as it had been before. The silence wasn't just an absence of noise; it was a physical weight, a pressurized vacuum that rushed in to fill the space where her mother’s voice had been. The air grew heavy, pressing against her eardrums, smelling of stale takeout and solitude.
Judy sat there for a long, suspended moment, staring at her own reflection in the black phone screen—ears drooping, nose twitching with repressed agitation. Slowly, her gaze drifted back to the table. To the file. To the photo paper-clipped to the corner of the dossier. She picked it up. It was flimsy, glossy, and cold to the touch.
She propped it up against the salt shaker, adjusting it until Nick’s half-lidded, pixelated stare was level with her own.
"Strictly professional," she said to the photo, her voice teasing, waiting for the comeback. "Oil and water. Are you hearing this, slick? My parents think you're a whole catch. They think you're 'devoted.'"
She waited. The apartment held its breath. In the theater of her mind, however, the response was instantaneous. She knew his cadence so well she could practically hallucinate it. She could see the way his muzzle would wrinkle, the way he would lean back in a chair—arrogant, fluid, and utterly maddening.
‘Devoted?’ the imaginary Nick drawled, his voice dripping with that infuriating, charming sarcasm. ‘Careful, Carrots. You’ll ruin my street cred. I’m not devoted, I’m just opportunistic. And that taillight was offensive to my aesthetic sensibilities. I fixed it for the car, not for you.’
Judy let out a short, wet laugh, poking the photo in the chest. "Yeah. Aesthetic sensibilities. Sure, Nick. Like you care about bumper symmetry."
She leaned her chin on her palm, staring at his frozen eyes. "Mom pulled the 'mate for life' card. Can you believe that? If you were here, you'd have a field day with that one."
‘Mate for life?’ The phantom voice chuckled, low and raspy. ‘That sounds exhausting, Fluff. Imagine having to listen to your nose twitch for fifty years. Although... The tax benefits of a joint filing status are intriguing. And I do look excellent in a tuxedo. Are you proposing to me, Officer Hopps?’
"I am not proposing!" Judy snapped at the salt shaker, her cheeks flushing hot. She realized she was blushing from a simple hallucination. "I’m saying it’s completely ridiculous! We’re partners. We’re... distinct biological entities with totally incompatible ecosystems!"
‘Is that what you told your mom?’ the photo seemed to ask, the smirk in the picture looking wider, more knowing. ‘Or is that what you’re telling yourself to keep your heart rate down, hm?’
"Stop it," Judy warned, her voice tightening.
‘You’re the one talking to a piece of paper, sweetheart. I’m just the projection of your subconscious desires. Don't shoot the messenger.’
"Well, I don't have subconscious desires!" Judy stood up, her chair scraping violently against the hard wood floor. She paced the tiny room, waving her paws. "I have a mission to do! I have a cover story! And you... you are just the annoying, smug, fox-scented prop I just so happen to deal with!"
She spun around and pointed an accusing finger at the photo.
"So don't look at me like that! Don't look at me like you know something I don't! Because tomorrow, when we walk into that shared apartment of ours, it is strictly professional business! No feelings! No... no looking at me with those soft eyes you think I don't notice!"
She was shouting now, her chest heaving, the frustration of many years of repressed affection boiling over onto the desk table.
"Say something!" she yelled at the silent image. "Make a joke! Deflect! Do what you always do so I don't have to admit that I'm terrified of pretending to be your wife because I might not want to stop!"
She slammed her paws down on the table, rattling all the contents on top.
"TELL ME I'M CRAZY, NICK! SAY SOMETHING!"
The silence that followed was absolute. The photo didn't blink. The mini refrigerator hummed judgmentally.
Then, the wall behind her vibrated.
"HE'S NOT GONNA SAY ANYTHING IF YOU DON'T LET HIM GET A WORD IN EDGEWISE!" Bucky’s voice roared through the plaster, muffled but distinct.
Judy froze, her eyes widening in horror.
"LEAVE HIM ALONE, JUDY!" Pronk bellowed back. "THE GUY IS PROBABLY TERRIFIED! YOU'RE A VERY INTENSE RABBIT!"
"SHE'S HAVING A DOMESTIC DISPUTE WITH HERSELF!" Bucky yelled. "I DON'T HEAR A MAN IN THERE! IS HE A GHOST? ARE YOU DATING A GHOST, HOPPS?"
"IT'S A POLTERGEIST OF PASSION!" Pronk shrieked. "KISS HIM AND MAKE UP SO WE CAN WATCH THE NEWS!"
Judy stood petrified in the center of her apartment room, her ears burning so hot she felt like they might actually catch fire. The absurdity of it punctured the balloon of her angst with a violent pop. She looked down at the photo of Nick. He was still slightly smirking. Now, he seemed to be laughing at her along with the neighbours.
She wanted him to tease her about her messy apartment. She wanted him to make fun of her sad, cold Pad Thai. She wanted him to lean across and steal a noodle, just to prove he was real, just to prove he was there. But he simply wasn't there. He was somewhere else in the city, probably packing his own bag, probably thinking about the mission, while she was sitting here realizing that her "cover story" was actually her deepest, most terrifying wish.
"Stupid," she muttered, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a crushing wave of loneliness.
She sank back into the chair and slammed her forehead down onto the table with a dull thud, burying her face in her paws next to the cold Pad Thai.
"Stupid, stupid rabbit."
Memory I: The Cinnamon Ritual
Location: ZPD Precinct One, Front Desk
Time: Three Months Ago, 08:00 Hours
The morning air in the precinct always smelled of aggressive industrial floor wax and Benjamin Clawhauser’s big breakfast. It was a scent profile Judy had come to associate with the notion of safety: the chemical tang of order and the yeasty, sugary warmth of friendship.
Judy stood leaning against the high, curved reception desk, her foot tapping a rapid, staccato rhythm against the linoleum. Tap-tap-tap-tap. It was the sound of a bunny in the throes of critical caffeine withdrawal. Her nose twitched, scanning the air for the roasted promise of beans, but the air was stubbornly devoid of java.
"Well, where is he?" Clawhauser moaned, draping himself over the counter like a melting, sugar-dusted gargoyle. He spun his chair in a mournful circle. "Where’s Tall, Dark, and Snarky? Usually, he’s hovering by now. And I have gossip about the Gazelle dancers, Judy, and it requires a cynical audience."
"He’s parking our cruiser," Judy said, checking her watch for the third time in thirty seconds. "Or he’s hustling a meter maid. You know how he gets about 'civil service solidarity.' He probably talked them into ripping up his ticket."
"And I bet he’s getting coffee," Clawhauser sang, his eyes lighting up with a sparkle that is usually reserved for sprinkles. "He has that... look when he needs caffeine. His ears do that droopy thing."
And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of her skepticism, the automatic glass doors slid open with a pneumatic whoosh.
Nick strolled in. He moved with that liquid, languid grace that made him look like he was swimming through the heavy morning air rather than stepping through it. The bustle of the precinct—officers shouting, phones ringing, the clatter of keyboards—seemed to part around him like water around a stone. He was wearing his sunglasses indoors—a pretentious, Hollywood-wannabe habit that Judy claimed to hate, but which secretly made her stomach do a small, traitorous flip. He looked like a rockstar who had accidentally wandered into a police station.
In his right paw, held with the reverence of a holy relic, was a cardboard carrier holding two cups.
He didn't say a word to the room at large. He didn't acknowledge the wolves or the hippos. He just walked straight to the desk, his eyes (hidden behind the shades) clearly locked on one target. He slid a paper cup across the laminate counter. It stopped exactly three inches from Judy’s paw. Perfect friction. Perfect aim.
"You’re late," Judy tried to scold, but her voice was already softening as the steam from the cup hit her face.
"You know I’m never late, Carrots," Nick drawled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the morning air. "I arrive precisely when the coffee reaches the optimal temperature to prevent the phenomenon of tongue-scalding. It’s called science, by the way."
Clawhauser, unable to contain himself, leaned so far over the desk he nearly tipped a stack of files. He peered into the cup Judy had just picked up.
"Oh my gosh!" the cheetah squealed, clapping his paws together. "He remembered the cinnamon foam again! Judy, look! It's the dusting!"
Judy looked down. It wasn't just coffee. It was a latte with exactly two sugars and lots of cream, extra-hot. But the detail that made her heart stutter wasn't just the caffeine. It was the foam. Atop the froth, suspended in the white micro-bubbles, was a perfect, geometric spiral of cinnamon. It wasn't just a haphazard shake. It was simply art. It was a galaxy of spice swirling in a universe of milk.
"Well, I always remember," Nick said simply.
He took a sip of his own sludge-like black coffee, looking bored. But the boredom was a lie. The way he stood—angled toward her, shielding her slightly from the chaos of the room—screamed of a quiet, unshakeable devotion.
"If she doesn't get the cinnamon, she gets super twitchy," Nick explained to Clawhauser, pointing a claw at Judy’s nose. "And a twitchy rabbit is a workplace hazard. And I’m simply adhering to OSHA regulations, Ben. It’s strictly for public safety."
"You did this for OSHA," Judy deadpanned, raising the cup to her lips.
The taste hit her—sweet, spicy, hot. It tasted like waking up. It tasted like being known.
"Strictly for safety, Officer Hopps," he winked, peering over the rim of his shades.
For a second, the green of his eyes was visible. It was bright, playful, and entirely, devastatingly focused on her. In that crowded room of predators and prey, she was the only thing he saw.
"Drink up," he murmured, bumping his shoulder against hers—a touch so casual, so routine, that she hadn't realized until this very moment how much she relied on it to stay upright. "We have lots of crime to fight, and I can't have you napping during the high-speed chases."
I didn't see it, Judy thought, the memory dissolving into mist. I thought it was just coffee. I didn't see that he had memorized the chemistry of my morning just to see me smile.
Memory II: The Weight of Validation
Location: Chief Bogo’s Office
Time: Two Months Ago, 14:00 Hours
The office of Chief Bogo was less of a room and more of a geological formation. It smelled of old paper, musk, and the terrifying, ozone-heavy scent of absolute authority. The silence in the room was heavy enough to crush a small mammal, pressing against Judy’s eardrums like deep water.
Judy stood at rigid attention in the center of the room, her ears swiveling to catch the hum of the air conditioner, desperate for any sound to break the tension. Beside her, Nick was leaning against the filing cabinets. He was posturing, feigning his trademark nonchalance—arms crossed, hip cocked, eyes half-lidded—but Judy knew him better than anyone else. She saw the way his tail gave a microscopic twitch. She saw the tension wired tight in the slope of his shoulders.
He was waiting to be blamed. For many years, the world had told Nicholas Wilde that if something went wrong, it was the fox’s fault. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, because in his experience, the other shoe was usually a steel-toed boot.
Chief Bogo sat behind his desk like a buffalo-shaped mountain, his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose. He flipped a page of the report on the Savannah Central bust. The sound was deafening in the quiet. Finally, he lowered the file. He took off his glasses with slow, deliberate movements.
"It was risky," Bogo rumbled. His voice didn't just carry through the air; it had vibrated in the floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Judy’s feet. "The maneuver you pulled in the subway tunnels. Redirecting the train? You could have caused a structural collapse. You could have derailed the entire transit system."
Nick flinched. It was barely visible—just a tightening of his jaw, a slight flattening of his ears—but it was definitely there. He opened his mouth, the hustler's defense mechanism kicking in instantly.
"Chief, if I may," Nick started, his voice smooth but brittle. "The structural integrity was already compromised. I merely calculated the vibration variance and determined that—"
"I wasn't finished, Wilde," Bogo interrupted.
Nick’s mouth snapped shut. The room went deadly, suffocatingly quiet. Nick looked down at his paws, resigning himself to the suspension, to the reprimand, to the confirmation that he was, after all, just a liability.
"It was risky," Bogo repeated, his dark eyes boring directly into the fox. "But it was absolutely brilliant."
Nick’s head snapped up.
"You anticipated the perp’s movement three turns in advance," Bogo continued, a rare, begrudging respect softening the granite features of his face. "You saw the track switch when no one else did. That wasn't just pure luck. That was good police work."
Bogo leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He looked from the rabbit to the fox, nodding once.
"Wilde. Hopps," he grunted. "You are my best team here. Don't make me regret saying that. Dismissed."
They walked out of the office in a trance. The hallway was a sensory assault—phones ringing, cops shouting, the smell of stale coffee—but Judy felt like she was walking underwater. They stopped near the water cooler. Nick leaned back against the wall, sliding down it slightly, as if his legs had suddenly turned to jelly. He looked shell-shocked. The cool mask of the con-man was completely gone, stripped away to reveal a raw, trembling disbelief.
"He said 'best,'" Nick whispered, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. He sounded like a kit who had just been told Santa Claws was completely real.
"He did," Judy beamed, turning to him. She punched him lightly on the arm—a gesture of camaraderie that felt too small for the magnitude of the moment. "Because we are. I told you, Nick. You’re a natural."
Nick looked up at her. His eyes were wide, unguarded, and shimmering with unshed emotion. He wasn't looking at her like a partner. He was looking at her like she was the architect of his entire world, the only person who had handed him a mirror and shown him a hero instead of a villain.
"I think I’m gonna cry," he choked out, laughing wetly, a ragged sound that caught in his throat. He rubbed his face with his paw, hiding his eyes. "Don't look at me, Hopps. It’s so embarrassing. It’s definitely the dust. This precinct is filthy."
"I'm not looking," she promised softly, though she couldn't take her eyes off him.
He belonged, Judy realized, clutching his parka in the dark. He finally believed he belonged. And I was the only one who knew how scared he was that he’d wake up and find out it was all a joke.
Memory III: The Carrot Pen
Location: Briefing Room
Time: Six Weeks Ago, 09:00 Hours
The morning briefing was dragging on into its forty-fifth minute. Bogo was droning on about the new parking enforcement protocols in Sahara Square, a topic dry enough to desiccate an entire cactus. Judy was completely bored. Her leg was bouncing under the table. In her paw, she held the carrot pen—the orange plastic recorder with the goofy green leaves on top. It was the catalyst of their partnership, the weapon that had brought down Bellwether, and currently, her own fidget toy.
Click. Click. Click. The sound was sharp and rhythmic. Click-open. Click-close.
A paw, covered in red rust-colored fur, reached over. It moved with the silent, practiced grace of a pickpocket. Nick plucked the pen from her grip.
"You’re going to give the elephant next to us a migraine, Carrots," he whispered, leaning close. His breath, smelling of coffee and mints, tickled the sensitive fur of her ear.
He began to twirl the pen. It was mesmerizing to watch. His fingers, long and dexterous—the fingers of a hustle master, a card sharp, a sleight-of-hand artist—sent the orange plastic blurring through the air. It danced over his knuckles, spun around his thumb, and vanished into his palm only to reappear a second later.
"You know," he murmured, watching the spinning orange blur with a strange, contemplative expression. "This vegetable-shaped monstrosity saved my life."
Judy suppressed a giggle, keeping her eyes forward on Bogo. "It stabbed your face, Nick. It physically assaulted you. And you were hustling me at the time."
"Semantics," he dismissed, spinning the pen into a reverse grip. "Details for the memoir."
He stopped twirling it. He held the pen up, examining the cheap plastic leaves as if they were made of emeralds. The playful smirk faded from his lips, replaced by something softer, something wistful and reverent.
"If you hadn't recorded that confession..." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the room. "If you hadn't hustled the hustler..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. I’d still be selling popsicles in the snow. I’d still be alone. I’d still be angry. He reached out and placed the pen back in her paw. He didn't just drop it. He placed it there with simple care. His warm, rough paw lingered over hers, engulfing her smaller hand. He curled her fingers around the plastic barrel, squeezing gently, grounding her. Nick held her gaze for a second too long—a second where the briefing room fell away, and it was just them. Just the fox and the bunny and the silly orange pen that bridged the gap between their worlds.
It wasn't a joke, Judy thought, the memory fading as she stared at her empty hands. It was a surrender. He was giving me his life, over and over again, in the form of a plastic pen. He was telling me that he trusted me to hold his weapon.
Memory IV: The Wallet
Location: The Precinct Breakroom
Time: Three Weeks Ago, Late Night
The breakroom at 2:30 AM was a liminal space. It existed outside of normal time, suspended in a haze of humming vending machines and the smell of burnt popcorn. Outside the wire-mesh reinforced windows, the rain was lashing against the glass, turning the city lights into running watercolors. Inside, the mood was electric with the pettiness of a high-stakes competition.
"And that’s twenty-two," Judy announced, dusting salt from her paws. "Read 'em and weep, Wilde! That is twenty-two peanuts successfully lobbed into Officer McHorn’s helmet without waking him up. Now that is a new precinct record."
Nick sat slouched in the vinyl booth opposite her, looking at the sleeping rhino in the corner, then back at Judy. He sighed—a long, melodramatic exhalation that ruffled his whiskers.
"You have an unnerving aim, Carrots. It’s so disturbing. Remind me never to challenge you to darts."
"Pay up," Judy grinned, extending a paw. "A deal is a deal. I win, I get to see the contents of the mystery pocket. No deflections, no hustles."
Nick groaned, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet. It was a battered thing, the leather worn smooth and dark with age, smelling faintly of cedar and old money. It was an object that had survived the streets, just like him.
"This is a violation of my own civil liberties," he grumbled, his ears flattening. "I feel so objectified. My wallet is a private landscape."
"Open it," she commanded, tapping the table.
He hesitated. For a split second, his eyes darted to hers, guarded and strangely vulnerable. Then, with the resignation of a man facing a firing squad, he flipped it open. He slid two claws into the hidden flap behind his ID—the place where most cops kept a backup key or a lucky bill.
He pulled out the first photo. It was the Junior Ranger. A tiny, wide-eyed Nick, ears too big for his head, bandanna tied with agonizing precision. He placed it on the table and slid it to her.
"There," he said, his voice rough. "Mock away all you want, Carrots. The uniform was so ill-fitting, I know."
Judy smiled, her heart softening. "He’s so adorable, Nick. He looks... so hopeful."
"And he was a naive idiot," Nick corrected, reaching to take it back. But his claws snagged on the leather. As he tried to shove the Junior Ranger back into the slot, the pocket pulled wide open.
Judy saw it.
"Wait," she said, her paw shooting out to stop his hand. "What is that?"
Behind the Junior Ranger—pressed directly against the back of the innocent kit—was another edge of glossy paper.
Nick froze. He looked like he’d been tased. "Nothing. Those are just receipts. Dry cleaning."
"Liar," she whispered. She reached into the wallet and pulled it out.
The breath left her lungs. It wasn't a receipt. It was a photo of her.
It wasn't an official ZPD headshot. It wasn't a group photo from the ZPD gala. It was a candid, taken months ago at the Seal-ta Monica Pier during a stakeout. The lighting was golden hour perfect. Judy was laughing, her head thrown back, nose crinkled, holding a half-eaten sandwich that a seagull had just tried to steal. She looked radiant. She looked unguarded. She didn't remember him taking it. She didn't know he had been watching her like that.
She looked up at him. Nick was looking at the wall, at the vending machine, anywhere but at her. The tips of his ears were burning a vibrant, betraying red.
"You carry this?" she asked, her voice small, trembling in the quiet room.
Nick shrugged, a jerky, defensive motion. He snatched the photo back and slid it quickly behind the Junior Ranger, tucking the boy and the dumb bunny back into the dark leather vault together.
"Force of habit," he muttered, his voice tight. "In case I need to identify the body. You drive like a maniac, you know. High probability of a fiery wreck. Just being prepared for anything."
"Nick..."
"Don't read into it, Fluff," he said sharply, sliding out of the booth. "It’s just... framing. The lighting was good. And I just have an eye for composition. I'm an artist, really."
He walked away to the coffee pot, his tail rigid. They both pretended it didn't matter. They both laughed it off five minutes later.
I missed it, Judy thought, clutching her chest. He didn't just carry a picture of me. He kept me behind the Junior Ranger. I was the backing. I was the thing protecting the only innocent part of him left.
Memory V: The Victory Toast
Location: The Hood of the ZPD Cruiser, Tundratown Docks
Time: Two Weeks Ago, Midnight
The case of the elaborate fur-smuggling ring was closed. The adrenaline that had sustained them for forty-eight hours was finally crashing, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that felt strangely like floating. They sat on the warm hood of the cruiser, overlooking the frozen bay of Tundratown. The engine block beneath them was a dying heat source, battling the biting chill of the arctic wind. Across the water, the skyline of Zootopia glittered like a spilled jewelry box—diamonds and rubies reflected in the black ice.
They were eating lukewarm noodles from a single takeout box, passing a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks back and forth because Nick had dropped his in a snowbank. Nick reached into the cooler bag he kept in the back seat and pulled out two glass bottles of grape soda. He popped the caps with his lighter—clink, hiss—and handed one to her.
"To us," Nick said, raising the bottle. The purple liquid caught the light of the streetlamps. The wind ruffled the ruff of fur at his neck, but he didn't seem to feel the cold. He looked content. He looked whole.
"To us," Judy echoed, clinking her bottle against his. The glass rang out, a clear, bell-like note in the silence of the docks. "Still alive. And still employed."
"Barely," Nick laughed, taking a long swig. "You know, I think I pulled a hamstring chasing that badger. I’m getting too old for cardio, Carrots."
He lowered the bottle and looked at her. The humor faded from his face, replaced by a quiet, devastating intensity. The city lights reflected in his green eyes, making them look like nebulas. He wasn't wearing his usual mask. He wasn't the hustler, or the cop, or the cynic. He was just Nick.
"I wouldn't want to be freezing on a car hood with anyone else, Judy," he said softly. The statement hung in the air, heavier than the cold. It was a confession wrapped in a casual observation.
"Me neither, Nick," she had replied, smiling, bumping her shoulder against his.
She had taken a sip of her soda, tasting the artificial sugar and the fizz, thinking about how lucky she was to have a best friend like him. She thought they had forever in their hands. She thought there would be a thousand more midnights, a thousand more car hoods, a thousand more toasts. She didn't know that was the last time she would see him look at her without a shadow in his eyes.
The Present: Sunday
The film reel snapped. The projector light died in her mind.
The sensory overload of the memories—the taste of cinnamon, the smell of rain, the warmth of the cruiser engine—vanished instantly, sucked out of the room like oxygen from an airlock.
The realization didn't just break her heart; it had simply rewrote her history. Judy sat frozen on the mattress, her breath hitching in shallow, ragged gasps. The damp cold of the safehouse seemed to recede, replaced by a scorching, terrifying clarity.
He kept her photo behind the boy he used to be. He had placed her there, in the dark leather slot of his wallet, like a shield. He had tucked her smile behind his trauma like a bandage. For years, every time he paid for a coffee, every time he flashed a badge, every time he navigated the cynical, gritty world that had told him he was worthless, she had been there—pressed against his heart, protecting the only innocent thing he had completely left.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and relentless. They tracked through the dust on her fur, dripping onto the collar of the parka that still smelled so vividly of him it felt like a haunting. The narrative she had built—the safe, comfortable story of Judy and Nick, Best Friends and Partners—disintegrated.
She thought of every time she had laughed off his flirtations as "hustles." She thought of every time she had pulled her hand away first. She thought of the call with her parents, the way she had casually dismissed him as "oil and water" while he was likely standing ten feet away, listening to her reduce the most profound connection of her life to a simple biological incompatibility.
Because simply that was the tragedy of Nicholas Wilde. He didn't stay because he thought he could win her. He stayed because being near her, even at an arm's length, even in the "friend zone," was better than breathing without her. He had accepted the scraps of her affection and carefully built a cathedral out of them.
And then came their mission.
Judy looked down at the cheap gold ring on her finger. In the dim light, it looked like an accusation. She had treated this week like a job. She had treated "Oliver and Elise" like a costume to be worn and discarded. She had memorized the script.
But Nick?
Nick hadn't been acting.
The way he had cooked for her in the tiny kitchenette, humming jazz, moving around her with a domestic fluidity that usually takes decades to perfect—that wasn't a cover. That was Nick, finally allowed to take care of her without asking for permission. The way he had held her at the ice cream social, his hand firm and possessive on the small of her back, his eyes challenging anyone to look at her wrong—that wasn't the mission. That was Nick, finally allowed to claim her. The cruelty of it washed over her. She had given him a seven-day free trial of the life he had been silently begging for, and tonight, she had cancelled it. She had let him walk out into the snow, believing that for her, it was all just good police work.
She clutched the lapels of his parka, pulling them tight across her chest, trying to simulate the embrace she had foolishly rejected an hour ago.
"But are you happy?" her father had asked before.
"I am so happy," she whispered to the empty room, channeling the ghost that haunted her denial. "I was so happy to be the sensible one. The focused one. The one who didn't mix personal with professional. That I was so happy that I couldn't see that you were dying for me right in front of my eyes."
She remembered the look on his face at the door. The resignation. The way his ears had dipped, just a fraction, when she told him to stick to the plan. He looked like a man who had seen the sun for the first time, only to be told he had to go back into the cave forever. He didn't leave to secure the perimeter. He left because he couldn't stand to look at her and know that when the sun came up, "Elise" would die in an instant, and he would have to go back to being just "Wilde."
But she had never given him the one thing that would have made the Junior Ranger in his wallet believe he was good enough. She gasped for air, her heart hammering against her ribs—ribs he had worried about, ribs he had protected oh so carefully.
"Please don't be dead," she prayed, her voice barely a whisper now, raw and ruined. "Please don't let the last thing you heard from me be a lie. Just come back. Come back and I’ll never let go of your hand again. I’ll hold the umbrella. I promise. I’ll hold the umbrella for the rest of our lives."
The wind howled outside, a lonely, mournful sound that tore through the alleyways of Tundratown. But inside the safehouse, the silence was louder. It was the silence of a heart that had finally opened, only to find the room empty. The architecture of Judy Hopps was crumbling. The denial was gone. The "professionalism" was gone. All that was left was the terrifying, undeniable truth that she had fallen in love with her best friend, and she might have realized it exactly an hour too late.
"I wouldn't want to be with anyone else either," she whispered to the empty room, her voice breaking on the last word. "I simply just forgot to tell you.”
The buzzer on the door lock hummed, a sharp, electric sound that made her jump, the door slowly opened.